Memory Man Page 8

  I replied, ‘Bobby, some of us here are lining up something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A game of football.’

  ‘I’d love to play,’ he said. ‘I have my boots with me and all. What room are you in, Jimmy?’

  I told him, and off he went. Ten minutes later the phone in my room rang. ‘It’s Bobby here. Listen, Jimmy, do you know who’s in town as well? My brother Jack and Gento’ (of Real Madrid). ‘Can I bring them along to play too?’

  I smiled and said, ‘That would be great.’

  Finally the match was arranged, and it eventually became European all-stars v. South American all-stars; but none of us press guys got near the pitch! I was supposed to be the captain, but sure that went out the window. The game was also meant to be played on a local pitch but was changed to a packed stadium after our team ended up including the likes of Bobby Charlton, Jack Charlton, Billy Wright, Ian St John and Denis Law, while South America had Labruna, Costa, García and the godlike figure of Alfredo di Stéfano, who played for Argentina, Colombia and Spain.

  They reckoned di Stéfano was the greatest player who ever lived. He arrived on the day looking completely out of condition and had one of the biggest bellies I have seen on a human. When he came out that day there were 28,000 people there, and when his name was announced everyone stood up to acknowledge him with thunderous applause.

  The level of skill displayed that day was fantastic. The game finished 5-3 to South America; all the goals were by di Stéfano.

  I met Bobby a year later and he said he knew that day we were playing against a different level of skill when it came to di Stéfano. ‘To see di Stéfano and the size of him, and he was still able to put the ball over other players’ shoulders.’

  Chapter 8

  | COMEDY AND TRAGEDY

  I once played a game of football in Red Square, in 1980 during the Moscow Olympics. If you haven’t been there, let me tell you that you are immediately taken aback by it on first sight because of its vastness. At one end of it there is the famous St Basil’s Cathedral and at the opposite end the State Historical Museum. Along one side is the Kremlin and the Lenin Mausoleum and on the other side there is the fantastic GUM department store, which sells everything from needles to anchors. And that is no exaggeration: they sell everything.

  A gang of Irish media fellows were standing around waiting for Mícheál Ó Sé, who broadcasts for TG4 and Raidió na Gaeltachta, who was in the GUM. This Kerryman, who has played in half a dozen all-Ireland finals, came out clutching a ball he had just bought. It would be like bringing coals to Newcastle or curry to India: he buys a football in Moscow!

  I convinced him to take it out of the wrapper so we could kick it around Red Square.

  ‘You can’t be doing that. You’ll get us all bloody arrested,’ one of the fellows was telling Ó Sé.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Get the ball out,’ I replied.

  But for a bit of devilment we put down our coats and bags and had a three-a-side game. There was a military guard on duty in close proximity to us, and we wondered how we could get him into the game. None of us spoke any Russian, so I kept knocking the ball back towards this guy. He wouldn’t budge when the ball hit him on the leg; there wasn’t a move out of him, not even a blink of the eyes.

  The lads were saying to me, ‘Stop, Jimmy. We’ll be arrested.’

  We kicked it about a bit more and then I knocked it back to him, but he just ignored us, which was great discipline on his part. Finally, after about my fourth effort, he kicked the ball back to us and gave me a sly smile.

  We laughed, and I said, ‘Great stuff! We’ve beaten the system.’

  And then the soldier laughed along with us.

  I think Ó Sé can safely lay claim to being the only all-Ireland medal-holder to play football in Red Square.

  We stayed in a hotel called the Cosmos on the outskirts of Moscow, just across the road from the famous park where they have the space shuttles on exhibition. In order to get into your room, when you got to your floor you were handed your room key by a woman.

  Every day in the hotel the food was the same fare: a buffet breakfast and a buffet lunch. Three of the most common things were caviare, smoked salmon and steaks—unlimited amounts. After the first few experiments with this big spread we would end up discussing what colour caviare we wanted. ‘Was the black better than the red, or was the golden one all right?’ It was great grub, but it eventually became so monotonous that one of the fellows began craving just a rasher and egg.

  When we were coming back one day from a press conference one of our guys, Michael Johnson, had this big book of about four hundred pages in Russian and he was wondering what he would do with it. So, on the journey back to the hotel he kept shoving it down between the seat and frame on the underground until finally you couldn’t see it.

  Later that evening we were going out to the Bolshoi and we left the hotel, which had unbelievable security. If you went outside the door you were examined, and if you forgot something and had to go back inside and out again you were examined. When we got outside there was this man waiting, who we had never seen before. He approached Michael and handed him back the book. ‘You left it behind on the train.’

  There was a story told that there were a few guys from Dublin going over to Moscow who were inundated with warnings about how the KGB would be spying on them and that everywhere they went it would be bugged. So these men began to become paranoid. They were in their hotel room, which was a big family room, but they weren’t satisfied with it. So, believing there were bugs in the room, they began talking to the taps in the bathroom. ‘I know you’re there!’ Talking to the knobs on the doors: ‘I know you’re there. I know you’re listening.’

  They then found the ‘bug’ on the floor, underneath the carpet. They went out and got a pair of steel scissors and cut the bug off. All that happened was that the chandelier fell down on the floor below! Sure there was no bug at all: it was the light-fitting!

  On a previous trip to Moscow, in 1973, when Ireland were playing against the Soviet Union, there were a lot of Irish punters on the trip, and our guide was warning us to be very careful about changing currency, which at that time was two rubles to a pound, and that it was illegal to change it anywhere but in the official bureau.

  When we arrived at the Hotel Ukraine I said to Liam Tuohy and a couple of others, ‘Will we throw our bags into the rooms and go for a walk?’ I was walking up the corridor from my room and I heard a fellow whistling at me—just like P. J. Gallagher in ‘Naked Camera’—and it was your man, the tour guide. He had a great Brooklyn accent, and told me he could get me six rubles for a pound! ‘Tell all the guys.’

  I didn’t know whether this was a trap or not, but I said I would pass the word around. A lot of the guys flocked to him. But when we got back on the bus he was just as strict about everything. I realised then about the two sides of Russia.

  ——

  I was once barred from a pub; and it’s all Eoin Hand’s fault! It happened during the 1982 World Cup in Spain, when Northern Ireland memorably beat the hosts 1-0 in Valencia, thanks to a goal by Gerry Armstrong, who was a Gaelic footballer from the Falls Road.

  I used to meet Eoin in a bar called Nagresco in Madrid. One night Eoin and some other revellers got me to sing a nonsensical song that I used to do, a bit like sean-nós, and eventually the owner asked me to leave because of it. I was barred—and I was the only sober one there!

  On that trip Eoin rang up the English manager, Ron Greenwood, from my room one day. I couldn’t hear Greenwood but I could hear Eoin, who was sitting beside me. ‘Ron, Eoin Hand here, just ringing on behalf of all the lads and the people of Ireland, wishing you the best of luck tonight . . . And one other thing I just thought of, Ron: any chance of getting a couple of tickets to the game tonight?’

  It’s hard to believe that the manager of the Irish team hadn’t got a ticket for the match.

  Ron must have said he would do what he could.
The deal was that when the bus arrived at the stadium for the England v. Spain game the driver would open the door ever so slightly, and Ron would quickly put out his arm and Eoin would grab the two tickets. That’s precisely what happened; and that’s how Hand got his tickets.

  Later Michael Robinson, who we discovered had an Irish connection, was playing on the Irish team under Eoin Hand, who told him: ‘If you really want to be a true Irishman you have to learn some of these old Irish songs. Have a listen to Jimmy singing them.’

  Robinson comes over to me and I start singing my ‘sean-nós’ to him, which was basically me mumbling and every now and then singing the words ‘factory wall’. He listened attentively and then later reported back to Hand. ‘I can’t understand anything,’ he moaned. ‘All I can hear is mumbling and then him saying the bloody “factory wall” over and over again!’ Unfortunately for Robinson, Eoin told him that’s what he would have to learn and sing, word for word.

  ——

  When people ask me about Alex Higgins I always recount this anecdote, which sums up the personality of a man best described as a troubled genius, who tragically put himself into an early grave with his alcoholism and cancer. It was, if memory serves, before the 1982/83 season—the year in which Higgins would win his second world title—when I was invited over to do a piece for RTE television on a new snooker tournament called the Professional Players’ Tournament, to be hosted in Birmingham and sponsored by Jameson Whiskey.

  The filming was going great until it came the time to do a piece on Higgins, who, in his typical fashion, had disappeared out of the venue.

  ‘Look, Alex is not here,’ I said to the producer. ‘We need him for this piece.’

  ‘Will he be back?’ he asked me, worried.

  ‘Sure how do I know if he’ll be back?’

  We decided to hang on and wait. An hour passed. By this time it was almost 1 a.m. and we were exhausted from the evening’s filming and were thinking about only one thing: going back to our hotel and climbing into our beds.

  Eventually, the Hurricane stumbled into the hall.

  ‘Quick, he’s here! Go and ask him,’ I said, nudging the producer.

  ‘No, you ask.’

  I went over to Higgins and asked him.

  ‘An interview? Course I’ll do an interview,’ he said, his breath reeking of booze and cigarettes, though thankfully he didn’t seem to be drunk. I had often seen Alex when he was in a messy drunken state, but I always stayed away from him, because he could be extraordinarily rude when inebriated.

  Then he paused and, looking me up and down, said, ‘You’re Jimmy, right?’

  ‘Yeah. And you’re Alex,’ I replied sardonically, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was in fact Jimmy Magee, despite having met me on countless occasions.

  ‘I’ll do it on one condition.’

  ‘Go on,’ I replied with a sigh, sensing that ‘here comes trouble.’

  ‘I’ll do it if you ask me two questions. You can ask me others as well, but I want you to ask me these two questions.’

  I agreed. We quickly started recording and I began with his two questions, which had sounded innocent enough but, knowing Alex, I was sure there was some hidden agenda at work.

  ‘So, Alex, have you ever been to Ireland on your holidays?’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you asked me that, because the last time I was in Ireland I stayed in this place in Killarney, and it was a kip.’

  And he went on about it and I thought, ‘Well, that one is not bloody usable.’

  After he stopped his rant about Killarney—which is far from being a ‘kip’—I took a deep breath and asked him the second question. ‘Alex, do you still play snooker exhibitions?’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you asked me that. I played for this fella and I told him I’d mention him on the air if ever I got a chance. So now I’m mentioning you, Jimmy. And I want you to know that cheque has bounced. And it has bounced again and again. So, would you ever send me my money?’

  As he continued his rant about not getting paid for that exhibition I felt like throwing down the microphone and walking away.

  ‘Now,’ he finally said to me, ‘that will frighten him.’

  He then allowed me to ask some of my own questions. It goes without saying that we never had any intention of using his ranting episode in the finished segment. However, about six months later I was at Goff’s, and I was upstairs walking around when I spotted Higgins coming towards me. I thought to myself, ‘Here comes trouble! He’ll be complaining that I never aired that rubbish he wanted in the interview.’

  ‘Leave it there!’ he said to me. ‘By gee, I frightened that guy. I got my money. When he heard it on air he sent me my money rather than be embarrassed any more. So I wanted to say thank you to you, Jimmy.’

  Another Northerner who was also a genius and sadly also drowned himself in a sea of alcohol was George Best. I first got to know him well after I went over to do a feature on the Irish players in the Manchester United squad back in the early seventies. The feature was for the Sunday World, which I began writing for in its very early days. I had my first column in the paper in April 1973 and I have never missed a week—not even the week Marie passed away.

  Best had made an arrangement to meet me for an interview at his famous boutique, but everybody was telling me not to hold my breath waiting for him to show up. I went to his shop about five minutes before our arranged time, and bang on time George strolled in. He was terrific to me that day.

  About five years before he died I did a three-man tour of Ireland with him and Denis Law, who absolutely loved George and was always very good to him. He would never let anyone say a bad word about his former team-mate, or let anyone say a cruel word to George’s face. I was the MC of the show, and these two great footballers would reminisce about their playing careers before we would open it to questions from the floor.

  George was supposedly off the drink at the time, but every morning I would come in and he would have a snipe of champagne or wine in front of him.

  ‘I thought you were off it.’

  ‘I am! I’m only having the one to start off the day.’

  I was worried that he was going to start hitting the bottle with a vengeance and we would have to start cancelling dates on this tour, which would be a crying shame for the genuine fans looking forward to meeting their idol. But, fair play to him, he stuck it out for the whole week on the road. He was great value for the punters’ money, speaking up well and never once failing to give the audience a great show.

  But—and there was always a ‘but’ when it came to George—on the last night of the tour, out in the Spawell Hotel in Templeogue, he was ossified. He was so bad that he could barely mumble, and I was afraid he was going to fall off his chair on the stage.

  I couldn’t let him open his mouth on that stage, for fear of ridicule, because he was liable to say anything, something like ‘Who the fuck are yeh lookin’ at?’

  Thinking quickly, I introduced the two to the audience and then I gave the security guy a nod that said, ‘Get up here and take him off the stage.’

  I then spoke to the audience. ‘You’re all here tonight to see Denis Law. You have to put up with me as the MC. And, of course, Denis won’t mind if I say you’re here to see your hero, George Best. If you know about football you know about George’s life, and if you know about George’s life you know what I am going to tell you now.’

  I paused and looked around anxiously, taking a deep breath before continuing. ‘In football very often the best players have little niggles and knocks and have to have fitness tests before big matches. Well, George has failed the fitness test for this match this evening, and he wouldn’t be doing himself or you justice if he came on and tried to play. So we’re letting him go off now, and I hope you understand.’

  I held my breath as I waited for the fans’ reaction. I could have been lynched by an irate mob, or they could justifiably have sought a refund, but as soon as I finished speaking there was a
standing ovation as the security guards gently led George off the stage. Both Denis and I had lumps in our throats. I have never seen the likes of it, such love for the man and acceptance of his predicament.

  The show was great; Denis was fantastic. I became George and myself rolled into one as I recounted stories about him. Afterwards George said, ‘I just want to say thanks to you. It was very nice what you did for me.’

  ‘I would do it for anyone.’

  It was only a few short years later, in 2005, that I did the commentary on his funeral for RTE. It saddens me to think that George, who was always in bloody trouble, could be still alive today if he hadn’t continued to drink after getting a new liver. He was magical, a terrific player, but he was a total mess with his non-stop boozing. He was also good company, but I also saw him when he would not have been good company at all. A wasted talent.

  Chapter 9

  | THE LUCK OF THE IRISH

  I attended the world amateur boxing championship in Reno, Nevada, and then managed to grab a flight to Mexico a week before the World Cup kicked off in 1986. The plan was to have a few days off to relax but, as we all know, the best-laid plans can unravel. I became very ill soon after I arrived in Mexico, and I was so bad that one day I struggled down to the reception and pleaded with them to get me a doctor. It turned out that I was suffering from altitude sickness. The doctor gave me some medicine and, thankfully, it was all over in a day or two and I was ready for the World Cup.

  When the rest of the boys arrived they all looked knackered, and they were asking me how I looked so refreshed. I just told them it was because of my good health. I wasn’t going to tell them I was there a week and had only recovered from an illness.

  I never saw any of the dangerous side of Mexico. The place was jammed with people and they were all lovely. It was a spectacular final, and a great one for Maradona.

  I had to hop back and forth between Mexico and Los Angeles at the time in order to cover the Barry McGuigan fight in June 1986. On the flight back from Mexico I was on the outside aisle seat, and sitting beside me was a boy of about five with his mother. He was so disruptive, he was pulling lights and seats, and she just let him away with it, whereas I wouldn’t have tolerated such behaviour. But I didn’t want to say anything and start a row and then have to sit in awkward silence for the remainder of a long enough flight.