The Trib

by David Kenny

  His father was twenty when he followed a whole generation out of Lebanon. Ten years later, on a visit to Sydney to stay with her sister who had similarly decamped, his mother met and fell in love with him. Instead of going back home as she’d planned, she stayed, reared a family and indeed lives there to this day. She does so without her husband, though, his failing health the reason for Cheika’s return from Padova. He made it home in time for the last chapter of his father’s life.

  The year in Italy had been a small dose, like a vaccine for coaching almost. But it didn’t take. He was laid low with all the symptoms by now and he knew he’d never shake them. Within a year of his return, he’d taken over the Randwick team he’d previously captained, his former teammate David Knox by his side. In three seasons under them, Randwick finished third, second and first in their division, going through his final year there unbeaten. It made him hot property and he applied for the head coach’s job at the new Super 14 franchise Perth. When offered the assistant’s role, he declined and put the feelers out for a top job somewhere else. Alan Gaffney – his first coach all those years ago at Randwick – saw Leinster in need of a coach, Cheika in need of a blank canvas and indulged himself in a subtle piece of matchmaking. The rest is as they say ...

  ‘In the beginning, it was a matter of meeting everyone, getting to know the people. You can’t just come in and make sweeping changes, you have to assess what’s happening in a place, respect everyone’s space, understand the history of the place. Like, I understood pretty quickly that there was a lot of scepticism around because this was the fourth coach in four years and also because I wouldn’t have been the most high-profile applicant around. I knew there’d be a lot of, you know, “Who is this bloke?” So the first thing that I needed to do was get to know guys and start the respect-building process.’

  He knew bits and pieces about Leinster through Gaffney and Gary Ella, and the rest, well, folk weren’t long filling him in on the rest. Or at least, what they considered the rest to be.

  ‘When we started off, everyone wanted to tell us something about the team. I went to a few dinners with people I’d met who didn’t know I was the new coach of Leinster and they’d be telling me this and that. Every stereotype you’ve ever heard of about Leinster, I’d managed to pick up on in the first few weeks. As it turned out, the reality of it couldn’t have been more different. These players just took to it with a keenness and an eagerness that made our lives so much easier than all these stories said it was going to be.’

  So the stereotype thing bugs him even if, as the only man in the place who can properly be said to be a fashion expert, he will admit that there are plenty of the Leinster squad who have firm opinions on their appearance. ‘The scarf brigade is pretty strong,’ he says mentioning nobody in particular. Well, a certain Triple-Crown-sealing try-scorer’s name does crop up.

  Mostly, though, he falls over himself talking up his players, the ones putting into action the thoughts and ideas he and Knox come up with. And we’re back at the start, back with the try Irish teams aren’t supposed to score, back with the verve, the imagination, the balls to decline the safe kick to touch in favour of the length-of-the-field bonanza that came instead.

  ‘At the end of the day, the players know the game is theirs because they play it. Everything that happens is a decision. When to go, when to stay, when to risk it, when to tighten it up. Those decisions are all made on the field and they’re made by the players. And I really do think that the coach’s role is overrated. I’m not just saying that. We give them what guidance we can. But I’ve never won a game as a coach – the teams have won them.’

  The future is his to do with what he pleases. A couple more years at Leinster and then home, you’d have thought. And it’s not especially difficult to see him in charge of an international side some day. Then again, he could ditch it all and take over the world with his fashion empire. With Cheika, he rarely knows himself what’s next, so there’s no chance of you knowing either.

  McDowell on a voyage of discovery in Open waters

  12 July 2009

  Larne Harbour, Co Antrim

  Conditions: Calm, mild, slightly overcast

  Midday Monday at Larne Port and the breakfast rush is over at Pinky Moon’s Pitstop. Which, of course, doesn’t for a minute mean that breakfast is over. Not bloody likely, hi. This part of the north Antrim coast was built on the Ulster fry (£6.95) and the filled soda (£3.75) and the tea (£1.40) and the buttered bread (£0.90) and nobody checks their watch before ordering. But the lunchtime sailing to Cairnryan doesn’t have the footfall of the early morning crossings so the place is quieter now and the chap selling the plastic leprechauns and Irish coffee mugs in the newsagents across the hall doesn’t have to look up from his Telegraph very often.

  Graeme McDowell does this every year in early July. Not the fry bit, just the ferry bit. The week of the Scottish Open, he loads up the Range Rover on the Monday, drives the hour from Portrush to Larne, rolls onto P&O’s finest for an hour and hey presto – he has his own car in the drive for a fortnight. He has his clubs in the boot so he doesn’t have to spend an hour and a couple of hundred quid dragging them through an airport – even twenty-nine-year-old multi-millionaires resent lining the anti-golfer pockets of Ryanair and Easyjet at this point – and better yet, he can live out the next two weeks without being a slave to the rhythms of the tour. Logistics become a whole lot simpler when you’re not relying on a courtesy car timetable.

  Today, he has Ricky Elliott riding shotgun. Now, Ricky Elliott has a lot to answer for. He and McDowell more or less grew up together and were by a distance the two best young golfers in Portrush. When McDowell won the Ulster Boys’ title in 1996, it was Elliott’s title from the previous year that he assumed. When McDowell ignored the advice of the GUI and set about chasing golf scholarships at American colleges in 1999, it was because Elliott was emailing him from the University of Toldeo in Ohio, telling him to get on a plane. And when McDowell was looking for an American base in which to settle down for the half the year every year, it was Elliott who fixed him up with contacts in Lake Nona in Florida, home now to more pro golfers than a Learjet sales convention.

  But most of all and worst of all, McDowell blames Elliott for the accent. The tortured Lough Neagh/South Beach/All Points In Between hybrid that he long ago gave up trying to shake. Meanwhile Elliott, who’s lived in the US for over a decade now, still sounds like he should be racing in the North West 200. McDowell reckons his mate cheated because he spent the first few years over there living in a house with Irish lads while McDowell got stuck down in Alabama and found himself crashing face first into a language barrier.

  ‘I remember the first day I was there,’ he says, ‘I just couldn’t get over the accent. It was so Deep South, real ‘Y’awll come back now, y’hear?’ stuff. The very first day, I went into Subway and tried to order a sandwich from this old coloured lady, a real southerner. And she just didn’t have a clue what I was saying. So I basically said to myself that something was going to have to change or else I’d be repeating myself for the rest of my life. I guess that’s what happened and it’s stuck ever since. I came home after my first year there with a mid-Atlantic twang. It’s terrible, absolutely terrible. I get a lot of abuse for it and rightly so. But you know, if that’s the worst thing I get abuse about I can live with it.’

  Elliott didn’t manage as stellar a college career as his young friend – then again, nobody else in America did either as, in his final year at UAB, McDowell beat Lucas Glover, Camillo Villegas, Oliver Wilson and Hunter Mahan to the Golfer of the Year award – but he makes a very respectable living now at the golf facility out in Lake Nona. Come summertime though, it’s too hot to play golf in Florida so for the next three weeks he’ll caddie for the Dutch player Maarten LaFaber. Once we reach Cairnryan, he and McDowell are off up the road to Turnberry on a recce. Buddies hitting balls, friends on a mission.

  Irish Sea, Larne to Cairnryan shipping lane />
  Conditions: Perfect, still, sunny

  If this all seems very loose and free and easy, it’s only because McDowell has worked so diligently to make it so. He tells the story of his first ever British Open now just to hear out loud how absurd it all was. It was 2004 and it was Troon and as they say up around where he’s from, he didn’t know what end of him was up. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance so he had his whole team there. Swing coach, mind coach, fitness coach, agent, girlfriend, family, girlfriend’s family, mates, mates of mates and caddie. So many people, he forgot himself. Rented a three-bedroomed house and had eight people living in it for the week.

  ‘I was running around like an eejit. It was just chaos. Missed the cut comfortably. I remember walking away from that week just kicking myself for getting so caught up in everything. I didn’t get my head around it at all.’

  Bet you don’t regret it now though?

  ‘No, not at all. It was my first major and it was so exciting. The golf course didn’t suit me because my technique wasn’t very good back then at all. The first nine holes went all the way out to the ocean and were very much left-to-right orientated, with the wind hard off the right. I was definitely a drawer of the golf ball and couldn’t spell fade back then, never mind hit one. So it was a very difficult week, along with the circus that surrounded it. But I learned so much from it.’

  From there to here in just five years. He’s finished in the top twenty at each of the last four majors; Phil Mickelson is the only other player in the world who can say that. He was a revelation at the Ryder Cup last September, a weekend he’d thought about and worked towards every day for the previous eighteen months. He’s earned well over €5 million here and in the States, won four times on tour and is long established inside the world’s top fifty. The life he’s carved out for himself is all he could hope for, lacking only the adornment now of a career week. He’ll have the family there alright and the Horizon Sports reps who’ve made such a difference to him over the past two years but that’ll be about it.

  ‘Tee to green, I know I’m good enough to win a major,’ he says. ‘I know that. But my short game needs to constantly improve. My putting has got better and now the short irons have to come along as well. Inside 100 yards, I have to be getting up and down most of the time instead of some of the time. Look at Mickelson, look at Tiger, look at Harrington. Inside 100 yards, bang – down in two. The thing with majors is that most of the time – Bethpage was a bit of an exception because of how soft it became with the rain – but most of the time, the greens are just so hard to hit. The greens are firm and fiddly and you’re scrambling all the time.

  ‘What the majors do is simplify where your weaknesses are. For me over the past few majors, it’s been my short game. No question. At Oakmont last year, I was there or thereabouts going into the last two rounds and when I sat down and reflected on Sunday night I knew that my short game just wasn’t good enough. As the greens got firmer, faster and tougher, I wasn’t able to scramble well enough. Same with Birkdale last year, where I shot an eighty on the Saturday to take myself completely out of the picture after leading on the Thursday night.’

  Four top-twenties in a row but not one top-ten. Launchpad or glass ceiling? That is the question.

  Cairnryan Port, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland

  Conditions: Cloudy, light wind, rain on the way

  ‘Sorry Graeme, could I trouble you for an autograph?’ interjects one of the P&O staff. As he’s doing the needful, the chap mentions that Rory McIlroy was on the crossing this morning.

  ‘Some motor he has, eh?’ says P&O guy.

  ‘Why, which one was he driving? He didn’t take the Porsche did he?’ asks McDowell with a smile.

  ‘Nah, the Audi. What are you driving yourself?’ asks P&O guy.

  ‘Ah, just the Range Rover,’ says McDowell. P&O guy almost shrugs as he walks away.

  He can’t remember when he first heard McIlroy’s name but he has no trouble pinpointing the first time he did a double take. It would have been this week five years ago and he was in Loch Lomond when somebody told him that this McIlroy kid had shot 61 around Royal Portrush, a course McDowell could draw with his eyes closed. ‘I remember it clearly,’ he says. ‘I went, ‘Hang on, what? He shot what?’’

  It was a couple of years before they played together for the first time, in a practice round before the Dunhill Links in 2007. McIlroy had him beaten by the fifteenth. Now they eat together, play together, travel together when they can. They slag each other constantly and rely on each other to find a way to see whatever United match is on, wherever they are in the world. McDowell is fascinated to watch his young friend grow up and even now is constantly amazed at what he can do. It’s not a big-brother-little-brother thing though, at least not any more.

  ‘Maybe a year ago I would have felt a bit like that, a bit protective of him you know? But there’s no need any more. He knows the ropes better than me at this stage. I’m ten years older than him but that means nothing. I have nothing to teach him either on or off the golf course. We’re very close friends now.

  ‘He’s after going on a bit of a spending spree with property and cars over the past while and yet you just know from talking to him that he’s such a well-grounded kid. But I think that’s an Irish thing too. Nobody lets you get too carried away with yourself here and it’s one of the things I love about home more than anything. We don’t lose the run of ourselves. When I’m in Portrush, I get treated the same now as when I was fifteen years old.’

  He’ll go back there on Tuesday to watch his brother Gary play in the North of Ireland. He’ll stick the clubs in the boot and head off across the water again and when he’s done, he’ll probably fit in nine holes just to keep his eye in. Then he’ll be ready for whatever Turnberry has for him, wind, rain, whatever.

  ‘Patience is a huge part of it when it comes to majors. You have to learn to reset yourself and realise very early on the twenty-under-par isn’t going to win, or rather that twenty-under-par will win by fifteen shots if you shoot it. You’re back to par being a good score and that’s tough to get used to when you’re coming off normal tour events where you’re expecting to shoot in the mid-sixties a couple of rounds a week. So you have to hit the reset button and not panic when you drop a shot or even when you drop two back-to-back. I think I’ve learned how to do that now. I know I have.’

  And with that, the tannoy tells us we’re coming into dock so he and Elliott get up and head below deck. Happy the man whose ship is about to come in.

  CIARAN CRONIN

  Following in the shoes of a fisherman

  Eddie O’Sullivan got paid for what he caught in his uncles’ fishing business as a kid. How times have changed as he gets a four-year contract as a net gain for his empty World Cup trawl.

  7 October 2007

  In an interview about a year ago, Eddie O’Sullivan told of his youth down in West Cork and the fish business his uncles used to run in that part of the world. There he’d be during the summer holidays, young Eddie, out fishing at all hours of the day and night in order to earn a few bob. ‘You got paid for what you caught,’ he stated. ‘If you caught nothing, you got paid nothing.’ How times have changed.

  From a job, albeit a summer one, where he would have, at times, toiled hard and not picked up a penny, he now enjoys a role where his post-World Cup net is completely bare and he still gets rewarded handsomely. If during those summers down in Youghal, O’Sullivan felt that Mother Nature was treating him a touch unfairly, then there’s no doubt that the stars have re-aligned themselves in such a way as to make up for her unpredictability. Ridiculously so. The more you write about it, or read it, the more absurd it gets. The man who has led Ireland to their worst Rugby World Cup performance in the history of the competition is being rewarded for his many incompetencies over the past few months with a new four-year contract and a significant pay rise to boot. For those of us out there who possess some sense of natural justice – that good
deeds should be rewarded and bad deeds punished – our moral compass has been completely skewed.

  What makes this even worse is the stunning arrogance with which the coach and the IRFU have gone about their business over the past week. It all started minutes after another inadequate effort against Argentina at the Parc des Princes last Sunday. In a touchline interview, Sinéad Kissane, the TV3 reporter, asked Eddie O’Sullivan would he be reconsidering his position now that the World Cup was over, a wholly legitimate question that the vast majority of the rugby nation wanted an answer to. O’Sullivan feigned not to hear and when she asked it again he replied with the words, ‘No. Absolutely not. Absolutely not.’

  Kissane then asked another question and O’Sullivan’s voice was still audibly quivering with shock at what he had been asked thirty seconds previous. Did he not foresee the question coming? Or did he not think he should have been asked it? Clearly not, because as he bade farewell to Kissane with the nastiest of looks at the end of the interview, he walked over to IRFU media manager Karl Richardson and whispered something in his ear. Richardson then fixed his gaze on Kissane, motioned her towards him with his index finger and proceeded to verbally admonish her for a good ten seconds. We’re still puzzled as to why.

  How on earth either O’Sullivan or Richardson thought the question was either unexpected or inappropriate is anyone’s guess. And the way in which Kissane was treated by O’Sullivan’s withering look and Richardson’s dressing down was unedifying to say the least.

  To be fair, the behaviour was out of character for the normally affable Irish media manager but it might just be a sign of the you’re-either-with-us-or-against-us mentality that seems to be pervading the IRFU right now.