Memory Man

by Jimmy Magee

  It was a fascinating tour. I really enjoyed it, and maybe some day I will get to visit all the Olympic cities. The television show is a project in hand that I think would make for great entertainment but would be perhaps too expensive to produce. You would probably want to be doing the camerawork yourself to justify making it, I suppose.

  But I am actually working on a DVD with the working title Jimmy’s Olympic Files, about all my memories associated with the games. It will be my fourth DVD: I have already done two on great sporting occasions and one on Celtic’s twenty greatest moments.

  ——

  In 2007 I was coming back from the world boxing championships in Chicago when I nearly got arrested in the airport.

  I was bringing my bags through security. After years of travelling I know all too well what you can take and what you can’t—and one thing you cannot take since the ‘war on terror’ is toothpaste. And as you probably know, the Department of Homeland Security has no sense of humour at all.

  This security woman spotted the toothpaste and snapped, ‘You cannot take the toothpaste with you.’

  ‘I know that, but it’s not the property of the American government. The tube of toothpaste may be but the carton is not and the toothbrush is not. Please give them back.’

  ‘If you stop shouting I will give them to you.’

  ‘I’m not shouting.’

  After more of this nonsensical argument I said to her, ‘Can I give this to you to give to George Bush and tell him to stick it.’

  There was a stunned silence. She called a colleague and whispered something to him, and he in turn called the supervisor.

  ‘Have we a problem?’ the supervisor asked me.

  ‘Actually, we have no problem at all,’ I said. I began to explain the situation to him—minus my suggestion that their president, George Bush (Junior), could put my precious toothpaste in a place where the sun doesn’t shine.

  He said his colleagues had told him I was shouting.

  ‘That’s a lie. I wasn’t shouting at them.’

  He asked if I was calling them liars. I told him, ‘No, I wasn’t saying they were liars per se, I was saying that they were telling lies.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Oh, there is a difference, but I don’t want to get into that now,’ I sighed.

  He then spoke into his walkie-talkie and called down two other heavies, who came over and grabbed me by the elbows and frog-marched me off. I was brought over to a big woman in charge, whose large chest was leaning over the counter in front of her.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ she asked.

  I informed her that there was no problem and explained what happened. She then said, ‘You said my staff are telling lies,’ to which I replied, ‘That’s true: they are telling lies. I’m not saying they are liars, but in this case they are telling lies.’

  ‘It’s a serious accusation.’

  ‘I’m only telling you the truth . . . Do you notice anything about me?’

  She looked me up and down. ‘You appear well dressed and to be a reasonable man, and gentlemanly.’

  ‘Thank you for your kind words. But do you notice anything else?’

  She thought for a second or two and then replied, ‘You seem hoarse.’

  ‘Exactly. I have had laryngitis for the last three days, which was difficult, because I am a broadcaster, and had to change my work over the last three days.’

  As she seemed to sympathise with me, I asked her, ‘Do you honestly think I would be able to shout, even if I wanted to?’

  She agreed that I couldn’t. Case dismissed.

  Chapter 19

  | ANOTHER DOUBLE TRAGEDY

  The personal tragedies in my life always seem to arrive in pairs. In 1989 I mourned the death of my beloved wife and mother; and then in 2008 I was forced to endure yet another horrible year when my eldest son, Paul, and my sister Patricia were both taken from us far too early.

  In 2007 my heart was shattered when Paul was told he had motor neurone disease, a horrible muscle-wasting illness. Sadly, there is no hope for this fatal illness. Life expectancy after the onset of symptoms is generally between two and five years. Approximately 40 per cent of those diagnosed live for five years, and as many as 16 per cent live another decade. While there have been rare occasions when MND sufferers have survived for more than thirty years, others have died within months of diagnosis. At best, we thought, Paul had three years; but he lasted only seventeen months.

  Our relationship was more like that of brothers than father and son; perhaps this was due to the fact that we were also near each other in age—only twenty years in the difference, which is a lot when you’re a child but is not so much when you’re an adult. When I was fifty he was thirty, which is nothing really.

  And we were quite alike. In fact he had even followed his father into broadcasting, albeit not full-time, by doing the racing for RTE and 98FM radio for years, mostly on a Saturday. Paul was mad on horse racing; I can always remember him, even from the time he was just a little fellow, being addicted to it. He hadn’t just a superficial knowledge: he had a detailed knowledge about racing, and made a fine broadcaster. In fact—and I’m not saying this only because he was my flesh and blood—I don’t believe RTE used him enough: they should have had him working full-time in the Sports Department. But Paul was thrilled to be doing his Saturday broadcasts while working as public relations man for the bookmakers Boylesports.

  The nightmare began when Paul rang me one day and asked me, ‘Dad, do you think I’m beginning to slur my words on air?’

  I told him, ‘I don’t think so.’

  He then asked me to promise to tell him immediately if I thought he was beginning to slur his words.

  Though I hadn’t heard anything wrong with his voice, I sensed that Paul was very concerned, because it would be rare that he would ring me with an anxiety like that. He later told me that he first became concerned when he was on a 98FM sports show one night and one of his friends rang him afterwards and said, ‘You had a fair few drinks on you tonight, Magee!’

  But Paul hadn’t got any drink on him. He was already beginning to worry that something was going wrong, and this remark by his friend confirmed his suspicions, as he also had pains in his arms and in his hands. He went to the GP the next day, who sent him straight away to a neurologist.

  I can’t begin to imagine how devastating it was for him when the results came back and the specialist told him that he had a life expectancy of three years. Paul armed himself with information, so nothing took him by surprise after that, because he knew the time limits of when things would happen.

  Afterwards he met me to tell me the news. I had to fight to keep my emotions in check. I tried to make light of it by encouraging him to make the most of his time. Though clearly he was devastated, it speaks volumes for his character that he was more concerned for his young family—his son was only three at the time—and their future than for himself.

  Paul adhered to my advice to live every day to the full and to fulfil some of his dreams. He had always wanted to go to Augusta for the Masters, which is without a shadow of doubt the biggest golf tournament. But it also happens to be the hardest tournament in the world to get tickets, or press accreditation, for. Before being struck down with MND Paul had frequently asked me to get him a badge for it, and when I always tried to explain that I couldn’t do it he would reply, ‘But you can get anything you want!’

  It wasn’t true, and I had tried for him, but without any success. But when he became ill a couple of people, including his very good friend Tim O’Driscoll, arranged for him to go to Augusta. Now, you simply cannot get into Augusta or play Augusta. Outsiders are out, the gates of the club are locked and there is a gate man. But somehow they arranged it all with a member of the club.

  By this time Paul was in a wheelchair. He didn’t realise that he was going to get inside as his friends drove their car down Washington Road to Magnolia Lane, which is the entrance
to Augusta National, to meet their contact. An excited Paul couldn’t believe that he was there and was asking if they thought he could get in. You can only imagine the surprise when he was told they were expecting him and they brought him up to the clubhouse.

  Paul was then asked if he would like to play on the course itself, but he replied that he couldn’t play, because by this time he had lost most of the power of his arms. He was told they would get him a cart and clubs and get a caddy and go around with him. He actually played the whole eighteen holes in Augusta. With all the strength he could muster he was just able to stand to take the shot and then sit down again. He was able to swing the clubs a bit, and he got a par 3 at the sixteenth, which is a famous par 3. It’s a hole that makes and breaks players at the Masters itself.

  I almost played at Augusta myself, back in 1974. There was a notice on the press-room door one day (I think they do it regularly now) saying, ‘Green jackets of Augusta National Course are going to give the course over to the visiting media on Monday. If interested, please add your name.’

  The list was like a bridal train: it went right down to the floor, and there were so many names they had to have a draw. I was one of the lucky ones drawn to play; unfortunately I was scheduled to cover a European Cup match and I had to get back to do it, and despite my best efforts I couldn’t organise a flight that would get me to Europe in time for the match. So I had to relinquish my place.

  I reckon I’m the only man who ever turned down the opportunity to play Augusta; but at least poor old Paul got to play it in his dying days. After playing the course he sent me a text message: ‘Dad, just had the greatest day of my life, played Augusta National.’ I still have the message on the phone.

  Paul’s friend Tim O’Driscoll, who had helped organise his wonderful trip to Augusta, knew that Paul was a fan of Steve Staunton, who at that time was the manager of the Irish soccer team. Tim put in a call and arranged for Paul to go out to the training ground and meet all the players and get his photograph taken with the entire squad. It’s a lovely picture, which I will always cherish.

  My favourite photograph from this period is one taken for the magazine VIP of myself with my two sons, taken when we went to Dunboyne Castle. Paul was nearly banjaxed at this time, but he insisted on standing up for this picture, saying that there would never be another picture of us, and he struggled to stand up between Mark and me. We half held him up, but he insisted, ‘I’m all right. I’m able to stand here on my own. Don’t put your arms around me.’

  It was upsetting to see Paul like this when he had been really fit—both mentally and physically—until he got that awful MND. I admired him enormously for being so determined to stand for that photograph. We just barely held him: you wouldn’t notice it in the picture. He was right about it being the last picture that was taken of us together.

  On another trip to the United States during his last few months Paul went over for the Superbowl. He was an American football fanatic and would drive you mad telling you everything he knew about it. He was really excited that he was going to see the Superbowl; but that was the only day in the history of the event that it rained non-stop. Of course he got soaked to the skin. He said, ‘I’ll get the flu or something out of this; but it makes no difference, as I’m gone anyway.’

  ——

  As we were trying to come to terms with Paul’s devastating circumstances we were dealt another blow when my sister Patricia died. Pat was the youngest in the family and was still only in her fifties when she was struck down with a brain aneurysm, which triggered a brain haemorrhage that killed her. Up until that point she had never been sick a day in her life.

  We were so close that I was almost like a father to her, as she was born a month after our father died in February 1949. It must have been hard for her to grow up without ever getting the opportunity to meet her father. She’s gone now to the next world, so maybe she sees him there.

  I would go regularly to Florida, where she had been living with her American husband, Michael Bagnell, and where she worked as an insurance assessor. They had no children together, but Pat had a daughter from a previous marriage.

  Shortly before she died I was talking to Pat after she had just arrived back to her home in Florida from a trip to Alaska. She loved it, and was talking about getting the three of us siblings together for a holiday.

  ‘Jimmy, you can fly in from Ireland, and Mary can fly up from New York, and we’ll all go on the next trip to somewhere like the Caribbean.’

  It sounded like a wonderful idea, but sadly it would never happen. She loved travel, particularly by ship. She lived in Tampa, and she would drive down to Miami to look at the cruise ships and take photographs of them. She went on a cruise at least once a year.

  Shortly afterwards I got a phone call from Michael to say that she was very ill. I knew it must have been life or death from the moment I picked up the phone and heard his voice. She had got a headache and just didn’t recover from it.

  I booked myself on the first available flight to Florida. Emotionally exhausted from worrying non-stop on the plane, I went straight from the airport to the hospital, where I was met by my other sister, Mary, who had made her way from her home in New York.

  Pat was in a coma by the time I got there, but I still talked to her, pouring out my heart as I whispered into her ear and told her how much we all loved her.

  ——

  I don’t understand this famous term ‘brain-dead’. I’ve always thought it would be a terrible thing if you were lying in your bed and you could hear them saying, ‘Will we switch it off today, or tomorrow? Sure he’s gone!’ And you’re lying there and you can’t do a thing about it. That must be something else!

  From a previous experience I’ve always believed that people in a coma can still hear you talking to them. Many years ago I was leaving the RTE studio after doing my Sunday programme when the receptionist beckoned me over and pointed to a man sitting down who she told me had been waiting for some time in the hope of getting to talk to me.

  I went over to him. He apologised for bothering me and told me that his son always listened to me on the radio and knew everything I did, because he was ‘sports mad’. He went on to explain that his son, Adrian, had been in a coma for the last three months after a motorcycle accident and they were planning to switch off life support that week. He thought he could give him one last chance by me talking to his son in the hope that my voice would trigger something inside him and get him to wake up.

  ‘For a start, you’ve come to the right man,’ I told him. ‘Under no circumstances are you to allow them to pull the plug. I’ll do whatever I can.’

  I went back down to the studio. Luckily, the engineer was still there, wrapping up after the programme. I explained the situation and then got the signature tune of the programme out, and I sat down and did a piece for the young man in the coma. ‘Adrian, this is Jimmy Magee here. I know you’ve been away from us for three months, but this is what has happened since you’ve been away . . .’ And then I explained that so-and-so had won the world snooker championship, and gave similar updates on other sports events. I did it as if it was a real news bulletin. And then I added: ‘Things are very awkward, because they’re going to pull the plug on your machine this coming week unless you make some effort yourself, because I know you can hear me.’

  I went back down to the reception area and gave the tape to his father, who thanked me and went off.

  About two weeks later the father came back again to the studio. ‘He’s still there, but it’s all finishing tomorrow. The doctors and specialists all say he has no chance.’

  I told him not to give up, and went away to do another short tape, in which I said: ‘Adrian, you’ve had it—no chance. Isn’t this terrible, and you’re lying there listening to this! Try and move your little finger. Do something!’

  I don’t know if it was my tapes that worked, or if it was just a miracle, but Adrian woke up. More than ten years later he is now work
ing in Dún Laoghaire as an office secretary.

  ——

  This inspiring story came to mind as I sat beside Pat’s bedside, clutching for straws, praying for a miracle that sadly wasn’t to be. Three days after slipping into a coma, which was the morning after my arrival, she passed away.

  I was grateful that I had managed to get there just before she died, but it was a very difficult time. I couldn’t believe what had happened, and it took a long time for me to accept that she was dead. It wasn’t the natural order: I, as the eldest, should have been the one to go first.

  ——

  Pat had left instructions that she was to be buried where she grew up, in Grange, Co. Louth. We brought her ashes back to be buried.

  By this time Paul couldn’t really walk, but he insisted on walking that day, with a bit of help. He was in an awful state at the funeral, because he had been close to Pat. It was probably the first time during his illness that he broke down in tears. He must have been saying to himself, ‘I’m next. I can see this in all the people who are here, who will be here for me.’

  He sobbed and sobbed, which wasn’t like him. Perhaps I should have asked him if that’s what was running through his mind—the fact that he was looking around and realising that the clock was counting down to his own funeral, and that the same faces here would be at it—but I couldn’t find the courage or the words to broach such a painful subject. Instead all I could do was try to console him, to give him a hug. I couldn’t even say the comforting words, ‘Everything is going to be okay,’ because this wasn’t true for Paul.

  My God, when I reflect back on it now, it was the saddest day! I’ll never forget it. My sister was dead, and my son was only a few weeks away from his own death.

  It was very difficult dealing with Paul’s illness and, ultimately, death. He was still very young, only forty-nine, when the disease was diagnosed, which seems to be a prime age for getting it. It was sad to see how this man, strong and tough from his years getting stuck into the tackles in football and other sports, couldn’t lift anything, and then suddenly he couldn’t speak, which was the worst part. It broke my heart when he could no longer communicate.