Summer in Dublin

A SUMMER in Dublin that Tommy Lyons will want to forget.  Even the drunks on the bus were telling him how to get rich, and the Liffey just stank like hell.

A quiet pint in Stillorgan was hardly possible for the Dublin boss, who felt more than a pang in his second season in the sun.

For Tommy it must have seemed a long way from last year when he frequently held court in the upstairs Lounge of The Goblet on the Malahide Road.

On those occasions, after the Dublin training sessions, Tommy held the media mob captive with his wit and repartee.

"I'd like to manage Manchster United," he'd jest. Fergie should try managing the Dubs on Tommy's wages.

"What are you having, Tommy," a scribe would ask. Now the same fellow approaches the counter looking for a refill of ink.

So much has been writtten about Lyons. The vast majority of it has been less than encouraging.

Former players have been queuing up to have a stab, resembling the unsightly scene of pensioners trying to push their way onto the bus for the front seat.

All sorts of stories have been coming from the Dublin camp, where Tommy is not on everybody invitation list for a free helicopter ride.

The only surprise is that some Dub didn't rush out from the St David's training venue and blast that the pitch is like a car-park. Last year there wasn't a whisper from the pavement. Victory is the best gift-wrapping of all.

Nobody needs to tell Tommy that the Dublin brief is the best and worst gig in town. As a chap who knows his sporting onions remarked recently: "The Dublin job is getting more like the England job everyday."

The big concern now is those National League Sundays in Parnell Park, where in the intimate surroundings of Donnycarney, every cough is noted and used as evidence.

Mickey Whelan once faced that mob....and left the ship. Whelan, a elegant footballer, was treated disgracefully by so-called boys in Blue, many of whom probanbly thought the Dublin manager also presented the Rose of Tralee.

Tommy won't be looking forward to the winter.....that's if he' still in the cockpit. But to leave now would leave him with so many unanswered questions.

There's not a pilot of the skies who hasn't had to land for re-fuelling. The experience of losing  football match has left a deep wound.

So much so that it has drained the confidence of a figure who used that very commodity as his petrol.

Remembering Mickey Whelan that day in Parnell Park would make anyone wonder why stand in front of the driving range.

If he didn't know it before now, Tommy fully understands that the Dubs boss always walks alone.

The happy-ever ending sees Tommy, in twenty years time, sitting in the Orchard, the one in Stillorgan and not Armagh, allowing himself a little smile as he recalls how he survived the storm to greet Sam.

But will he be let banish the Summer of 2003, turn a new page, keep the head down and get on with business? Hopefully so.

NO matter the strains of life's journey, Georgie will always remain one of the best.

In these parts, he's as much loved as Muhammad Ali, or even Ronnie Delany.

The Belfast Boy has lived out his life in everybody's sitting-room. Much of the time for all the wrong reasons, but he'd still be welcomed home for tea.

The public take to certain personalities. It's hard to explain why. But George is one of them.

A lack of arrogance is one of those mysterious factors. He's been to Cell Block H, and to Hell and back, but his presence never carries any menace.

You get the feeling if George finds himself in the middle of trouble, he didn't pick the route. Fame, celebrity, tabloid photographers chasing the shillings and little town corner-boys are never far away.

Anytime he appears on The Late Late Show, Parkinson or Kelly, the warmth in the studio just doesn't come from the lights.

And, as ever, comes the re-runs golden footage that moulded his very existence. Twisting, turning and even going back to take on Ron Chopper Harris for the sake of it. Harris was a Chelsea defender that carried a Government Health warning in his boots.

Lobbing Pat Jennings, pick-pocketing the ball from Gordon Banks, winning the European Cup at Wembley for a Manchester United team that played in Blue. Were they City in disguise!

He formed part of the odd couple of  Craven Cottage with Rodney Marsh. How the wonderful Brian Moore loved going to the Cottage to show the pair in action for ITV's Big Match. It was a Sunday treat.

Yet George will always be Manchester United. The rest of his playing days just made up the small print.

They included a stint in the League of Ireland wearing the jersey of Cork Celtic in the mid-70's. He brought 12,000 to Harold's Cross for a match between Cork and Shels.

It ended scoreless. Val Meehan, from Rathgar, marked George. And did it extremely well. A memory for life.

Then a few years earlier George brought O'Connell Street to a standstill as he was driven to open a store in a white Austin Princess.

Georgie will always be Georgie, part of what we are, a hero for generations, a footballing God, who the Red Devils of life still torment.  

IT'S gone for another year......strawberries and cream, Sue Barker, John McEnroe and Henman Hell.

Will there ever be the sight of an Irish tennis player strolling onto the centre-court at Wimbledon. Not likely.

The game here is still caught up in the white ghosts of the past......afternoon tea without the bite.

Too much of Irish tennis is concentrated on the capital, and being in a Tennis Club is still a treat that escapes most kids.

In South County Dublin, there's a charming little park with two courts that are rarely used. But, for the majority of the time, it's all locked up, with the nets taken down. So no mad-keen tennis youngster can fall in love with the game unless he's a signed up member.

If the Williams sisters had lived near such a out-of-bounds facility, they might have never seen the green, green grass of SW 19.

On the big tennis stage, the Russians are coming. They are hungry for success. And that is a key. Think of all the gifted hurlers throughout this country who perform their art in the white furnace of physical combat. What terrific tennis players they'd be.

Everybody should be welcomed into their local tennis club, and not only if they have the fee, or the old school tie. Encouragement and enjoyment is the fuel of sport. That's the way to find Ireland's own Roger Federer.

But, unfortunately, although commendable strides are being made, Ireland's call for Wimbledon is still very much on hold.