http://deportes.elpais.com/deportes/2013/10/26/actualidad/1382785261_663918.html Alex Ferguson, “pigmeo moral” “La hipocresía es el homenaje que el vicio rinde a la virtud”. -François de La Rochefoucauld, escritor francés del siglo XVII Todos los artículos de Carlin Ferguson, a Beckham: "Siéntate, le has fallado al equipo" JOHN CARLIN 26 OCT 2013 - 13:01 CET40 Archivado en: Opinión John Carlin Deportes Alex Ferguson, con su libro. / ANDREW YATES (AFP) Recomendar en Facebook101 Twittear120 Enviar a LinkedIn0 Enviar a TuentiEnviar a MenéameEnviar a Eskup Enviar Imprimir Guardar Afortunadamente no es necesario comprar la última autobiografía de Alex Ferguson, la que salió esta semana, para confirmar de una vez y por todas que, por más triunfos que haya obtenido como entrenador del Manchester United, no es una buena persona. Los océanos de tinta que sus memorias han generado en la prensa británica nos han ahorrado el dinero. Ferguson es un caballero por título honorífico (Sir Alex Ferguson) pero no por categoría humana. Si tuviera clase no hubiera menospreciado en su libro a antiguas figuras del United como David Beckham, Roy Keane y Ruud van Nistelrooy, jugadores que en su día lo dieron todo por el club y sin cuyas aportaciones la lista de trofeos que el escocés ha acumulado sería apreciablemente más corta. Si tuviera integridad moral no hubiera contado los pormenores de rifirrafes que tuvo con ellos en el vestuario, en los que él siempre se presenta como poseedor de la virtud y la verdad, ni hubiera acusado a algunos de falta de compromiso profesional o a otros, sin ironía alguna, de deslealtad. Especialmente innecesario, feo y -además– desacertado es lo que dice sobre Beckham. ¿El pecado capital del jugador? “David pensó que era más grande que Alex Ferguson”, escribe Alex Ferguson. Bueno, tenemos noticias para usted, Sir Alex. David no se equivocó. Era y es más grande que su exentrenador. Más generoso, más decente, más respetuoso, más leal, más famoso, más rico, más guapo y más futbolista que el que hace medio siglo ejerció de delantero centro para tres o cuatro clubes de la Liga escocesa. David pensó que era más grande que Alex Ferguson”, escribe Alex Ferguson. Bueno, tenemos noticias para usted, Sir Alex. David no se equivocó Sin embargo Ferguson insiste, para colmo, en que si Beckham no se hubiera creído más grande que él, hubiera sido mejor jugador. Afirma incluso que hubiera llegado a ser un top dog, un perro alfa, uno de los grandes, grandes. Lo cual, como cualquier analista serio del fútbol sabe, es una gran tontería. Beckham fue lo que fue. Un jugador de limitados recursos, el más apreciado de los cuales fue saber poner la pelota donde él quería, y de una encomiable entrega física tanto en el campo de juego como en los entrenamientos. Jugar con Zidane y Ronaldo, como él mismo humildemente confesó, era jugar con sus ídolos, futbolistas a cuya condición de top dog él sabía que jamás llegaría. Pero según Ferguson “todo cambió”, se entregó al glamour y descuidó el fútbol cuando se enamoró de la cantante Victoria Beckham en 1998. ¡Mentira! La victoria más épica del United en la era Ferguson fue la derrota del Bayern Múnich, con dos goles en tiempo adicional, en la final de la Champions de 1999 en el Camp Nou. Ambos goles llegaron de tiros de esquina lanzados por Beckham, correctamente identificado por Ferguson después como el mejor jugador de su equipo a lo largo de los 93 minutos del partido. ¿Por qué, entonces, la traición a Beckham, que siempre ha sido cortés y respetuoso en público con Ferguson, y también a Keane, y a Van Nistelrooy y a otros? Obvio. Porque su editorial se lo pidió. Porque si se hubiera limitado a escribir un libro en el que el rencor y la polémica gratuita estaban ausentes hubiera generado menos titulares en la prensa. Ergo, hubiera vendido menos libros. Sin embargo, podría haber logrado el mismo objetivo disparando contra otros objetivos. Como se ha comentado en Inglaterra, podría habernos contado del pleito legal que tuvo con el mayor accionista del United sobre la propiedad de un caballo de carreras (llamado Rock of Gibraltar) que ambos compartían, pleito que condujo a la salida del United del accionista y a la venta del club a unos especuladores estadounidenses infinitamente menos leales al club o al fútbol que Beckham, Keane o Van Nistelrooy. Pero sobre estos temas, ni pío en el libro. La inevitable pregunta entonces es, ¿para qué necesita el multimillonario Ferguson los ingresos adicionales de un best-seller? ¿Será porque se ha vuelto loco por el dinero? Y si no, si el propósito fue contar su verdad, ¿por qué no lo hizo? La respuesta quizá no la teníamos tan clara antes de que publicara el libro, pero ahora sí. Como comentó un columnista el viernes en The Times de Londres, Ferguson se delata en su autobiografía como “un pigmeo moral”. Y además, con sus críticas fáciles a ex jugadores y su temor a enfrentarse a los que han pretendido saquear al club de su vida, como un cobarde.

Stepping over a pool of vomit in Frenchman’s Lane, Vinny Fitzpatrick pulled his hoodie over his baldy bonce, dug his flabby paws deep inside his jean pockets, and sniffed the mild morning air. He had allowed himself the entire Sunday morning for a ramble. After all, he was not obliged to be anywhere, for anyone. In a city of more than a million souls he was a man without ties, without responsibilities, and almost without hope. At Butt Bridge, he took a right hammer, and shuffled off unhurriedly in the direction of Heuston Station, for he was no Rob Heffernan. From Kingsbridge, he might wander into the Park, or wait for Ryan’s to open, depending on his mood, which had been mostly dark since Angie’s damning verdict on their marriage a week earlier. If seven days was regarded as a long time in politics, it had been an age for Vinny, who was still scrambling for a foothold of reason after taking a week’s holidays from Dublin Bus to gather himself. Initially, he thought Angie’s anger would subside and peace talks would open with a text, followed by a pot of tea and a chocolate éclair or two in Bunter’s Café. But his wife, a bit like Maggie Thatcher, was not for turning, as the post to Causeway Avenue had confirmed. In neat handwriting, Angie had laid down her terms. Vinny was to be allowed access to the twins on Saturdays between 2.0pm and 6.0pm – smack, bang in the middle of the racing, he noted – and he could drop in on Wednesdays between 6.30 and 8.30 to “give them a bath and put them to bed.” Any other arrangement outside of these hours “would not be permitted,” warned Angie. That missive had arrived on Thursday morning and it was a straw which broke Vinny’s hairy back, particularly when Ollie, his gay tenant, put a hand tenderly on his shoulder and asked if there was anything he could do “to ease his pain.” Vinny had enough of Ollie’s openly oily ways; he also felt hemmed in by the four walls of his old family home. He couldn’t bear to look at the photos of his late parents anymore without feeling how he’d let them down. “Not so much top of the world Ma, as bottom of the barrel,” he said to himself. Shielding tears, Vinny had shoved a few clothes and toiletries into his battered Gola holdall. First, he thought about heading for the Rosslare Ferry – Vinny had a long-standing invitation to visit his cousin, Billy, in Swansea – but within a few hours, that plan had been scrapped as Vinny was holed up in Cleary’s pub in Amiens Street. It explained his slightly dishevelled appearance in Isaacs Hostel nearby later that evening where he’d negotiated a private room for €200 cash, up front, for a week. The first night, he hadn’t slept. He’d just lain there, looking at the ceiling, thinking of decisions and revisions which in a minute might reverse. Bohemians lose Friday had been a ’mare. He punted blindly at Cheltenham, blowing over a ton in Paddy Power in Talbot Street in jig time, before tootling up to Dalymount Park for a pick-me-up, only to see his beloved Bohemians lose to Bray Wanderers, of all teams. With one round of games to go, the club of Turly O’Connor, Billy Young, Jackie Jameson and Roddy Collins were in danger of being relegated for the first time in their illustrious history. How had the club’s guardians allowed this dreadful possibility come to pass? On Saturday, Vinny had been unable to leave his room, bar a five-minute stumble to the chemist for Nurofen Extra. His head pounded relentlessly, his back and neck were ramrod stiff, and several times he felt like he was going to throw up. The next morning, as the first fingers of pink tickled the Dublin horizon, Vinny knew he couldn’t carry on anymore. He had to stand up and fight his fears; come to terms with where he was and somehow plot a route back to the shore of sanity. The morning walk helped his mood. As he passed by each bridge, O’Connell, the footbridges of the Ha’penny and Millenium, then Grattan and O’Donovan Rossa at the Four Courts, Vinny felt he was clearing mental hurdles. He was 55, in fairish nick, if a little overweight, and could reasonably expect another score or so, on life’s mortal coil. He was a father, a grandfather, and a trustworthy husband. He had a good job, which he loved, and a cluster of great mates. (Someone once said that lucky’s the man who could count true friends on the fingers of one hand. Well, Vinny could.) Opposite the entrance to the Zoo, Vinny heard shrieks and yells from the playing pitches to his left. Stopping, he spied a game of camogie between a team of teenagers in blue and white stripes against a team in white and red. He moseyed over for a butcher’s hook. The team in stripes were clearly bigger, and better hurlers too, but the opposition had greater support, with one elderly female fan, sitting in a portable chair on pitch-side, the most vocal of the lot. As the whistle blew for half-time, Vinny saw the gung-ho grannie, 80 if she was a day, get to her feet, reach for a hurl and start pucking a sliothar about with one of the parents. As her yelps of joy carried across the Park plains, Vinny felt something stir within. Clearly, this was someone with a zest for life, someone who would rather be out in the air, than sitting at home coralled in by four walls and Father Time. Why couldn’t he be like that? Striding out towards the Castleknock Gates, Vinny felt the grey clouds of melancholy disperse from within. He knew he had much to live for, much to look forward to, and whatever tumbleweeds blew his way he would sidestep them, and move on. He pulled down his hoodie for he could see clearly now. It was time to reclaim his life and, with luck in running, win back his wife. It was time to build a few of his own bridges.

1973

Team: 1. Billy Morgan (Nemo Rangers), 2. Frank Cogan (Nemo Rangers), 3. Humphrey Kelleher (Millstreet) RIP, 4. Brian Murphy (Nemo Rangers), 5. Kevin Jer O'Sullivan (Adrigole), 6. John Coleman (Millstreet), 7. Con Hartnett (Millstreet), 8. Denis Long (Millstreet), 9. Denis Coughlan (St. Nick's), 10. Ned Kirby (Grange), 11. Declan Barron (Bantry Blues), 12. Dave McCarthy (Clonakilty), 13. Jimmy Barry-Murphy (St. Finbarr's), 14. Ray Cummins (St. Michael's), 15. Jimmy Barrett (Nemo Rangers)

Noelie

I’ve had a fair innings, says retiring Cork ace O’Leary Thursday, October 17, 2013 Long-serving Cork footballer Noel O’Leary has retired from intercounty football. By Michael Moynihan The Cill na Martra clubman won a minor All-Ireland title in 2000 and a senior Celtic Cross 10 years later. “I have no complaints,” said the wing-back yesterday. “I’ve had a fair innings with Cork. I’m there 14 years, believe it or not. “I came in first when there were still league games played before Christmas. I was brought in for a game against Limerick (in 2000), I remember. “It went pretty okay that day. I got a goal, which didn’t reflect the way things panned out afterwards, to be honest.” Unsurprisingly, O’Leary pointed to the Cork win over Down in the All-Ireland senior final three years ago as the high point of his career. “The senior All-Ireland was the highlight, obviously, though winning the minor was great crack as well. Having played for so long, and to come so close a couple of times before that, it was great to win it. “But there were other highlights, too. It might sound like a cliche, but making the friends I did with Cork, and with other counties, that was great. Seeing the world with the team was a great privilege too — I certainly saw places I’d never have seen otherwise.” O’Leary was a firm favourite with the Rebel faithful over the years, something he was always thankful for. “I’d have appreciated the support down the years. That never went unnoticed by me — or by the other players. People’s loyalty and support for you in good times and bad is not something you’d ever forget. “I want to thank my club, Cill na Martra, and my family for all their support, and I can’t leave out my fiancée Eimear. We’re getting married in December so we’ve something to look forward to.” Part of the reason O’Leary was such a favourite with the Cork support was his long-running battle with Kerry star Paul Galvin, with the two players getting involved in several skirmishes over the years. “He texted me after we won the All-Ireland, in fairness,” said O’Leary. “Look, we had a few clashes over the years but I think in reality a lot of those were blown slightly out of proportion by the media. “I’d have nothing but respect for Paul as a player and I’d hope he’d feel the same way about myself. “Yes, we had our battles in various games, those are memories I won’t forget, but I wouldn’t have a bad word said against Paul. “I’d appreciate everything he did and achieved as a player, and hopefully down the road we could meet up and have a few drinks and a chat.” And a chat about fashion, given Galvin’s well-known interest in cutting-edge clothing? “You never know, but he’d have a fair job on his hands sorting out my fashion sense.” With Cork Rebel Week in full flow, it’s appropriate that one of Leeside’s most popular heroes bows out with a nod to those he represented. “Wearing the senior jersey for Cork was the ultimate for me, something I dreamed of as a child and which came true for me as an adult. I’ll always appreciate the honour of representing the people of Cork.” © Irish Examiner Ltd. All rights reserved

Haven 2013

Castlehaven and Passage are small communities which take on city clubs with infinitely greater resources and try to make up the disparity through heart and soul and belief’ EAMONN SWEENEY – 20 OCTOBER 2013 As last Sunday's Cork senior football final entered the final quarter and the cries of 'Haaaven', 'Haaaven', accompanied by some lusty thumping of the back wall of the Blackrock Terrace rang round Páirc Uí Chaoimh, it was clear this was one of those unmistakable moments when a team has bent the game in its direction and victory is within its power. ALSO IN THIS SECTION 'Go home and wash yourself' - Sean Og O hAilpin reveals struggle against racism Murphy leads Ireland to first blood in muted encounter Colm O'Rourke: National games worthy of special place on curriculum €10 Mortgage Protection Mortgage Protection from €10 month. Compare 7 Companies. Instant Quote. InsuranceJunction.ie/instant-quote Stop Snoring, Now € 49 100% Guaranteed. Free Shipping! Recommended by Doctors. No fitting. SnoreMenders.co.uk/StopSnoring Ads by Google Castlehaven had just moved three points clear of a Nemo Rangers team that had threatened to blow them away in the first half, full-forward Brian Hurley was proving unmarkable, Seán Dineen was utterly dominating midfield and the West Cork team were driving for home. You might have thought, given Castlehaven's status as reigning champions, that there was something inevitable about that moment. But it wasn't like that at all. New beginnings After the 2012 season which ended in December with Munster final defeat by Dr Crokes of Killarney, Castlehaven had to come to terms with the kind of losses rural clubs expect in the current economic climate. By the start of 2013, Alan Cahalane, Mark Cahalane and Timmy O'Donovan had emigrated, David Burns retired and manager James McCarthy, considered to be the craftiest club boss in Cork, announced he was stepping down. James Mc seemed to a certain extent irreplaceable. At the AGM the club plumped for Finbarr Santry, the kind of invaluable official who's taken a turn at more or less every job going but an unknown quantity as manager. The fodder crisis This spring saw the nation's farmers in terrible difficulties. The dire weather meant that feed stockpiles were used up and the grass-growing season was severely shortened, a combination of circumstances which left farmers struggling to keep their cattle alive. Seán Dineen is a young farmer. He's also the best club midfielder in Cork. If it wasn't for the farming, he'd be an inter-county player and a good one. But the man works the kind of long and tiring hours which just don't fit in with inter-county commitments. And this year's added set of problems made it difficult to give the commitment at club level. He couldn't make league matches and the club wondered when they'd get him back for the championship. Because of the fodder crisis. This is the kind of thing Arsene Wenger and Pep Guardiola seldom have to worry about. Brian Three years ago, Brian Hurley was the best minor forward in Ireland. This year he was the best forward in the All-Ireland under 21 championship, scoring a goal of the most sublime quality in the final Cork lost to Galway. When I take my three daughters to Haven matches, I tell them to keep a close eye on Brian because he'll do things worth watching. On St Patrick's Day, we saw him score 14 points in an under 21 game. Everyone agreed it was something special, the kind of thing even Brian wouldn't do again in a hurry. He got 14 points again the week after. Everyone agreed it was the kind of score you'd hardly get in a senior match. Foreboding Nemo Rangers were firm favourites to win back the county title. They would also be Haven's first-round opponents. And going into that game on a week night in Bandon, Finbarr Santry found himself planning not just without Seán Dineen and the four guys who'd left the panel but without another five injured players. Castlehaven seemed set for defeat that night. Instead they drew 0-16 to 1-13 after extra-time. The replay went to extra-time too and Haven won by 4-10 to 1-12. Brian Hurley scored 2-7 and, like Achilles emerging from his tent to scatter the Trojans, Seán Dineen came on to start his season. The crisis was over. Damien, David and The Bricker Damien Cahalane knew he'd be going in for a hip operation once the team were knocked out. Until then he was going to play through the pain barrier. The semi-final opposition were Carbery, a divisional team some of whose constituent parts are bigger clubs in their own right than Castlehaven. Damien gritted his teeth, man-marked a succession of forwards who've played for Cork at different levels and got up the field for three points from wing-back. Haven trailed by one with a minute left and won by one. Without Damien and without his pain they were goners that day. These are the extremes that players who will never see a bob out of the game go to. Nothing is bigger than a GAA heart. Hearts like Damien's or like that of Liam 'The Bricker' Collins who played his first county final back in 1997 along with Damien's father Niall or that of David Limerick, who has come back from variouis injuries which cost him an inter-county career but couldn't stop him doing it for the club. Men who've paid a cost in pain but judged it worthwhile. Men who restore the proper and proud meaning to the word 'manly.' Connection The day before the final I bring my eight-year-old daughter Lara to the pitch for under 10 training. And it strikes me that connection is what makes the GAA special. Because Lara is playing on the same pitch where the senior players do their thing. OK, this happens in other clubs in other sports. But she and the other kids are also playing on the same pitch where Damien Cahalane's father Niall, his uncle John Cleary, Mike Maguire and Larry Tompkins trained when they won their All-Ireland medals in front of a packed Croke Park. And that is something different about the GAA, that link between the highest heights of the game and the humblest underage training session. Your kid may support Manchester United but he or she is unlikely to be kicking the ball around Old Trafford at the weekend. Who are Nemo Rangers? They are seven All-Ireland titles, 15 Munster titles and 18 Cork titles, all record-breaking totals. Eighteen wins out of 20 county finals, some of them massacres. The time to catch them is in an early round at a country venue because when they play games in Páirc Uí Chaoimh they are supreme. The idea that a team could beat them twice in the one championship seems far-fetched. And in the first half of the county final they are at their most Nemoesque, moving the ball at pace with the likes of James Masters and Paul Kerrigan kicking spectacular points and producing the kind of onslaught which threatens to destroy Castlehaven as it has destroyed so many teams before. Hanging in there But Haven are not destroyed. Instead they seem to draw strength from the challenge Nemo have presented, the challenge to play Gaelic football in its purest form. Roland Whelton, Steven Hurley and Shane Nolan each kick perhaps the best points of their careers, all of them outrageous angled efforts from distance. And even when an Alan Cronin goal puts Nemo four points ahead, Haven rally straight from the kick-out and hit three points on the trot to trail 1-9 to 0-11 at half-time. Twenty scores in 30 minutes of football, wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time? Dineen and Hurley Inc Only one Haven player didn't play well in that first half. Seán Dineen gave the ball away for the goal and couldn't seem to get his hands on the ball. But from the beginning of the second half he took hold of the game at midfield, fetching high ball, winning breaking ball, driving forward with the kind of power which perhaps only comes from those hard and long hours in the fields. And he provides the ammunition for Brian Hurley to run at Nemo and hoist a couple of the most unlikely points over the bar, struck on the run under pressure with defenders hanging off him and homing in over the black spot like guided missiles. Those chants of 'Haaaven' 'Haaaven' begin and continue when the final whistle goes and the game ends 0-16 to 1-11 to Haven. Brian Hurley has 12 of those 16, five of them from play. You'll be seeing more of him. Foundations Why do I think Castlehaven are so important and worth writing about at such length? It's not simply because they're the club of my children, it's because they stand for something good and important in both Irish sport and society. So much of the time journalists have to write about controversy and complaint and cynicism and incompetence. Think of Budget day. But a club like Castlehaven, or like Passage whose first ever Waterford senior hurling title last Sunday must have been every bit as emotional an occasion, is based on values of hard work and pride and love. It's love above all which drives people on to build clubs which can produce days like this for their parishes. Castlehaven and Passage are based around fishing villages, small communities which take on city clubs with infinitely greater resources and try to make up the disparity through heart and soul and belief. They, and the people from the clubs who'll do themselves proud in another set of county finals today, don't regard the huge amount of voluntary work they do as a sacrifice. They think of it as a privilege. We travelled down on Sunday night and saw the bonfires and then the surreal spectacle of copious tables of fine whiskey and schnapps laid out by the side of the road by West Cork Distillers, co-founded by a former fisherman named Denis McCarthy whose son David won a West Cork minor title with the club just the week before. And as we piled out to sup it in the rain and sing, I thought of how much unseen work is needed to keep the Haven show on the road. Who are Castlehaven? The TV viewers saw Brian Hurley on Sunday but didn't see Brendan Deasy doing the stats, Martin O'Mahony and Dan O'Sullivan carrying the water, Niall and Dinny Cahalane advising Finbarr Santry, their brother-in-law, the quiet man who was the right choice in the end. They didn't see everyone who drove those players to games when they were kids, who put out the cones at training, who fetch the balls from the bushes behind the goals at the pitch and go out in the rain to sell draw tickets on wintry nights, or Jerome Geaney writing his county final song and Brendan O'Neill and Paddy Mullins singing it, or Fidelma Hurley, mother of midfielder Dermot and a woman who has fought serious illness this year with as much bravery as any player ever needs to summon up on the pitch, or Tom, the man from Cape Clear Island who has travelled in and out across that rough stretch of water for decades by boat for games and spent last week tending his cattle in a new Castlehaven jersey. Or Eilish Collins, a terrific young woman who played the organ in the local church and died in May after battling cancer and who the captain Seánie Cahalane mentioned in his speech because she supported the team and he knows how the club is about what happens off the pitch as well as on it. And all of it going back to the 1970s when the seven Collins brothers drove the club from Junior B to a senior county final in less than a decade and taught the parish that anything is possible if you dream big enough. Any club can learn from that. Any person too. Sophie Three days after the final, Seán Dineen became a father for the first time when his partner Gina gave birth to little Sophie who had wisely decided against making an appearance during the county final. And there was a beautiful picture on Facebook of the big hands which have driven cattle and carried bags of feed and caught such an amount of ball at midfield cradling his baby girl. Life goes on in Castlehaven. And so does football. It's hard to tell them apart sometimes.