Donegal have taught me a lot of things about this world.
They taught me that anything is possible. That any game, on any given day, is there to be won. That weaknesses can be strengthened, strengths can be exploited and anyone – absolutely anyone – can rise above themselves and touch greatness if they really want it enough.
They also taught me jealousy. They taught me envy, frustration, bitterness. They taught me how to cut ties with half of my family derived from the hills and they taught me to never, ever suggest that Donegal are finished. Never say they’re all hype. Never.
On the 25th of May, 2014, Donegal taught me a valuable lesson. They taught me that the league means nothing. That Derry can win all the Division Twos they want, reach all the Division One finals in the world but, come the summer, no-one really gives a s**t. Donegal taught me that championship is an entirely different beast altogether and that the Donegal championship beast is one to run and cower from.
Donegal ruined what should’ve been my favourite sporting event of the year when they force-fed me a sickening reminder to never underestimate the value of timing, preparation, hard work and downright genius. On a day that an enthusiastic Derry contingent packed Celtic Park with a daring buzz, all set to finish off the demise of the Jim McGuinness machine started by a ruthless Mayo the year previous, Michael Murphy and Donegal rammed every cynical and critical word back down the throats of their doubters as they embarked on yet another Ulster-winning campaign. Supposedly against the odds.
They sent the home crowd on their merry way early – heads bowed – and they set the Oak Leafers up for a first round qualifier exit at a time when Brian McIver is genuinely carving out the makings of a very, very promising setup up north. That’s the crippling effect McGuinness had on teams though, it was almost a quick-sand trap, and I could only sit stunned in the aftermath watching on with an empty wide-jaws look on my face as if Ted had just kicked me up the arse and I was trying to contemplate if it was real or not.
Watching another victorious gold and green warm down, Donegal heroes being dragged to one side for soundbites, Jim McGuinness already moved on as if Derry meant nothing to him anymore, a moment can feel like forever.
A moment to take stock. A moment to reshape everything you thought you knew about the game.
A moment to appreciate that stubborn, ruthless, impenetrable blanket defence that’s almost as bloody effective as that girl who goes to town on a packet of cheese and onion crisps on your first date just to let you know that you have absolutely no chance. That access has been well and truly denied. Turn around and go home. Your mind can run through a crazy train of thought when you’re that stunned.
A moment to ponder the devastating effect of their sweeping counter attacks unmatched by anyone before, now or after. Those trademark turnovers quickly transformed into relentless, all-out surges up field like the pretty one you’ve got talking to at a house party who comes up with a better idea, “let’s go see what everyone else is doing.”
Like I said, Donegal have taught me a lot about this world.
Even Neil McGee, the specimen that he is, the talent that he possesses, could even stop for a second to teach me a nice lesson in karma. When a Derry man, who not three days earlier had written off him and his team mates, has the brass neck to ask for an interview, the Donegal full back obliges before a backroom team member gently reminds him, “that’s the fella who wrote the article, Neil.” The number three printed on his turned back spoke louder than any words could ever have as big McGee politely walked away leaving me stranded red-faced in a sea of green and gold euphoria.
But Jim McGuinness taught me more that day though than just a few valuable life lessons. He gave me an intriguing refresher course in the art of football. He taught me about the importance of a clear system that compliments a set of individuals. That preparation is key. That, if you’re properly ready for an exam, it doesn’t even matter what question comes up.
McGuinness almost Miyagi’d me with 60 minutes of brilliance that I’ll never forget – even if it’s out of pure regret and anger. He sent me away – refreshed and knowledge-filled – back to my club, back to more pressing matters, back to the U16s I was managing to look at the big picture. To forget about our three opening league defeats, to focus on the championship three months away on the horizon.
And, do you know what, you could coach for another 50 years and not get a team as well set up. You could coach 40 more sides and they wouldn’t suit a system as well, they wouldn’t know their jobs as instinctively, they wouldn’t carry out a game plan as beautifully. The difference between managing and playing is defined only by one thing: fulfillment. That sense of accomplishment of getting the team right, getting them ready and the extreme emotions with winning and losing. If you’re lucky enough to hit the highs the odd time, that feeling of helping a whole squad of boys to a moment of joy, a moment they’ll remember forever probably tips the scales.
As luck would have it – or as systems and players would have it – the U16 side I managed reached the championship final. They took for Owenbeg, they were bloody brilliant and everything was going to plan, because their homework had been done. They were ready for the exam. Then, they almost had a seven-point lead stripped in the dying moments with two red cards. Then what do you do? Where are your systems? Where are these great ideas? Where’s Miyagi McGuinness when you need him?
You stand back, helpless on the sideline. Arguing with an official. Watching seven points become six, six become five, five become two. Everything you’ve worked on, everything that worked, everything you know, gone. Out the window. Nothing you can do. You’ve got that Bishop Brennan look on your face again. Completely and utterly useless standing planted to a sod of turf that has now become your whole world.
Suddenly, fire sparks again from the ashes. Nothing you’ve done, planned, or even ever envisaged. And that’s the beauty of sport. That’s the real beauty of sport.
You can take inspiration from a 15-year-old. You can step back in awe of a 15-year-old who gets it. Someone who realises that a siege needs to be lifted, someone who can hear the roar of a crowd from the stand desperately trying to see their club over the line against the odds. As if it’s the only thing that has ever mattered. One man gets it. One man, one teenager, for a moment, can become superhuman.
You could coach for another 50 years and you wouldn’t see the like of it again. You could read every coaching manual under the sun and no-one could cater for a moment of divine intervention completely and utterly beyond the control of a sideline. A crashing shoulder rocks back the advances of another onslaught; a thumping tackle knocks the ball loose, one man is beaten, a second man, too. A third tackler comes in, he’s barged to the turf as a fourth can only hang off his shirt but the referee waves play on. The half way line turns into the 45′. 40 metres become 30, 30 become 20 and your captain, playing like a man possessed, playing like more than a man, playing like someone you can only look up to – not manage – splits the posts to raise the roof and deliver a club’s first championship success in a decade.
How on earth could anyone prepare for that?
But I thank Jim McGuinness for reminding me that anything is possible. I recall fondly May 25 as an important day in the values of sport but a significant day in getting me to September 19. An U16 club championship final: my favourite ever sporting memory.
A lesson from Donegal in the science of sport helped carve out a journey to the beauty of sport. When things – unexplainable things – beyond your control are possible. When magic is possible. When science is rubbished. McGuinness’ theory helped me believe in fairytales again.
That’s why we’re in this business. Not for science, not for maths, not even for noble hard work. We’re looking for magic. And, sometimes, magic comes after the work is done. Sometimes, it even comes in the form of an obscure underage club match at the bottom of a county Derry mountain.
Jim McGuinness is a truly great manager – one of the best. But, the real question remains: could he do it on a wet and cold Friday night under lights at Owenbeg?
