TheOwl
14/08/2005, 11:25 AM
From today's Sunday's Indo...
The things you do for love . . .
HIS day begins like any other. At 6.30 he leaves his house in Terenure and boards the No.16 bus for Drumcondra. By 7.30 he is behind a desk in the little office from where he hatches his plans and schemes, and wages a battle against the world or those, he says, who are seeking to kill or destroy him.
A Shelbourne official once told him he was the club's greatest asset and its greatest liability. Ollie Byrne doesn't disagree. It is three days since a tempestuous encounter between Shels and Drogheda United ended with Byrne confronting a photographer. Once again, Byrne has a charge of assault hanging over him. Once again, Ollie is passionately and plaintively declaring his innocence.
He knows, though. Whatever his level of guilt, he is already damned in the court of public opinion. If Shels are the club people love to hate, Ollie is its two-fingered response. He remembers when the club was on its knees back in the 1970s and 1980s. Everybody loved Shelbourne then. Now they're successful and disliked. Must be doing something right.
"Some people say we're bad losers," he says. "But I don't ****ing like losing. I can't accept it. Maybe it's a good thing to be a bad loser. People know we're here to win. To develop this club. To strive to get to the next level. Is that an offence?"
That he is his own worst enemy and a PR disaster for the club, he is certain. For more than two hours he charts the course of an extraordinary life, yet every thread seems to draw him back to Roddy Collins or Pat Dolan or some other scrape he ill-advisedly got himself tied up in. He's 61 now, mulish and set in his ways. He could never let it go then and he can't do it now either.
It is three years since the Marney affair, the time the league was decided when St Patrick's were found to have fielded an unregistered player. People objected to the vehemence with which Byrne pursued it. He remembers the then international manager saying it would be disappointing if the title was settled by a mistake. For Byrne it wasn't a mistake, but a violation of one of the fundamental laws of the game.
Afterwards he offered Pat's a two-legged tie with the proceeds going to charity. He says they didn't want to know. Since then he hasn't had a moment's peace. Whether he's been confronting supporters holding offensive banners or getting embroiled in a scuffle with Collins, Byrne repeatedly leaves himself open to derision, invitations that are invariably accepted with glee.
Why does he do it? That a man with such a compelling life-story should involve himself in such childish and unedifying spectacles seems somewhat sad, yet Byrne would argue that he is not unlike Alex Ferguson or Arsene Wenger and such outbursts are products of the deep frustration he routinely feels at the low standard of refereeing, among other things, that are accepted in the domestic game.
He is thick-skinned but not impenetrable. Last year, he says, he was sitting in the Berkeley Court, having coffee with friends, when an official from another club whom he didn't know physically assaulted him. You don't believe him? He names five people who would back him up. Yet he never made a song and dance about it.
"I know I'm an explosive, passionate individual but I don't deserve the personalised campaign that has been directed against me since the Marney affair," he says. "I've been in streets in Dublin in which I was spat at. I've been shouted at and abused. I've read things on the internet and in newspapers. Things that have sickened me."
THE pity is that this sideshow detracts from a mind that thinks deeply about the game. For instance, it dismayed him that when Shels played Steaua Bucharest, one of the Romanian side's best players was a 19-year-old left-back making his debut. Shels, he says, don't have players like that who they can throw in at such a level. Too busy trying to survive to develop the personal skills of children. It is not just Shelbourne's failure, but a failure of the system.
He talks too about the coaching courses promised under the club licensing scheme. They never materialised, he thinks, because of some internal FAI dispute. And when Brian Kerr was appointed manager of the Irish team there was a plan that a league manager would accompany him on each foreign trip. Stephen Kenny was the first to go. Since then, for whatever reason, nothing.
That, beyond the scuffles and the scrapes, Byrne cares deeply about the game and Shelbourne in particular is clear to even his greatest enemies. If anything, he cares too much. When he says the club is his family, you feel he means it literally. When Collins publicly criticised Shels, he might as well have been aiming a dagger at Byrne's heart, at a man who says "I've given my life to this club."
The Byrne connection with Shelbourne goes back to the club's foundation in 1895. His uncle was there at the beginning and when his father was born ten years later it was the start of a life-long bond. Byrne's earliest memories are of his father packing his eight children into a black taxi and whisking them off to wherever Shels were playing.
The club provided the soundtrack to his life. The school he attended, Synge Street CBS, was strictly a GAA institution but his father was well in with the Brothers so any time Shels were playing during school hours, Ollie and his brothers were given the wonderful bonus of a half-day.
Ollie and his father were like chalk and cheese. Andy was 49 when his youngest child was born and of a generation when you didn't question authority. There wasn't much to connect them beyond their shared love of Shelbourne. It was enough.
"This club was very close to my family's heart, particularly my father. We didn't have the opportunity to have the relationship we might have had. When I came of age he was already well into his 60s. But I knew how much this club meant to him and how much it hurt him that he couldn't do the things he wanted to do."
ANDY had been chairman between 1945 and 1956 and watched in horror a decade later as the club spiralled into decline and almost extinction. "He saw the club decimated," says Ollie. "When we were down, people in powerful positions treated us as a laughing stock. I saw dedicated Shelbourne people being humiliated."
He knew what the problem was. Shelbourne had been founded as a working-man's club but it could no longer be run like one. Bad management had brought the club to its knees and, even then, barely out of school, he was thinking of ways it could be restored to former glories.
Before that, he needed to explore life and the music business gave him the means. Initially, he studied to follow his father into the legal profession, but he knew it wasn't for him. Instead, he managed bands called The Purple Pussycat and Alyce, drank in The Zodiac and The Bailey with Phil Lynott and Brush Shields and spent time in America where he hooked up with the legendary Bill Fuller and Bill Graham.
His spare time was given to Shelbourne. He owned a club in Mary Street and devised a grand scheme of running a social centre in aid of the club. It held 600 people and in its first year, 1976, took in £350,000 before, according to Byrne, the local publicans had his licence revoked on a technicality.
He sold the club for £100,000 and used it to promote Joe Cocker on a European tour. He got burnt. "I hadn't a ****in' clue," he says. "I didn't know what I was doing. I gambled and I lost. I underestimated Joe's reputation for enjoying life and for being less than pleasant at times. The irony was that tour revitalised Joe's career because he landed the theme tune for An Officer and a Gentleman after that. Me? I was nearly ruined."
To find happiness, he knew he needed to get back to Shelbourne. He took the circuitous route of a three-year jail sentence in 1983. At the time he was running a 24-hour shop and, maybe watching too much Minder, he availed of an opportunity to purchase a cheap consignment of cigarettes. He didn't know where the cigarettes were coming from. Nor did he care to ask.
The story goes that while looking for Shergar the police chanced upon Byrne with a horse-box full of cigarettes. The truth was a lot more prosaic. When the seller was apprehended, he gave Byrne's name to the police and within hours they were knocking on the door of his home.
Not surprisingly, prison was to be the most expensive lesson of his life. In court the judge had indicated that he wouldn't be going to jail but, emboldened by his legal training, Byrne thought he could exploit a loophole and changed his plea. The judge reacted by punishing him with a three-year sentence. He served the best part of a year between Mountjoy, Arbour Hill, Shelton Abbey and Loughan House.
"It wasn't a nice experience," he points out. "I brought disgrace to my family and I'm not proud of that. I did wrong and I suffered. I learned my lesson."
There were opportunities of romance but the prospect of being tied down, of not being able to take the chances life offered, terrified him
Dreams of Shelbourne sustained him during that period. The club was in the hands of Paddy Finnegan, an old colleague from his days in the music business. Finnegan's nephew had got in touch when he was in Shelton Abbey and assured him that when he was released, they wanted him to take over the running of the club.
Before he could tackle Shels' problems, though, he knew he needed to sort out his own. He remembers the epiphany. They were returning from a game in Kilkenny and struggling against relegation. Byrne had drink taken and made vague promises about bonuses. One of the players, Robbie Gaffney, told him to cop on. The message got through, so much so that he gave up drink on the spot and kicked a 100-a-day smoking habit.
The things you do for love . . .
HIS day begins like any other. At 6.30 he leaves his house in Terenure and boards the No.16 bus for Drumcondra. By 7.30 he is behind a desk in the little office from where he hatches his plans and schemes, and wages a battle against the world or those, he says, who are seeking to kill or destroy him.
A Shelbourne official once told him he was the club's greatest asset and its greatest liability. Ollie Byrne doesn't disagree. It is three days since a tempestuous encounter between Shels and Drogheda United ended with Byrne confronting a photographer. Once again, Byrne has a charge of assault hanging over him. Once again, Ollie is passionately and plaintively declaring his innocence.
He knows, though. Whatever his level of guilt, he is already damned in the court of public opinion. If Shels are the club people love to hate, Ollie is its two-fingered response. He remembers when the club was on its knees back in the 1970s and 1980s. Everybody loved Shelbourne then. Now they're successful and disliked. Must be doing something right.
"Some people say we're bad losers," he says. "But I don't ****ing like losing. I can't accept it. Maybe it's a good thing to be a bad loser. People know we're here to win. To develop this club. To strive to get to the next level. Is that an offence?"
That he is his own worst enemy and a PR disaster for the club, he is certain. For more than two hours he charts the course of an extraordinary life, yet every thread seems to draw him back to Roddy Collins or Pat Dolan or some other scrape he ill-advisedly got himself tied up in. He's 61 now, mulish and set in his ways. He could never let it go then and he can't do it now either.
It is three years since the Marney affair, the time the league was decided when St Patrick's were found to have fielded an unregistered player. People objected to the vehemence with which Byrne pursued it. He remembers the then international manager saying it would be disappointing if the title was settled by a mistake. For Byrne it wasn't a mistake, but a violation of one of the fundamental laws of the game.
Afterwards he offered Pat's a two-legged tie with the proceeds going to charity. He says they didn't want to know. Since then he hasn't had a moment's peace. Whether he's been confronting supporters holding offensive banners or getting embroiled in a scuffle with Collins, Byrne repeatedly leaves himself open to derision, invitations that are invariably accepted with glee.
Why does he do it? That a man with such a compelling life-story should involve himself in such childish and unedifying spectacles seems somewhat sad, yet Byrne would argue that he is not unlike Alex Ferguson or Arsene Wenger and such outbursts are products of the deep frustration he routinely feels at the low standard of refereeing, among other things, that are accepted in the domestic game.
He is thick-skinned but not impenetrable. Last year, he says, he was sitting in the Berkeley Court, having coffee with friends, when an official from another club whom he didn't know physically assaulted him. You don't believe him? He names five people who would back him up. Yet he never made a song and dance about it.
"I know I'm an explosive, passionate individual but I don't deserve the personalised campaign that has been directed against me since the Marney affair," he says. "I've been in streets in Dublin in which I was spat at. I've been shouted at and abused. I've read things on the internet and in newspapers. Things that have sickened me."
THE pity is that this sideshow detracts from a mind that thinks deeply about the game. For instance, it dismayed him that when Shels played Steaua Bucharest, one of the Romanian side's best players was a 19-year-old left-back making his debut. Shels, he says, don't have players like that who they can throw in at such a level. Too busy trying to survive to develop the personal skills of children. It is not just Shelbourne's failure, but a failure of the system.
He talks too about the coaching courses promised under the club licensing scheme. They never materialised, he thinks, because of some internal FAI dispute. And when Brian Kerr was appointed manager of the Irish team there was a plan that a league manager would accompany him on each foreign trip. Stephen Kenny was the first to go. Since then, for whatever reason, nothing.
That, beyond the scuffles and the scrapes, Byrne cares deeply about the game and Shelbourne in particular is clear to even his greatest enemies. If anything, he cares too much. When he says the club is his family, you feel he means it literally. When Collins publicly criticised Shels, he might as well have been aiming a dagger at Byrne's heart, at a man who says "I've given my life to this club."
The Byrne connection with Shelbourne goes back to the club's foundation in 1895. His uncle was there at the beginning and when his father was born ten years later it was the start of a life-long bond. Byrne's earliest memories are of his father packing his eight children into a black taxi and whisking them off to wherever Shels were playing.
The club provided the soundtrack to his life. The school he attended, Synge Street CBS, was strictly a GAA institution but his father was well in with the Brothers so any time Shels were playing during school hours, Ollie and his brothers were given the wonderful bonus of a half-day.
Ollie and his father were like chalk and cheese. Andy was 49 when his youngest child was born and of a generation when you didn't question authority. There wasn't much to connect them beyond their shared love of Shelbourne. It was enough.
"This club was very close to my family's heart, particularly my father. We didn't have the opportunity to have the relationship we might have had. When I came of age he was already well into his 60s. But I knew how much this club meant to him and how much it hurt him that he couldn't do the things he wanted to do."
ANDY had been chairman between 1945 and 1956 and watched in horror a decade later as the club spiralled into decline and almost extinction. "He saw the club decimated," says Ollie. "When we were down, people in powerful positions treated us as a laughing stock. I saw dedicated Shelbourne people being humiliated."
He knew what the problem was. Shelbourne had been founded as a working-man's club but it could no longer be run like one. Bad management had brought the club to its knees and, even then, barely out of school, he was thinking of ways it could be restored to former glories.
Before that, he needed to explore life and the music business gave him the means. Initially, he studied to follow his father into the legal profession, but he knew it wasn't for him. Instead, he managed bands called The Purple Pussycat and Alyce, drank in The Zodiac and The Bailey with Phil Lynott and Brush Shields and spent time in America where he hooked up with the legendary Bill Fuller and Bill Graham.
His spare time was given to Shelbourne. He owned a club in Mary Street and devised a grand scheme of running a social centre in aid of the club. It held 600 people and in its first year, 1976, took in £350,000 before, according to Byrne, the local publicans had his licence revoked on a technicality.
He sold the club for £100,000 and used it to promote Joe Cocker on a European tour. He got burnt. "I hadn't a ****in' clue," he says. "I didn't know what I was doing. I gambled and I lost. I underestimated Joe's reputation for enjoying life and for being less than pleasant at times. The irony was that tour revitalised Joe's career because he landed the theme tune for An Officer and a Gentleman after that. Me? I was nearly ruined."
To find happiness, he knew he needed to get back to Shelbourne. He took the circuitous route of a three-year jail sentence in 1983. At the time he was running a 24-hour shop and, maybe watching too much Minder, he availed of an opportunity to purchase a cheap consignment of cigarettes. He didn't know where the cigarettes were coming from. Nor did he care to ask.
The story goes that while looking for Shergar the police chanced upon Byrne with a horse-box full of cigarettes. The truth was a lot more prosaic. When the seller was apprehended, he gave Byrne's name to the police and within hours they were knocking on the door of his home.
Not surprisingly, prison was to be the most expensive lesson of his life. In court the judge had indicated that he wouldn't be going to jail but, emboldened by his legal training, Byrne thought he could exploit a loophole and changed his plea. The judge reacted by punishing him with a three-year sentence. He served the best part of a year between Mountjoy, Arbour Hill, Shelton Abbey and Loughan House.
"It wasn't a nice experience," he points out. "I brought disgrace to my family and I'm not proud of that. I did wrong and I suffered. I learned my lesson."
There were opportunities of romance but the prospect of being tied down, of not being able to take the chances life offered, terrified him
Dreams of Shelbourne sustained him during that period. The club was in the hands of Paddy Finnegan, an old colleague from his days in the music business. Finnegan's nephew had got in touch when he was in Shelton Abbey and assured him that when he was released, they wanted him to take over the running of the club.
Before he could tackle Shels' problems, though, he knew he needed to sort out his own. He remembers the epiphany. They were returning from a game in Kilkenny and struggling against relegation. Byrne had drink taken and made vague promises about bonuses. One of the players, Robbie Gaffney, told him to cop on. The message got through, so much so that he gave up drink on the spot and kicked a 100-a-day smoking habit.