So 1997, hope it was good for you darling, but let me tell you first how it was for me. It ended for me in a studio in RTE. Doing a wireless gig, looking back over the year in sport. Myself and two other journalists, ploughing through the events of the year on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, keeping one eye on a silent TV where Manchester United and Newcastle were playing.
And plough through the year we did. Swimming was second last on the long running order. All afternoon I could hear the theme music from Jaws in my head any time somebody mentioned swimming. One of the three journalists had spent some months interviewing about 90 people about Michelle Smith and had been to the fore in the small pack asking questions about Our Lady of the Chlorine (It was me! Me! Me! Me!. I was that journalist).
The other two hacks have a breezy ignorance of all aspects of swimming, but (plucky chaps) they don't permit this ignorance to retard them in the business of putting the boot into journalists who have actually done some work on the issue.
So I juggled my libel free questions in my head, recalled a few stats and prepared to present myself as an earnestly harmless sort of chap. RTE asked one of the other pair about the "criticisms" of Michelle de Bruin. Bloody typical. Sat their in a puddle of my own impotence. The other hack put the boot in as if by reflex.
Criticism is unfair because she has passed all the tests. RTE moved swiftly on.
Sorry . . . time constraints.
So the year ended as it had started. Gnashing my teeth about Michelle de Bruin. Michelle Smith. Michelle Smith de Bruin. Michelle 'n' Erik. Howling at the moon every time I hear the name.
I thought about her every day for a year. Swear. Even thought about her the day in Lithuania when I didn't think about her at all until Paul Kimmage told me at dinner that he hadn't thought about her that day. Doh!
Took legal advice on an interview she gave to Gerry Ryan, the court jester to the feeble minded of Montrose. Heard over the phone while dining in Reykjavik that herself and Gaybo were stitching up journalists on the Late Late Show. Resigned this job because an article I wrote about her didn't get printed. Went back, but never got the article printed. Doh!
Encouragingly the amount of hate mail received was a fraction of the amount of supportive mail received. Found myself reading the hate mail over and over again just to make up the difference. Doh!
Spared myself an ulcer and didn't go to see herself in the European Championships in Seville. Fought like a cornered rat to get accredited to go to Perth. She got herself into a car crash and isn't going. Doh!
Spoke to herself once. You better talk to my solicitor she said. Spoke to her solicitor twice. Nice enough man. Spoke to Erik once. Strangely engaging. We talked about a dead drug tester. Erik gave me his number in Holland. Then he moved to Kilkenny. Doh!
Read a smorgasbord of journalists, ranging from those I like and respect to some old beaten docket with a column in the Herald. They ripped myself and other hacks who did some real work on the issue of drugs and swimming. Heard every madhouse RTE programme discuss the issue in terms of breathtaking ignorance.
Never got an inquiring call from one hack, or one RTE researcher. Only Ursula Halligan had the curiousity to ring and ask for herself. Took a call from the Marian Finucane show one day, five minutes before air time, summoning me to the stockades for a "debate" with Michelle's Da. Most constructive that was going to be. If people were saying things about my daughter, I wouldn't be debating them on the radio, I'd be jabbing my finger in their face. So I said, thanks all the same, but I don't want my face jabbed today.
Took a call 20 minutes later.
"Well. You want to come on now?"
"On what?"
"The show"
"Why?"
"Well, quite frankly, you're getting ripped."
"And?"
"Have you not been listening?"
"Nah. I've been playing with my kids"
"Wow. YOU-ARE-GETTING-TORNAPART. You should come on."
"Nah. I'll just take the knocks, thanks."
"Suit yourself. But you should come on."
"Why?"
"As Michelle Smith's main accuser."
"What have I accused her of?"
"Taking drugs?"
"Never. I've said I have a lot of questions.
"Same thing."
"Isn't"
"For listeners it is."
"Not my problem."
"It is if you're not going to talk about it."
"One thing."
"Yeah."
"How come your researchers never rang me when you were preparing for this show?"
"Called this morning and you weren't there"
"But I . . ."
"Gotta go. We're on air."
Ah, time constraints.
Other moments, too. Athens and the sight of Sonia O'Sullivan pushing herself to the point where passion is almost madness. From Macedonia to Brussels watching Mick McCarthy struggling with a fish that was bigger and rougher than anyone realised and almost landing the damn thing.
Croke Park and watching Jamesie O'Connor's unfussy brand of perfection. The Croke Park dressing-room and sitting down beside Brian Lohan 20 minutes after the All-Ireland final finished and realising that I was more excited about the whole thing then he was.
An unexpectedly pleasant day with Niall Quinn in Sunderland which lifted him out of the "nice guy, talks a lot but says nothing" category.
Dublin, Ohio, in a car driven by a West African journalist on our way to see Tiger Woods.
"Tell him, he can't park here," said the old trout leaning in the window. Official trout with a shiny badge and a bad attitude.
"Why can't you tell him yourself?"
"Just you tell him he can't park, he hasn't got the right parking credentials."
Screeching of tyres as impatient, indignant West African journalist hurries to see the man who is breaking the colour barrier in golf.
Toronto and the sad, spite-flavoured farce that was the Donovan Bailey/Michael Johnson head-to-head race. Thought we were coming to see the future of athletics. Saw some tack instead.
1997. That was it really. Lost a few friends. Gained a few more pounds. Thought about another woman more than is healthy, but never got asked if that was chlorine on my collar.
Sorry, did I ask how it was for you? Eh, look, up against time constraints here, gotta go.
