Has anyone seen my Jimmy?
We’ve all encountered scenario. The offspring of a legend arrives on the scene, touted as being ‘even better than the father’. You might also even be told ‘There’s a younger lad at thehome that’s even better thtan this fella’. In nearly 35 years of being consumed by all things GAA, only twice has the narrative played out as such.
With Joe Canning compared to Ollie and Bernard Brogan Jnr when his career is examined comparative to Bernard Snr or Alan’s.
Whether James McCarthy has any footballing siblings is unknown to me, but, it is not being unkind in the slightest to suggest James was a better footballer than his legendary father John. For the now former Dublin star could legitimately be titled the best and most influential footballer of the last 40 years.
Another Act in the never ending drama that is being involved with or supportive of sports which we can all handily relate to – the gangly, raw youngster being ran in as a late sub. Potential dripping of them but in need of shaping – just as a rose bush needs pruning and tidying up – so as not to get overwhelmed by all of what was going on every side of it.
Even going back to when National League matches were played over 60 minutes rather than the proper time, it was a Sean Boylan policy decision that young players finding their feet at the highest level either wouldn’t start – or more commonly – wouldn’t finish matches. Generally lasting about 40 minutes before being called ashore.
I’m not exactly sure when or against whom James McCarthy made his senior debut for Dublin, but, such was his majesty on a football field and the influence it bore that, a bit like the long distance runner being sympathetically applauded when being lapped by the main body of the field, if you were an opposition player seeing the Ballymun Kickhams superstar called ashore early it was surely the ultimate slap in the face to see the talismatic titan being withdrawn early as it was the equivalent of Frankel being eased down yards from the line such was the advantage Sir Henry Cecil’s wonder horse had eked out for himself.
James McCarthy had every attribute you’d want in a footballer. Size, strength, speed, agility, adaptability, could kick off either boot, the embodiment of a natural leader with an engine capable of doing the Dakar Rally on par with the vehicles and still turning out with the Dubs by the weekend. Being from an opposing county you’d love to be able to despise him (in rivalry terms), but even that isn’t possible. Because, even leaving the mechanics of him as a footballer aside, his leadership, humility, decency and just general ‘niceness’ as a person makes him impossible not to like.
He has been the epitome of everything Dublin’s golden era and everything it stood for. No matter how fleeting your interest and/or involvement in GAA, you are saddened to see the great man step off the battlefield and into the sunset. Yes, he broke Meath hearts on more occasions than I care to remember.
Indeed, Colm O’Rourke tells a story of meeting the Dubs spiritual leader in the bowels of Pairc Tailteann after the blues had dished out their latest dose of reality to the locals on St Patrick’s Day last year, where the interaction proceeded as follows – “I congratulated him on their win but then, as politely as possible, I asked him would he not f*** off and let someone else win something!”
Said and taken in jest, trust me. You see, sometimes, all one can do is doff your cap to greatness when you encounter it. Five minutes watching McCarthy gave you that exact feeling.
For, as imperious as the Dublin machine was/are in full cry, there were quite a few occasions on which their eventual coronation was in grave danger of being derailed. On such days do the troops look to their general.
And, whether he was at midfield and they needed a big catch, or there was a turnover required at the back or a score needed up top, McCarthy was the man to whom the blue wave got its gust of wind. You could easily envisage him going between the posts if required.
Now, even allowing foreee hindsight being 20/20 vision, there was an air of finality about Dublin’s performance against Galway in last summer’s All Ireland quarter final. That is not, ee.
But here’s the thing, human nature being as she is, no matter how many supremely talented footballers Dessie Farrell will undoubtedly still have at his disposal, those no longer in the trenches will be both missed and difficult to replace.
Without even engaging in speculation as to whether Messrs Cluxton and/or Fitzsimons will follow their fellow nine time All Ireland harvest beneficiary into the retirement lounge, the departure of McCarthy alone will leave a gargantuan chasm which – leaving the nuts and bolts of football to one side – it’s unlikely any one individual will be capable of filling.
You see, along with ‘processes’, and ‘core values’ and ‘the collective’, ‘leadership groups’ are another of the fads which come from paralysis by analysis and zombification by forensic coaching which stifles the skill and entertaining instincts out of players. Anyway, on the notion of leadership groups, presuming there is or was such an entity within the all conquering Dublin machine, many cogs thereof have departed the scene in the not too distant past.
Of course, depending on how far back one wanted to go, one could include some of the greatest names to ever grace the game, but, even in the context of a shortlist you’re talking Jonny Cooper, Dean Rock, McCarthy and quite possibly Stephen Cluxton now departing the scene, no matter how many superstar footballers remain in their platoon, the departed front rank will leave quite the void.
It does, however, present the opportunity for a new leadership group to lay down their marker. Sticking to the theory that no news is good news, you’d immediately be looking at Mick Fitzsimons, Eoin Murchan, Paul Mannion, Con O’Callaghan and possibly Cormac Costello.
But rest assured, there’s going to come a time, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, when some Dub somewhere is going to have to trot out Micheal O’Muirceartaigh’s line in reference to Jimmy Keaveney being sent off in the Leinster final of 1979 against Offaly.
Thereby missing the All Ireland semi final against Kerry which followed. Of which the voice of the GAA observed: “Na bfhaca tu mo Sheamasin?
We saw. We wincingly admired when our own were on the receiving end. We were blessed to see greatness do its thing.
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