Spreading sports editor's word

FROM THE ARCHIVES: TOM HUMPHRIES LOCKER ROOM FROM DECEMBER 21st 1998: Venturing out into the northside, where no one knows us, we evangelise on behalf of Irish Timesvalues

"HO! H0! H0!" said the sports editor chillingly. We were striding across O'Connell Bridge; office bound again, and, as usual, in his great coat and whiskers, he led the way, breaking stride only to stub out his cigar on the outstretched hand of a begging urchin.

"And a merry Christmas to you too sir," ventured the little imp gamely before he plunged towards the churning green waters.

The sports editor was in a foul mood.

These Christmas-time ventures are a long-standing fourth floor ritual. The Annual Readership Drive. Once, yearly, we venture out into the northside where no one knows us and we evangelise on behalf of Irish Timesvalues. Rugby, golf, hockey. A little motor racing.

The sports editor's theory is devilishly simple. If we can force more people to accept these sports we can grow the market for the newspaper. If we can turn them away from their tiresomely oikish pursuits we can all hold onto our jobs. So, in the season of goodwill we go among them, ringing bells and carolling in our jolly red-cheeked way. We have a drink or two before we go.

"PEASANTS!" booms the sports editor in a fire and brimstone voice with only a wisp of Finglas left in it. "Desist from your oul' gah. Tether up your piebald ponies. Joyride no more. Refrain from your pitching and putting and absolve yourself at last of the sins of Shelbourne FC. I am here to lead you unto the path of roighteousness."

And as a crowd gathers near Henry Street, men in caps and braces, arms-folded women in blue nylon housecoats, the sports editor will warm to his subject and his voice will grow and soon he will not be speaking but proclaiming.

It is a glorious sight.

Elmer Gantry with a day job.

Ah. The opportunities for betterment, the chance for a northsider to ease his or her way into the glamorous universe south of the Liffey where a crèche is an accident between big cars and sex is what you put your coal in.

The passport is in an appreciation of Irish Timesvalues.

The gathering crowd are shown before and after pictures. A man at a lathe. The same man in a smoking jacket with a cocktail glass in his hand.

A woman in a scullery. The same woman with bigger hair standing behind her husband as he tees off on Captain's Day. A child disappearing up a chimney to clean it. The same child being promised a job in a leading advertising agency even if he only fails first Orts.

And finally, to gasps from the assembly, we reverse the trick. We show a picture of the sports editor perched casually on his great oak desk, a cherrywood drinks cabinet open to his left, a safe with his golf clubs in it open to his right. He is in full riding gear with black leather boots, white breeches and a red jacket.

He has a crop in one hand (ah, how we know its tangy bite) and a Slim Panatella in a cigarette holder held in the other.

He has one eyebrow raised significantly. Then we flip up a photo of the same man 25 years ago. The sports editor's magnificent head on the body of a smudgy 12-year-old working in a coal mine. As a canary.

A little line forms for subscriptions.

We sports department minions go amongst the crowd distributing free copies of the weekly golf supplement. The Good News, as we call it.

"Don't be afraid," cajoles the sports editor, "the clothes aren't as silly as they look."

He speaks about golf with authority and a zealot's passion.

For too long northsiders have looked on Dollymount Strand as nothing but a cider and sambos venue, have viewed the causeway to the beach as no more than an after dark courting deck. "The original park and ride," as the sign says.

Yet, those fenced off bits on Bull Island are golf clubs and preserved therein are species from whom any northsider could learn a lot. The crowd narrow their eyes doubtfully. He is beginning to lose them.

He switches tack and expounds passionately on the glories of schools rugby and hockey.

"Not only is it possible that your children will be photographed for the front of The Irish Timesif they play these games but if they win a cup, or look enchantingly poignant while losing one, it is mandatory that their likenesses be reproduced on the front of our quality broadsheet."

He pauses.

"The same cannot be said," concludes the sports editor, "of your Sweet Afton Cup."

There is a murmur of assent among the crowd.

"Janey," murmurs the assenting crowd, "there's a thing."

The glories of Munster rugby are next. We move among the crowd distributing the lyric sheet to Ireland's Call.

"No more poverty, folks. No more learning Irish."

He assures them that rugby is popular in Limerick and if you want riff raff . . .

But before he can finish he is singing about the glorious world of the male menopause.

There is no finer aspiration for your children than to grow up to be like Eddie Jordan. To have, consider this ladies and gentlemen, their facial hair aerodynamically redesigned."

"That'd be love! for your Sharon," says one woman, but they are drifting away now back to the dark underworld of batterburgers and four for a pound tracksuits. No one from the sports department dares follow.

"What about fantasy golf?" one of us cries, "so easy even the wife can play."

"Yiz don't have all the deaths," comes a voice.

"The Indohas the deaths."

And a rolled-tip paper is flung back at the sports editor from the stygian darkness.

He turns towards O'Connell Bridge in a clouded fury and we follow.

On our way we pass the folks from the books pages. They have good news about occasional four-page supplements devoted to specialist publications, on the lives of 18th century museum curators. They are going to spread the good news.

We say nothing about the deaths, We just say, 'Happy Christmas and Good Luck'.