What's eating Richard Burrows? Does he not enjoy living? Can he not leave a blue sky unclouded, a smooth pond of contentment unrippled? Is there something lacking in his life that would make him consider taking up arms against Pat Hickey? People ask why it is that in horror movies pretty girls always dander into haunted houses, and I say, well, in real life rich guys keep going after Pat Hickey. Same thing. Listen up. Hickey has nice yachties like Richard Burrows for breakfast. Hickey doesn't just live in the warzone, he is the lord mayor. Look behind him. Great and many have been the little Balbirnies who have picked up the sword and set off to slay the ogre. Quiet and unmarked are the graves.
You think nobody else wanted that IOC seat? You think nobody opposed Hickey as he rose through the ranks of the IOC? You think the Dublin International Sports Council needs to hire the Point Depot for its Christmas parties? You think Hickey ever saw a fight he didn't like the look of? Oh boys, boys, boys. Hush! When the wind is right you can hear him licking his lips, sharpening his knife and fork. Eerie.
I first met Hickey eight years ago. We were in Monte Carlo covering the bid campaign which ended with Sydney winning the 2000 Games. Three of us wound up at a restaurant table. Two journalists and Hickey. Posh French restaurant. Three Northsiders. Hickey looked around with boyish glee and pointed a finger at us in turn, then at himself. Kilbarrack! Finglas! Phibsboro! And here we all are!
Since then he has been the best show in Irish sport. Yup, he has done many things I can't begin to defend him for. He is suing or has sued most of the people I call friends; he gave accreditation in 1996 to a banned athlete and, like a lot of others, he kept his trap firmly shut when the Michelle de Bruin raft sailed clean over the falls; he has cultivated a Zelig-like ability to be wherever there is a sniff of Irish success, culminating in his triumphant RTE cameo as Sonia O'Sullivan's au pair on the morning after the silver was secured in Sydney.
He and I have more bones to pick than a couple of vultures hovering over a mass grave.
Yet something about that glee in being a northsider who made it big still makes him compulsive viewing and good company.
He is the original of the species in terms of much being said about him but little being proved. Sometimes the whispering campaigns against him could deafen you. He gave Eve the apple to pass to Adam and it's been downhill since. Yet nothing has ever firmed up. Could it be that he's just a guy who gets things done?
What's the story here? Last week the mullahs of canoeing, swimming and athletics announced they were going to Lausanne to complain about Pat Hickey. Swimming and athletics!!! These guys are our Neighbourhood Watch all of a sudden?
Beautiful!!! If you wanted to keep your butter unmelted, the first place you'd look to put it would be in the mouth of an Irish swimming or athletics official.
What else have we? Was it my imagination, or did not Petty Officer McDaid and John Treacy publicly demob Hickey and assume complete control of Irish sport some years back? All aspects of Irish sport - except the blame apparently. They're both too dumbstruck to tell Bertie what a monstrous mistake the BertieBowl is, but, having assumed control, the Irish Sports Council is now stridently surveying athletes to find out what the OCI did wrong in Sydney. Myles na gCopaleen, where are you in our time of need? What else? The IOC bribes scandals. Be honest. Hickey-watchers tipped forward their seats the better to hear the wireless breaking the news. Could it be our boy has done something rash? Not a whistle, not a murmur. Hickey gets mentioned passingly in a dispatch about being a guest at a golf match before he was an IOC member. Given that Dublin journalists systematically put the arm on golf clubs for free use of their facilities every day of the week, there was some quiet coughing and everyone went back to their desks and imagined Hickey cutting a swathe down a fairway. Later, a 10-year-old letter from Hickey to Tom Welch in Salt Lake City is uncovered. Hickey is warning Welch about bribes being paid by other campaigns. Drat!
Go watch Hickey work a room at IOC level. He's smooth and genial and has the ear of those more powerful then himself. He laid down a marker in Sydney during the elections for the IOC executive and would have finished stronger had Samaranch not intervened to insist that two seats be reserved, one for an athlete and one for a woman. Come next year in Moscow, Hickey will almost certainly be elected to the IOC executive level. That takes savvy and ability. This column went on an advance trip to Sydney last summer to sample the preparations, and at every port of call Hickey's name was cited as an example of how to get things done. Like it or not, he is our most powerful sports administrator and will continue to be so even if Richard Burrows drops him off the starboard side. That's the thing. Hickey won this battle long ago when he was elected to the IOC. He's got the power. The wise thing is to get on with him and harness his ability in a collective push for Irish sport.
Right now most of those standing ready to throw their pebbles are living in houses made of glass and urging another pretty girl to go into the big scary house. Drop the cudgels lads, and go do something more constructive. And Pat, you go watch Ireland's smartest sports administrator, Liam Mulvihill, and see how mountains can be moved without use of noisy machinery.
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