Gary Speed - Rest in peace. (Nov/Dec '11)

In the early hours of Saturday the 26^th November, Stan Collymore made a post on his Twitter page. It was a long account of his battle with depression – how he hadn’t slept for four days, how he was riddled with suicidal thoughts.

It was a tragic coincidence that the next day terrible rumours of Gary Speed’s suicide began to surface.

The news stunned the footballing world, and many outside of it.

In this post-Diana age we are a nation of grief-junkies. Whether it’s an earthquake in Japan or the death of Jimmy Saville, people are all too keen to show their concern in the form of Twitter hash-tags and Facebook statuses.

Yet when it transpired that Speed had hung himself the tributes which followed were borne out of genuine sadness and shock. There were no band-wagon jumpers who wanted to get their fix of public mourning – people, like myself, who had no real attachment or affiliation with the man from North Wales, were completely stunned.

The same day as Speed’s death the game between Swansea and Aston Villa went ahead. The Sky cameras lapped it up – cruelly focusing on a visibly distraught Shay Given as a minutes silence turned into a minutes applause. That evening on Radio 5 Live Robbie Savage was present in his usual role as co-host of the 606 phone-in. The programme began with Land of my fathers in tribute to Speed and when it was Savage’s turn to speak he simply couldn’t, as he broke down in tears on national radio.

‘Why?’ he asked. Why would a man like Gary Speed, respected up and down the country, with a brilliant career behind him and an equally promising one ahead of him – a man with a young family and movie star looks – kill himself?

It is the question on everybody’s lips. From the outside looking in, Speed had it all. This is the scariest, most sombre aspect of his suicide. How tormented, how mentally ravaged must Speed have been for him to take the most fateful of action?

It appears that even those closest to Speed had no idea about his depression. Less than 24 hours before his death he had appeared on the BBC’s football focus – an articulate, likeable, affable man.

Like homosexuality, depression is one of sport’s last taboos. It is obvious that top flight sports people – people who operate in a fierce, pressure cooker of an environment – are likely to be susceptible to mental problems. Yet why can’t they speak about them?

In recent times stories of sporting depression have become more commonplace. Ronald Reng’s biography of German goalkeeper Robert Enke and his suicide was named William Hill sports book of the year. Former Somerset captain Peter Roebuck, and German referee Babak Rafati, who was found bleeding to death in a hotel bath just hours before he was to take charge of a Bundesliga fixture, are recent examples of desperate cries for help.

Yet nothing has reverberated or saddened people quite like the death of Gary Speed. Since his suicide five footballers have contacted the Sporting Chance clinic, seeking help. Maybe if Speed’s death can urge people to seek treatment – and shatter one of sport's last taboos – then maybe something positive can come from something so tragic.

Gary Speed should never be forgotten. We can only hope that whatever demons he had have been put to bed.

Goodbye, and rest in peace.

Connacht make Heineken Cup debut. (Nov '11)

Ireland’s fourth province finally have the chance to dine at European rugby’s top table.

With Munster and Leinster securing Heineken Cup victory twice each in the last six years, it’s safe to say Irish domestic rugby’s star is consistently on the rise. Munster have been European heavyweights for much of the last decade - and with players of the ilk of O’Driscoll, D’Arcy and Johnny Sexton - it was only a matter of time before Leinster joined them. Indeed, even Ulster have enjoyed somewhat of a renaissance after reaching the quarter-final stage last season.

Yet as a Sexton master class saw Northampton outgunned in this year’s final, the cheers could be heard out in Galway – not just Dublin – as Leinster’s victory paved the way for Ireland’s junior provincial side, Connacht, to make their first foray into European Club rugby’s premier competition.

It has taken sixteen years of trying but finally the side from Ireland’s wild, windy West have their chance to slug it out with Europe’s finest. It serves as a remarkable achievement for a club who in comparison to their rivals are extremely limited in finances and fan base - and also presents an outstanding opportunity for Connacht to cement themselves as a familiar name on the continent.

The prospect of Heineken Cup rugby may even enable them to hold onto their best talents – the likes of Sean Cronin and Paul Warwick have been lured by bigger sides in recent years. The inevitable loss of their finest players means Connacht’s squad is an eclectic mix of home-groan starlets, such as Tiernan O’Halloran, club veterans like John Muldoon and Michael Swift, and the occasional international in Johnny O’Connor and talisman Gavin Duffy.

Led by club legend Eric Ellwood, Connacht headed into their first game - away at Harlequins – with the all too familiar title of plucky underdogs.

The two sides clashed in last year’s Amlin Cup, with Harlequins subjecting the men in green to two tight defeats. The English side were also enjoying a club record-equalling start to the season after ten consecutive victories.

With this, there was an air of inevitability about Connacht’s 25-17 loss at the Stoop. In an intense, physical battle, Connacht outscored ‘Quins by two tries to one and dominated for much of the game – but the boot of Nick Evans proved to be the difference between the sides.

Yet despite the loss, it was a positive debut for Connacht.

They now prepare to welcome the aristocrats of European rugby – the mighty Toulouse – to the humble Galway Sportsground.

The French giants may have four European Cups under their belts – but not even they will fancy the trip west.

Sir Alex Ferguson - one of a kind. (Nov' 11)

25 years of success – We’ll never see the like of Fergie again.

I’m used to listening to my friends regale me with tales of their football club’s managerial woes. Whether it’s O’Neill in or Hodgson out, the twisted world of modern football doesn’t appear to lend itself to stability.

One minute my pal’s beloved Sheffield Wednesday are Alan Irvine’s blue and white army, the next minute they’re Gary Megson’s barmy army. If I supported Middlesbrough I’d still only be recovering from Gordon Strachan’s time in charge and if the misfortune of being a Leicester city fan was bestowed upon me I wouldn’t have a clue if my team would even have a manager in the morning – never mind who it might be. Even if I supported the filthy rich Chelsea my head would still be spinning from a post-Mourinho hangover and the legion of pretenders who have failed to fit the special one’s crown.

Not many football fans can say they’ve only ever known their club to have one manager. My mate who follows Crewe Alexandra, if he’s not too busy painting ‘Gradi Out’ on an industrial sized bed-sheet, has been a rare recipient of a lifetime of managerial consistency. Most Arsenal fans of our generation were too busy rolling around in nappies to know who George Graham was and have been weaned on a diet of Arsene Wenger.

Yet nobody has been afforded the privilege Manchester United fans of our vintage have enjoyed.  

For 25 years Sir Alex Ferguson has been the only man to roll with the punches on football’s journey from the murky, hooligan-ridden late eighties to the corporate, prawn sandwich-munching 21^st Century.

For 25 years he has adapted and thrived in front of an ever-changing backdrop, cultivating one of football’s greatest dynasties.

A European Cup Winner’s Cup winner with Aberdeen, in 1986 Ferguson moved to a Manchester United far removed from the global brand it is today. A sleeping giant, United fans had become accustomed to mid-table mediocrity, looking enviously down the East-Lancs road as bitter rivals Liverpool cleaned up the silverware.

After a rocky start – the type that wouldn’t be afforded today - the first trophy was finally clinched, the 1990 FA Cup. The Cup Winner’s Cup followed a year later and the juggernaut was picking up pace. The signing of Eric Cantona was the final piece in a puzzle six years in the making as ‘Dieu’ inspired United to their first league title for 26 years.

In the 19 years that have passed United have won the league 12 more times and are now the most decorated club in domestic football.

He’s ‘knocked the scousers off their perch’, won the battle for supremacy with Wenger’s Arsenal and seen off Abramovich’s new age Chelsea – all whilst keeping faith in a policy of youthful verve and attacking football – an ideology ingrained within the club.

And now, as he fast approaches 70 years of age, he is faced with the task of taming Barcelona and seeing off a revolution at Manchester City before it can properly begin. It’s a challenge he’ll relish.

Sunday the 6^th of November saw him bring in his Silver Anniversary as manager of Manchester United Football Club. As he made his way to the Old Trafford centre circle before the game against Sunderland, the old terrace he first stood before 25 years ago sat proudly with its new name - The Sir Alex Ferguson stand.

It was a fitting tribute for a feat that is unlikely to be repeated.