Eternally restless hero Macauley gets back on his bike
JOE BROLLY
Croke Park. September 18, 2011. 3.15pm. Dublin manager Pat Gilroy was standing in the middle of the changing room, watching. The boys were now togged out, in their boots, ready to go. Suddenly, Michael Darragh Macauley, who was still in his trainers, caught Pat’s eye and nodded him towards the toilets. Pat followed him in.
"What is it?” "I’ve forgotten my boots.” "F**k off, Michael.” "Seriously, I have.” "Jesus Christ Michael. What size are you?” "12?” "I’m 13” said Pat, "they’ll have to do you.” Pat squeezed into the trainers as Michael Darragh put on his boots. "Do not say a word to anyone,” said Gilroy. The midfielder went on to put in a monumental performance at midfield as Dublin won their first All-Ireland in 16 years. As Gilroy later joked, "It made no difference to him anyway because in those days he never kicked the ball.”
Gilroy first came across him in the Dublin club championship, when Macauley marked him. Gilroy said it was "a nightmare. He never stopped. He was as strong as a horse. He tackled so hard, he left me with bruises.” When he became Dublin manager, he called him into the squad and, as Gilroy said last week, "He was the key man. He changed everything. His attitude was the spearhead of the transformation from losers to winners. He was unbreakable. He ran out every bleep test. He trained like he played. He destroyed his markers with his stamina, his tackling, his quick hands, his heart.”
A sportsman is merely an extension of his personality. As I have gotten older, I have looked for authenticity in everything. It is a rare and precious thing.
When I talked to Donegal’s Rory Kavanagh recently about his 2012 triumph, he used the word honesty multiple times. When I asked him what exactly he meant, he said, "I’m not exactly sure.” Very difficult to understand, you know when you see it. Roy Keane in his Manchester United shirt, raging against the world. A Seamus Heaney poem. Tommy Doherty playing the box in Guiry’s. Carl Froch in the boiler room of the damned, swinging punches 'til the bitter end. Paul Kimmage being lifted off his bike after crossing the finish line in a stage of the '89 Giro, frost bitten, after half the peleton had quit in the blizzard. "It was so cold I had to piss on my hands as I raced.” And Michael Darragh.
There is nothing superficial about this kid. Eccentric as Caractacus Potts in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Natural as a small child. Courageous as a great prize fighter. Insanely competitive, for reasons that have nothing to do with winning. When he played, his limbs appeared to move independently of each other, ungainly as a man running in water, his head waggling from side to side as though he were dodging punches. When he soloed, every other touch was a high catch. Yet his was the very heart of the Dublin revival.
Successive Dublin managements realised early on that he didn’t know anything about Gaelic football or footballers. Unless they were part of his group, he had no interest. Before they played Tyrone in April, 2010, a game that signalled the Dublin renaissance, Michael was told he was marking Seán Cavanagh. It quickly became apparent he had no idea who that was. Paddy O’Donoghue, Gilroy’s number two, says, "Ray Boyne had to download images of Cavanagh on his tablet and show them to him.” He destroyed Cavanagh that day, Tyrone were relegated and Dublin were on their way. After that, Ray used to make a little booklet of his next opponent for him, with pictures and a short run down.
In 2013, he was footballer of the year, driving Dublin through a series of epic challenges to win a second All-Ireland. But it was the 2013 semi-final that marked him out as one of the modern greats of the game. That day, after Kerry had ingeniously filleted the Dubs in the first half, taking them for three goals in an electrifying first 35 minutes, Macauley led the revival, capping it with an immortal piece of individual heroism to set up Kevin McManamon for the killer goal.
I subsequently argued strongly for him as player of the year. Colm O’Rourke agreed, quipping that Michael D was a bit like the KitKat ad, you can’t play, you look awful, you’ll go a long way.
That was the thing about him. Put him through a skills test, he would fail and be sent home. Put him on the field, and he won. Eight All-Irelands, a club All-Ireland, three club championships, two Leinster clubs testify to that. Not that he would care.
He is eternally restless. The last time I had a pint with him, he borrowed my umbrella and he used it to stretch, bending backwards and forwards like a limbo dancer. He kept this up for an hour, in a crowded bar, wholly unselfconscious. In company, you can detect him always from the corner of your eye, perpetually moving, like an enthusiastic labrador. His beloved mother, Rosaleen, died when he was only 12. A few years ago, he was at a Cystic fibrosis dinner as my guest. The dinner was in honour of Gary Dillon, another extraordinary Irishman. A woman came up to him and said, "I worked in the hairdressers with your mam, Michael. She never stopped moving. She was always pacing about.” He was gobsmacked and delighted by that, and talks about it often.
He is immersed now in a regeneration project for the poverty-stricken communities around Sheriff Street, working with people of all ages to better their lives. When he talks about them, he brims with enthusiasm and empathy. He has just added a yoga class for budding yoga teachers to his bulging workload, to turn D1 into a yoga mecca.
I rang him at noon yesterday to get a hit of his personality and, when he answered, I could hear loud traffic. "Where are you?” "I got me bike stolen last week. I fancied a cycle. I’m on a Dublin bike.” "How long have you been on it?” I said. "Since around 8.” "Where are you?” "I’m doing laps of Stephen’s Green at the minute. The tunes on. All good.” "How many laps?” "A fair few.” I hung up, as I always do, smiling and shaking my head. Pointless trying to talk to him about football.
The Tuesday before the 2011 final, after their last training session, Gilroy prescribed complete rest until the throw in. No golf. No runs. Nothing. As he was leaving Parnell Park, Macauley tapped his window. "What is it, Michael?” "Look Pat, I have to play a basketball game on Saturday evening.” "You are joking me?” "No, it’s a mates’ game, we have only 10 so I have to play. I can’t let them down.” Gilroy says, "I could see he would be very upset if I said no, so I just said ok, just do not tell anyone else. That was Michael. What could you do. He used to do 10k runs the day before all our big games. If you stopped him, he would be hurt and wouldn’t understand it. Better to just go with his flow.”
When Gilroy gave him permission, Macauley said, "Thanks Pat, I’m not really into the Gah anyway.”
I consider myself fortunate to have a friendship with this extraordinary young man. For me, this story is the key to understanding him. He genuinely can’t distinguish between an All-Ireland final and a scrimmage with his pals. It doesn’t make any difference to him what it is. Whether it is delivering meals to a hungry family, taking an adult learning class in Sheriff Street or doing laps of Stephen’s Green on a Dublin bike, he gives it his all.
It is true. He isn’t really into the Gah. Never was. Nor is he the slightest bit interested in his golden medal collection. Mostly, he is just pissed off his bike was nicked.
