PARDON
the
self-indulgence, but, I could not allow his passing to go unremarked,
without paying tribute to one of the giants of my craft, and a fellow
Ayrshireman.
Hugh
McIlvanney OBE – sports writer
Born,
Kilmarnock: 2 February, 1934
Died,
London: 24 January, 2019, aged 84
IN
Ayrshire, 25 January, 2019 is as good a day as any to reflect on the
life of a giant of literature – Hugh McIlvanney, who died last
night.
McIlvanney
was a unique talent, the only sports writer ever to be named
Journalist of the Year, a man who, for over half a century was at the
peak of his craft in describing sport, that religion of the masses.
Yet,
he himself would point-out, he wasn't even the best writer in his
family, giving primacy to his late younger brother Willie, one of
Scotland's greatest novelists. The McIlvanneys were born in
Riccarton, which locals will tell you is the true heart of
Kilmarnock. Hughie shone at Kilmarnock Academy, leaving to begin his
long career in journalism as a trainee reporter with the local paper,
the Kilmarnock Standard.
From
there, by now a news reporter, he moved on for a short spell in the
Glasgow office of the Daily Express, before heading along the A8 to
North Bridge and the impressive offices of The Scotsman.
It
was here that he became a sports writer, and a very good one. His
report on the legendary real Madrid v Eintracht Frankfort European
Cup Final of 1960, a “runner” - that is, a series of short
paragraphs, dictated down the telephone to a copy-taker in the office
while the game is in progress is often held-up as one of the finest
examples of this now lost art.
His
final paragraph stands-out as a fitting tribute to one of the
greatest matches ever:
“Fittingly, the great Glasgow stadium
responded with the loudest and most sustained ovation it has given to
non-Scottish athletes. The strange emotionalism that overcame the
huge crowd as the triumphant Madrid team circled the field at the
end, carrying the trophy they have held since its inception, showed
they had not simply been entertained. They had been moved by the
experience of seeing sport played to its ultimate standards.”
Almost
as good was his follow-up, a report on a short conversation he had as
he left the ground, with one of the then movers and shakers in the
SFA, who McIlvanney reported as saying:
“Of course, the Scottish
football public would not pay to watch that kind of football every
week.” Aye right!!
Scotland
could not hold that level of talent, so he took Johnson's High Road
South, to The Observer, where he quickly became Chief Sports Writer,
a post he filled with distinction for over 30-years. He travelled the
world, covering World Cups, Heavyweight title fights, major golf
tournaments and Olympic Games. Bringing to every report his unique
insight and his great gift for having the exact phrase for the
occasion.
He
was a keen student of the Turf, making significant financial
donations, at least to the bookmakers' profits, and revelling in the
atmosphere of Aintree on Grand National Day, Derby Day at Epsom,
Royal Ascot and, perhaps his favourite occasion – the Cheltenham
Festival.
His
description of “Himself,” the great Arkle, running-down Mill
House is perhaps the best example you can find of descriptive big
race reporting:
“As Arkle jockey Pat Taaffe, who had
planned it all that way, began to close on the turn at the top of the
hill, the incredible Irish support, the farmers and stableboys and
priests, roared in unison: ‘Here he comes.’ It was like a
beleaguered army greeting the hero who brings relief. He came all
right, to run the heart out of Mill House, and that great horse was
never the same again.” That takes you right there.
Has
anyone ever captured the genius of George Best with the same elan as
this McIlvanney piece on the Irish legend:
“Best
had come in along the goal line from the corner-flag in a blur of
intricate deception. Having briskly embarrassed three or four
challengers, he drove the ball high into the net with a fierce
simplicity that made spectators wonder if the acuteness of the angle
had been an optical illusion.
“What
was the time of that goal?” asked a young reporter in the
Manchester United press box.
“Never
mind the time, son,” said an older voice beside him. “Just write
down the date.”
Or
there was his take on Muhammad Ali thrashing George Foreman in “The
Rumble in the Jungle” in 1974:
“We should have known
that Muhammad Ali would not settle for any ordinary old resurrection.
His had to have an additional flourish. So, having rolled away the
rock, he hit George Foreman on the head with it.”
After
that fight McIlvanney demonstrated he had mastered old-fashioned foot
in the door news reporting, pounding the streets of Kilmarnock and
Glasgow all those years before. He took a taxi out to Ali's villa,
blagged his way in, got an exclusive interview and life-time
admission to The Greatest's inner circle. Gallus or what.
And,
did any of the many Scottish journalists there capture the magic and
insanity of Lisbon, 1967 quite as well as this extract from
McIlvanney's Observer piece:
"At
the airport, the impression is of a Dunkirk with happiness. The
discomforts of mass evacuation are tolerable when your team have just
won the greatest victory yet achieved by a British football club, and
completed a clean sweep of the trophies available to them that has
never been equalled anywhere in the world.
“They
even cheered Helenio Herrera and his shattered Inter when the
Italians left for Milan yesterday evening. "Inter, Inter,
Inter." The chant resounded convincingly through the departure
lounge, but no one was misled. In that mood, overflowing with
conquerors' magnanimity they might have given Scot Symon a round of
applause.
"Typically,
within a minute the same happily dishevelled groups were singing: "Ee
Aye Addio, Herrera's on the Buroo." The suggestion that the most
highly paid manager in Europe is likely to be queueing at the Labour
Exchange is rather wild but the comment emphasised that even the
least analytical fan had seen through the hectic excitement of a
unique performance to the essential meaning of the event.”
Even
his one-liners were special: Joe
Bugner – the physique of a Greek statue, but fewer moves.” Or
his take on Carlos Teves' departure from Manchester City: “Whatever
it costs Manchester City to get rid of him is a tolerable outlay on
disinfectant.”
He
had a volcanic temper, he could be a handful in drink, and the
denizens of Irvine, who witnessed the dispute still speak in awe of a
full-out argument/scrap with brother Willie, when they fell-out at a
Burns Night dinner.
But
when, cigar clamped between his teeth, he sat down at his typewriter
or lap top to write his match reports – and at his best he was a
match reporter – he immediately went into the “zone”, from
which he did not emerge until he was happy with every word, comma or
full stop. He was a perfectionist.
But,
he wasn't perfect. His Scotsman character assassination of poor Frank
Haffey after Wembley 1961 was verging on the cruel – we Scottish
goalkeepers have never forgotten.
He
was showered with honours: made OBE in 1996, the Scottish Press
Awards gave him a special Lifetime Achieve Award in 2004; a year
later came that Journalist of the Year Award; in 2008 he was inducted
into the International Boxing Hall of Fame. And a record seven Sports
Writer of the Year awards.
Somewhat
embarrassingly, in 2011 the Scottish Football Hall of Fame secretly
inducted him into membership. It had to be done secretly, since he
was Chairman of the Induction Committee, who acted without telling
him. He is also in the Press Gazette and English Football Museum's
Halls of Fame.
After
30-years, he left The Observer in 1993, for a short spell as a
Correspondent at Large for the Daily Express, before settling down to
23 years with the Sunday Times, only finally logging off in 2016.
Along the way, be wrote with insight and feeling about the great
Scottish football men: the great players: Baxter, Johnstone, Law and
Dalglish, but more clearly the great managers – Busby, Shankly,
Stein and Ferguson.
His
books: 'McIlvanney
on Boxing,' (1982), 'McIlvanney on Football,' (1994) and 'McIlvanney
on Horse Racing' (co-written with another master, the late Sir Peter
O'Sullivan in 1995) are “must haves” for every serious collector
of writings on sport.
That
said, he was, at his best a reporter – the most information and
colour in the fewest words – while other great Scottish sports
writers: Norman Mair, Bob Crampsey or Ian Archer, were more
essayists.
Hugh
McIlvanney was married three times. He is survived by third wife Caroline, and Conn and
Elizabeth, the children of his first marriage. The McIlvanney literary legacy is in
the safe hands of his nephew, Willie's son, the New Zealand-based
novelist and crime writer Liam McIlvanney.
