Courtenay’s Column: USA 94 PreMcCarthy Era

If Qatar 2022 was the maddest World Cup yet, at USA 94 the madness was mainly off the ball, at least it was for 98fm’s Morning Crew. I could tell you about WBO middleweight and super-middleweight champion Steve ‘Celtic Warrior’ Collins crashing on the floor of Aidan Cooney’s and my room at the Chateau Cesspit, as I named our 2nd Avenue hotel. I could tell you about the New York taxi-driving hippy who got lost in the countryside looking for the Giants’ Stadium, and the country folk looking slack-jawed at the passing yellow cab as if it had just arrived from a neighbouring galaxy.

As for Eamonn Doran’s Irish bar on 2nd Avenue, our Outside Broadcast centre: the time a 15-stone, pistol-packin’ NYPD sergeant called Kowalsky declared in the best Donnie Brasco accent, “I’m Irish!” and joined me for a lunchtime pint before going back to work; the time I saw Ronnie Drew having a spot of lunch in Doran’s at a table for two with Mia Farrow; Con Houlihan sitting alone at the bar drinking his signature brandy and milk, thinking up another piece of journalistic genius; and the day some woman barged down to our table at the back of the pub, (Elaine Geraghty, Our Man Aidan Cooney, tech legend Peter Gibney, Mick McCarthy and me with microphones and mixer set up, headphones on, 98fm banner on the wall!) and loudly demanded that we vacate that area so “my husband” could have a place to himself. Me: “Who’s your husband?” Her: “Gerry Ryan.” Me, gesturing around the table: “Right. Well, we’re going live in about two minutes, so no.” (She made a formal complaint about me to Denis O’Brien. It was treated with the disdain it deserved.)

For me though, the star of the trip was Mick McCarthy, our voice of football wisdom. On the Irelando, Florida legs against Mexico and The Netherlands we were staying in one of the five Disneyworld resorts. Mick wasn’t. He was staying in the team’s hotel which, given that he was the Manager-in-waiting, made for an uncomfortable atmosphere to say the least. One afternoon my bedside phone rings and the McCarthy drawl asks, “Pat, can you get me into your hotel?” Not wanting another Steve Collins situation, I asked our Disney fixers and it was done.

Mick absolutely made the trip.

The day on the Disneyworld golf course where the bunkers are shaped like Mickey Mouse ears, our two American partners were knocking back straight Jack Daniels in 40-degree heat, and they warn you before you go out not to retrieve your ball if it goes into a water hazard. Alligators.

The day Mick married me. Well, married me to the poolside barmaid because we were clearly keen. He decided that as a Captain he was qualified to act as celebrant. The fact that it was a football team he’d captained rather than a ship didn’t bother us, so when she’d finished up, the happy couple honeymooned for the afternoon. I mean we were already in Disneyworld after all!

The tour de force, though came via Our Man Aidan Cooney. He, Gibney, Elaine and Mick were at a table for late lunch in a lovely, big, Disneyworld restaurant. I was up on the balcony doing the same with one of our Disney fixers, a lovely English girl. Down on the main floor was a woman at a grand piano. She invited the customers to give her their name and she’d put it into a song. Too good an opportunity for Cooney to let slip. He announced to The Entertainer that we were all in the presence of a celebrated Irish poet, indicating Mick McCarthy. “Oh, how wonderful! And what’s his name?” Cooney: “McGee. First name Ulick.” and away she went. Givin’ it socks. “Yooouuu and meeee and Ulick McGeeee…”

Football? What football?