Pat Spillane: The time when Michael Lyster saved my bacon – my career as a Sunday Game analyst could have been over | Irish Independent
Flor Lynch
Kerry legend Mick O’Dwyer. Photo: Ray McManus/Sportsfile
Colm O'Rourke, Joe Brolly and Pat Spillane on the occasion of Michael Lyster's final Sunday Game broadcast in September 2018. Photo: Brendan Moran/Sportsfile
Pat Spillane and Michael Lyster at the All-Star awards in 2002. Photo: Brendan Moran/Sportsfile
Kerry legend Mick O’Dwyer. Photo: Ray McManus/Sportsfile
Colm O'Rourke, Joe Brolly and Pat Spillane on the occasion of Michael Lyster's final Sunday Game broadcast in September 2018. Photo: Brendan Moran/Sportsfile
Michael. Leaving us with no fuss on GAA’s busiest weekend of the year so far.
With everyone glued to the action on our TV screens as all the drama unfolded in the last round of league matches, it was time for Michael to slip out quietly from this world of ours.
That was Michael, a man of no fuss, no pretensions, a man who let everyone else take the limelight. Michael was one of Ireland’s greatest broadcasters, one of the greatest sports hosts ever, but he never, in my opinion, got the credit he deserved. Indeed, he never sought credit for his achievements and talents.
Michael never wanted the fame. Why?
Because Michael had no ego. But boy, if truth be told, he was dealing with a lot of egos every week with Brolly, O’Rourke and yours truly.
Michael would throw the scud out in the shape of a nicely disguised question, then sit back smiling because he knew what was coming.
In the last 12 months, I’ve lost two people who I now realise were so central to my life.
Kerry legend Mick O’Dwyer. Photo: Ray McManus/Sportsfile
First off, Mick O’Dwyer, who for almost 17 years looked after me and became part of my life as a Kerry footballer.
And then for almost 30 years, Michael Lyster was central to my life in The Sunday Game studio.
I was thinking about both of them in recent days. And I couldn’t help but think how similar both Lyster and O’Dwyer actually were.
They were both charismatic, down to earth and full of roguery. But most importantly, they believed in you fully. Filled you with confidence, let you off because they knew that you would do the business and deliver.
My career as a Sunday Game analyst could have been, if truth be told, very short. But thanks to Michael, it lasted almost 30 years.
In the early years, after a particularly physical and rough Ulster championship game between Tyrone and Derry, I described the behaviour of the Derry players in the game as like that of thugs.
The Derry County Board was threatening to sue RTÉ and yours truly.
Everyone was up in arms. The RTÉ head of sport summoned me to his office for a chat. I had to apologise.
The following week, I was brought to Dublin on the Sunday, even though it was a hurling weekend, to issue an apology to the Derry players on television. Sadly, my apology backfired. It wasn’t unequivocal.
Instead, I threw more petrol on the flames. Yes, I did acknowledge that I should not have used the word ‘thugs’, but I finished it off by saying: ‘But God almighty, they did commit criminal acts out on the field last Sunday.’ Oh, more trouble.
Head of sport Tim O’Connor brought me straight back into the office. He read me the riot act. I was fired.
The following week he marched me back up to Dublin. He prepared a script for a fresh unconditional apology to be read out on air.
And, he said, ‘If you stray from that script, I will kill you.’ No problem. I read the script word for word and was gone from The Sunday Game. My career as a pundit was over.
But thanks to his persuasive powers, Michael Lyster managed to get around the late Tim O’Connor and got me back into The Sunday Game after a couple of months of suffering. I was pardoned, and not for the first time.
It was a case of Michael saving my bacon. And it wasn’t the last time either, I might add.
Those years in The Sunday Game studio with Michael were wild and crazy. So much fun.
No scripts, no PC, no time constraints, no endless hours of rehearsal. No worrying about what you were wearing, your fashion or your hairstyle.
No tweeting about what outfitter had supplied your wardrobe. Or indeed, checking the mobile phone, checking social media. Were you getting lots of hits? Were you trending in Ireland that day?
The only thing that was premeditated in those days, the only thing that was actually organised in advance, was who was going to get the first question.
And boy, the competition was keen between yours truly and Brolly. Because each of us knew that whoever got the opening question would dominate the first part of the programme and the other wouldn’t get a word in.
And by the way, it was usually Brolly that got the first question. Because he would be sitting next to Lyster, pulling Lyster’s trousers and saying, ‘Ask me the first question, ask me the first question.’
On a very rare occasion, I used to get that first question. And of course, I would ramble on too long. That happened far too often, I suppose you’ll say.
But while I was rambling on, Brolly would instinctively put his head on Michael’s shoulder and pretend to be sound asleep. You couldn’t make it up.
Trying to keep a straight face, trying to make a serious point and Brolly pretending to be asleep on Michael’s shoulder. Live TV: crazy, crazy, wonderful times.
We had no agenda and no clue what topics we were going to talk about. The first question lobbed at us from Michael set us off.
It took us on a wonderful journey, a magic carpet ride into the strangest and weirdest things that we could ever discuss.
And I suppose that’s what made The Sunday Game TV gold.
People would ask why was The Sunday Game so successful? Very simple, because everyone on the programme was naturally down to earth.
It was like three guys at a bar counter shooting the breeze about a match. With the ringmaster, the barman, Michael Lyster, orchestrating proceedings.
It was no different to conversations that took place between GAA people the length and breadth of Ireland. Because what The Sunday Game did was merely replicate all that makes the GAA so good.
The crack, the fun, the arguments, the controversies, the opinions. Yes, people wanted to know why a team won and why the other team lost. But at the end of the day, we remembered that TV is about entertainment.
It’s always about giving joy and fun to the listeners. And we provided that in abundance. There was no magic formula, just fellas being themselves.
It was a programme that drove conversation around the pubs, marts and shopping centres of Ireland for the rest of the week. The Sunday Game was a much-watched TV programme.
And yes, the pundits – Brolly, O’Rourke, Loughnane, Farrell – all played a role.
But the driving force behind The Sunday Game and the real star of the show was Michael Lyster. So what made Michael so special? There were several reasons.
First off, he didn’t take himself too seriously. He was charismatic and laid back – friends with us both in the studio and outside the studio. We were comfortable in his company.
When we sat down chatting with Michael on the programme, we were oblivious to all the people around us. We were just four fellas shooting the breeze, comfortable in each other’s company. He was a brilliant, brilliant listener.
He had the uncanny knack of knowing when a good discussion, or a good debate, was unfolding, and he let it flow.
There were never any time constraints. He was never dictated to by the running order, and that’s what made for so many memorable programmes, that ability to let the conversation and the debate roll on.
Pat Spillane and Michael Lyster at the All-Star awards in 2002. Photo: Brendan Moran/Sportsfile
He was an immensely intelligent man. He had no script, absolutely no notes whatsoever. Yet for three to four hours on live television, he operated so seamlessly.
He carried it off like a true professional. He was cool and composed. I honestly cannot remember him ever losing his temper.
There were many times when he could have. When things were getting out of control, when the debate was going haywire and passions and egos were taking over.
All that was required from Michael was to put out that big hand and say, ‘That’s enough.’
And like schoolchildren being scolded, we obeyed and stopped.
One final thing: like all geniuses, like all great sportspeople who make things look so effortless, Michael made presenting the programme seem easy. And that was Michael in essence.
When he left The Sunday Game, the fun went out of the programme. It lost its spark. The orchestra no longer had its conductor.
It has never been the same since. All I can say, Michael, is thanks for the memories.
Thanks for all the fun.
Thanks for the friendship.
Thanks for all the great days we had in that Sunday Game studio. We had a blast.
Rest easy, my friend.
Flor Lynch
--
You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google
Groups "VIBISTRO" group.
To post to this group, send email to vibi...@googlegroups.com
To unsubscribe from this group, send email to
vibistro+u...@googlegroups.com
For more options, visit this group at
http://groups.google.com/g/vibistro
---
You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "VIBISTRO" group.
To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an email to
vibistro+u...@googlegroups.com.
To view this discussion visit
https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/vibistro/4db868f7-1a08-44a4-b5b2-aa034e49f949%40iol.ie.
Flor Lynch
Alright. There was apparently a problem with that message, so hopefully with this reply it becomes more transparent.