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A Friend in Deed - Grandpappy
At the end of December 2011 Tony Hand was appointed head coach of the GB side with a view to competing in the World Championships in 2012 in Slovenia, and tournaments in 2013, 2014 and 2015. That makes him about fifteen months into the job, although he was an assistant GB coach in 2008.
Andy French, Ice Hockey UK General Secretary said of Hand’s appointment, ‘We had a long list of high-calibre applicants, and it was a very strong field of candidates. Tony stood out from the rest. He is a legend in British ice hockey and is well known throughout the ice hockey world.’
However, GB were recently relegated to Division 1B in the World Championships in Budapest after losing all of their 5-games. Hand said, ‘We are disappointed as a coaching staff and as a team. I had a chat with the boys and they are devastated. We were not good enough in the tournament, but we will bounce back, I am sure. We need to find a way to improve and we need to bring fresh players in. Our offence let just down this tournament.’
Hand’s first coaching position was with Dundee Stars in the British National League and has since spanned spells with Edinburgh Capitals and Belfast Giants in the Elite League. He joined the Manchester Phoenix in 2007, also in the EIHL at the time, and then took them into the EPL in 2009 and was named EPL Coach of the Year in 2010. Last season the Phoenix finished as play-off champions.
Why all this background? Because there have been calls for Hand to stand down from his coaching position. Was this from the governing body, fellow coaches, players, the media, fans, or just who exactly? Actually, ‘a good friend’ - so more of a call; a singular voice – who expressed the opinion quite spitefully by going to the press.
Now if I were Hand’s good friend and thought he had fouled up I might, out of consideration for his feelings and the relationship, have taken him to one side for a quiet word in his ear. Even then only if I felt qualified at some level to proffer such advice. Similarly, if I were running the national side and an unqualified friend offered technical guidance I would probably say something like ‘much appreciated, thanks very much’ and then poke a finger in his eye.
The point is, how can anyone call themselves ‘a good friend’ and then go out of their way to ensure the opinion they feel the need to impart and which for some unfathomable reason they believe is of interest is best conveyed by means of a public medium. So, when he said, ‘It is hard for me to say this as Tony is a good friend,’ it comes across as a bit hollow and, in fact, rather too easily said.
To rub salt into the insincerity wound he added, ‘But he is the coach of an English Premier League team at Manchester, and doesn’t see the Elite League players who wear the national shirt.’ What is he babbling on about? The implication, of course, is Hand is ‘only’ an EPL coach as if this should automatically disqualify him from the post regardless of those in the know who appointed him feeling he was the right person for the job regardless of pedigree.
Also, what can, ‘doesn’t see Elite League players who wear the national shirt,’ possibly mean? With only three EPL players in a squad of 22 surely they are hard to miss? In fact, Hand specifically praised some of them so clearly noticed they were there.
Sadly, the denouncing continued, “Every coach and every player asks the same question: ‘Why is Tony in charge?’ ” Do they all? Well, search as I might, I have been unable to find a comment from any coach or player to support this claim so clearly there is no general clamour from this group for Hand’s resignation or removal.
So basically all this bunk means two things. Firstly any friendship based on such a lack of consideration and loyalty is about as dependable as stuffing a ferret down your trousers and was done for one purpose: self-serving. There are numerous definitions of such egotistical behaviour, none of them pleasing and include such characteristics as an inflated opinion to which, thankfully, few listen. But the most apt definition is ‘a person whose ego exceeds both his intelligence and his capacity to see beyond his own personal interests.’
Secondly, such ravings do nothing to promote the interests and future of British hockey at a time when all fans should be standing behind the national team and offer some sympathy for the players and coaching staff who gave their all despite the results. In fact, all such unsubstantiated waffle does is undermine the sport which has enough to contend with as it is. With only a 3-day camp before one of the most important competitions in hockey which also clashes with domestic commitments is unbelievable in modern international sport, and hardly Hand’s fault who summed it up: ‘As a nation we have to look at how to improve our national teams. Obviously that comes from the whole country.’
Some common sense from Hand, then, as you would expect, but I leave out the name of the good friend rather than fertilize his ego with yet more publicity.
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May Madness – The Iceman
Having written an article for the website recently, which, I am pleased to say, was not only well received but actually attracted several personal messages of approval, my grandfather has taken it into his head to repeat the exercise. While in general terms that’s OK with me and, in fact I welcome it, sort of. But I have this niggling doubt he will, given enough leeway, upset someone. He usually does when he encounters something which causes him disdain.
‘If you’re at all bothered,’ he said after we had discussed my concern over a pint of Cappleman’s Coltsfoot Original in his local
the Goose and Cat Flap, ‘why don’t you go first? You can let everyone know what a good bloke I am, wouldn’t harm a fly, wouldn’t upset a cricket.’
I could see the possibilities, and with his agreement I went home to compose an appropriate piece, only providence stepped in and did it for me.
I had a phone call this afternoon with a complaint from Mother Attila of the local convent about my grand-father; a statement that clearly needs some explaining.
I hasten to add it wasn’t a repeat of the time he dropped his trousers to show a startled group of wide-eyed nuns his war wound. I say war wound, but that is mainly because that is how he refers to the tiny scar remaining from the five stitches in his butt which he acquired in the army during the Suez Crisis when he inadvertently sat on a scorpion and spent three days in a camp hospital recovering from the operation to cut out the tail which had become compressed in the tissue. The poor naïve ladies, who had been waiting on him for his weekly gardening lesson, had absent mindedly commented on the futility of war in idle chatter and Grandpappy, having overheard, kind of become agitated. ‘I’ll have you know I was wounded defending this country and your liberty,’ he snapped, and before you could say ‘if a chicken stubs it’s toe does it use fowl language’ he’d dropped his kecks, bent over pointing to a minute white line on his backside demanding of his
shocked audience: ‘See?’ Three novices fainted and the geriatric Sister Matilda was rushed to A&E.
So, no, it wasn’t a repeat of that, although perhaps I should also mention that the mother superior is not actually named Attila, but Camilla, or as Grandpappy calls her, Attila the Nun.
In fact, it has always been a source of wonder to me that the superior Camilla has continued with his offers of assistance when
I think how blunt he can be at times. What is possibly even more bewildering is how he got involved with a convent in the first place seeing as he is, if I am totally honest, quite anti-religious. I know he gets a silly smirk on his face when talking to her because he absolutely refuses to call her Mother Superior or, in fact, anything other than Camilla, which she deplores being old school. She, to be fair, always addresses him as Mister ‘B’, his preferred appellation, or Cantankerous Old Fart as a concession
to the Vatican II ruling which removed formal titles. Grandpappy’s justification is that Camilla is neither his mother nor his
superior while hers is, well, that Grandpappy really can be a cantankerous old fart.
Be all that as it may, Camilla, I feel, really does appreciate his unquestioning help, and being the age he is sees him as reading
low on the male sexual threatometer. I wouldn’t necessarily agree with her on that count but it is true he can be a very
generous man and despite his years once a week he does what he calls his civic duty. For example, he runs a few patients to
the hospital, a couple of old dears to their day centre and back or, in the case in question, met an elderly nun having just arrived from Dublin from the railway station and transported her to the local convent of Saint Hedwige. To his credit, he more often
than not even uses his car unless running late at the farm in which case it would be his beloved 1950 Ford Ferguson TE20, or
his ‘Little Grey Fergie’ as they were affectionately known even though he painted it red. And why red, you are probably asking yourself? Well, according to Grandpappy in honour of Fergie who to him has similar colour hair and makes about the same amount of noise when up and running. Yes, he is also an anti-royalist.
Grandpappy shrugged and eased himself behind the wheel. ‘Have you got your rosary beads?’ came the broad Irish request
from behind him. Perplexed, because the guy is not only not Catholic, but is devoid of any religious inclination, so questioned the need. Sister Theresa thrust hers forward demanding he hang them from the reversing mirror. ‘It will ensure the Lord watches over our journey,’ she explained.
Grandpappy complied then leant forward to fire the ignition.
‘Are you wearing your crucifix?’ came the next inquiry. He wasn’t. In fact he doesn’t possess one. Sister Theresa knew it, she had already got the measure of the old man and again leant forward with a simple gold cross and chain which she thrust at him. ‘Put this round your neck,’ she instructed. ‘It will ensure your car performs safely.’ Grandpappy obliged the nun and started the engine.
Ten minutes later, after a completely silent journey, Grandpappy pulled off the main road and crawled along an avenue of old
oak trees leading to the convent.
‘Quick, quick!’ shouted Sister Theresa, panic stricken. ‘A leprechaun, what shall we do?’
‘It’ll fall off in a second,’ advised Grandpappy in his most comforting manner, noting the striking resemblance to a grey squirrel.
‘Turn the wipers on, that will get rid of the evil abomination,’ cried Sister Theresa.
Grandpappy shook his head but switched on the wipers anyway which caused the small frantic bundle to pitch wildly about, but
it clung on heroically and continued hissing at the occupants.
‘Now what?’ asked Grandpappy.
‘Switch on the windscreen washers,’ screamed Sister Theresa.
Grandpappy turned on the washers. The’ leprechaun’ screeched louder, but still clung on and continued hissing and scratching.
‘Now what?’ Grandpappy asked again.
‘Show him your cross,’ urged Sister Helen, ‘he won’t like that.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Grandpappy, and leaning out of the window yelled, ‘Get the f*** off the car!’
So I picked up the phone and listened while a rather masculine voice with a Germanic lilt warned me, not for the first time I should add, that if I couldn’t control the behaviour of my elderly relative in public and in particular when in the company of a sensitive female, his services would regrettable be dispensed with. I said I would see what I could do, but in all honesty I have heard it all before and don’t even see it as my problem, so I handed the phone to Grandpappy.
‘What can I do you for, Camilla?’ he said cheerily?
He then gently placed the receiver on the table and withdrew his smoking materials from a pocket and nonchalantly prepared his pipe with Clitheroe’s Bulldog Scatchings. Precisely two minutes later, operation complete as a foul-smelling cloud encircled his head he retrieved the phone, gave me a knowing wink, and placed the receiver against his ear.
‘And what’s more,’ said Camilla drawing to the conclusion of her tirade, ‘after your ungentlemanly behaviour concerning poor Sister Matilda, I have just heard Sister Theresa’s had a stroke!’
Grandpappy’s eyes widened. He looked over at me and whispered in amazement, ‘A stroke!’
My head rolled back as I stared towards the ceiling wondering, Now what?
‘I’ll have you know, madam,’ said Grandpappy angrily, although I have to admit there was a triumphant curl on his lips, ‘the woman never touched me!’ And slammed down the receiver.