THE WARRIOR'S CODE - the Sky's the limit

Sky's the limit

‘Today, watching television often means fighting, violence and foul language - and that's just deciding who gets to hold the remote control.’ Donna Gephart

"DO we really need Sky Sports?" It was just about the worst sentence the wife could have uttered to me, other than “I’m leaving you, and the wains are staying with you.” Sport grabbed a young Steven Doherty by the lapels at an early age, and that umbilical grip hasn’t slackened down through the years. Women have come and gone (mainly gone), my hair has come and gone (mainly gone), but sport has remained the single constant in my life. Back in the days when there were only three television channels, I would sniff out sport like a street drinker hunting for a bottle of golden Buckfast. From the big events – the FA Cups, the All Irelands, The Olympics, the 5 Nations to the more niche sports – wrestling on ITV with Big Daddy and the Giant Haystacks. Even Jim Rosenthal introducing a ‘great night of domestic boxing from Bethnal Green’ on Mid-Week’s Sports Special would raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I was easy pleased. But the world moves on and when the dark lord Rupert Murdoch brought us Sky Sports back in the early 90’s it was like all my Christmases had come at once. I was as excited as Walter Palmer in a zoo, and signed up immediately. And never looked back. Look after the pennies…

With a holiday in Spain approaching fast, and school uniforms to be paid for, it was agreed that the Doherty family would be going on a summer economy drive. By some classic twist of irony I would become the architect of my own downfall. As the main bread winner it had been my idea to cut out a few ‘non-essentials’ from the family expenditure sheet, but little did I expect to be hoist by my own petard. In truth, since child No. 2 (Connie Brigid – second in command at Doherty Towers) came along three years ago, my sports viewing had gradually receded to a trickle. During last year's World Cup final, a Peppa Pig-a-thon was playing on my swanky TV – that gives you some kind of idea how the power is structured in our front room. I knew in my heart of hearts that Rupert Murdoch was claiming far too much of my hard earned wages and ‘sport billy’ was getting little in return. The time had come to do the honourable thing and fall on my own sword. So on Monday morning I bit the bullet and rang ‘Kevin’ in Sky’s Indian call centre. “Kevin, I began, “if that really is your name, I have some terrible news.” I relayed to ‘Kevin’ that we (by 'we' I meant not me) wished to cancel our Sky Sports subscription. A tiny tear trickled down my hairy cheek (the hairy cheek on my face, behave yourselves) as the words came out to my Asian friend. “No problem, sir” said Kevin reassuringly, “let me just ask you a few questions and then we will cancel your subscription.” It was death by a thousand stabs. Kevin proceeded to ask me what sports I actually enjoyed on Sky's sporting platform – football, rugby, gaelic football, cricket, athletics, boxing… basically everything. “So why then, sir” continued Kevin, somewhat baffled, “why are you wishing to leave us?’ We were singing from the same hymn sheet. I was fairly sure that Kevin was crying now too. In a corrupt world where sport meets big business, two men from either side of the globe had made a connection. I explained that in this post-Celtic Tiger world it was working out too expensive. Now, ‘Kevin’ didn’t come up the Ganges in a bubble, and he had heard this line a thousand times before. Fired with renewed enthusiasm, and fully believing he had found the perfect compromise to keep both my family and his paymasters at Sky happy, my new friend from Goa offered me Sky Sports at half price for the next six months. By God, old Kev had thrown me a lifeline. I glanced over at the wife with the offer and hope in heart, but she shook her head like a mafia don rejecting an unfavourable deal. And while Kevin had me at ‘hello’, I still had to decline the offer. The tears were fast becoming howls of anguish. ‘Kevin’, obviously on a big performance-related contract in India, wasn’t in much better shape either. To cut a long story short, the deed was finally done and all ties were severed. The money was saved. The Sky Sports was gone. With a heavy heart I returned to the bosom of my family, a broken shell of a man. And yet an heroic man in their eyes. I said my farewells to them and went into my work. What the Derry News lacks in profitability and warmth, it makes up for in industry. Busy all morning, I forgot about my mourning. My sports editor - the last man you want to meet in the 'corridor of uncertainty', felt my pain and granted me a rare lunch break. I sped home to the people’s republic of Muff with one thing on my mind.

Gone, baby gone…

You have never really tasted freedom until you have come home to find the wife and wains not there. Assembling a hastily-made tuna sandwich I sat back on the sofa and decided to enjoy half an hour of the brilliant 2015 Ashes series. At least that was the plan. No sooner had I clicked ‘403’ on the Sky remote than the stark, sickening and unwelcome truth suddenly dawned on me. The Sky Sports was gone. ‘Kevin’ – a man I had grown to admire and trust, had pulled the plug even before the end of the day. A blue screen stared back at me with the number to call if I wished to subscribe. “NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” echoed through the house, out into the yard, around the estate and probably as far as the Indian sub-continent. The bleak repercussions of my actions had finally hit home. It was the ultimate kick in the stones. It has been almost a week now since ‘the separation’ and I’m still moping about the house like a sulking teenager. There hasn’t been a day that has gone by that I haven’t automatically switched on one of the ‘400’ numbers only to find it was a fruitless exercise. The rotten, poisoned Babylon that is the Premiership kicks off on Saturday. Between the spoilt, prima donna players, money grabbing agents, the diving, the cheating and Jose Mourinho – there is much to despise about the festering pit of lies that is the English Premiership. But a father still loves his wayward child, and I still enjoy the so-called 'greatest league in the world' and really look forward to the start of every new season with the usual blind faith and optimism. But the 2015/16 season has been tempered somewhat. No longer will that particular carnival of football be beamed into my sitting room eight days a week, as it has been for the last couple of decades. Friends of mine, who shall remain nameless (Darren Walker, Stephen Sims, Brenda Logue, Mick McCann) have suggested ‘alternatives’ to Sky. And while there are indeed less expensive ways of watching football on TV, I prefer not to tread down that dark, nefarious road. It is a murky underworld where no good can possibly come, according to the wife. And even if I did undertake to install one of these mildly illegal alternatives, I certainly wouldn't incriminate myself talking about it in print (ahem...)