The Man Comes Around

At what age do we discover an understanding of personality and achievement? When does Nemo make way for Gerrard? When are colouring books replaced by size fives? Muhammad Ali probably entered my life around the same time that I stopped using sippy cups.  Pugilism and glass: an unedifying combination to be unearthed by an inquisitive five year old. While my admiration for the greatest was strong, active participation in boxing was something that always seemed to elude me. Any fledgling mastery I might have had found a temporary home at UCD Boxing Club where, in the six months pre-Covid, I amassed an impressive record of 0 wins and 0 losses in 0 fights; a 100% record, no matter what way you look at it. Muhammad’s career maintains ever so slightly more repute. 

I recently read Norman Mailer’s acclaimed book, “The Fight”; a breathless insight into the sporting and political turmoil surrounding Ali’s legacy affirming bout against the seemingly impenetrable George Foreman. In a typically verbose passage, Mailer perfectly depicts the minutes before Foreman enters the ring. Ali, in a moment of uncustomary deference, uttered a silent prayer as his gloved hands gripped the ring ropes. With his desire for greatness still intact, his body maintained a shine “like the flanks of a thoroughbred”. And as he began to shuffle and shadowbox, his dutiful coach, Angelo Dundee, edged methodically from ring post to ring post and using a spoke and wrench that he had smuggled into the arena, loosened the tension of all four ropes just enough for his fighter to lean all the way back and impose his strategy. Nobody had paid any particular attention to him.

A 1500m race doesn’t lend itself to such ingenuity, only pain and suffering. The men’s Olympic Final on Tuesday attested to this. It’s three and a half minute run time offered about as much subtle subtext as a Dwayne Johnson movie.  For an event like this, perspective is everything. If only there could be an everyman forced to try and keep pace with the peloton, we might finally develop something of an understanding. Tuesday night’s script was written far in advance and presented two primary protagonists: Jacob Ingebrigtsen, the world’s pre-eminent middle distance runner and Josh Kerr, the self assured Scot who dethroned him as world champion last August. 

I first became aware of Jacob Ingebrigtsen after my own brief foray into athletics. This cross-country running endeavour had about as negative an impact on me as a sporting event can have on a person. It took years for me to engage in recreational running again. A trauma had been induced. I looked at off road running tracks in much the same way that a retired serviceman might look at a sandy beach in Normandy. But time often allows us to regain some semblance of our former selves. I completed the Cork City Half Marathon in June. I only hear the guns in my dreams now. 

I don’t think I could ever have emulated Ingebrigtsen. Me, of east Galway heritage with its low inclines and my penchant for chocolate; he of acutely Aryan origins, reared in higher altitude, forged in thinner oxygen. His father and head coach, Gert, has also twice been named World Athletics trainer of the year which, not to get too Abraham Maslow or anything, certainly didn’t hurt.

His rivalry with Josh Kerr has been simmering for several years, slowly bringing athletics back into the public consciousness. Ingebrigtsen has dubbed him “the Scot who never competes”, claiming that he could beat the “coward” with his eyes closed. Kerr claims the Norwegian is surrounded by yes men who grovel in his autocracy. The message from World Athletics was clear: empty the track and let the two of them at it. The event’s Twitter hashtags were conspicuously limited to either #TeamIngebrigtsen or #TeamKerr; the BBC released a stunning promotion for the head to head, set to the tune of ‘The Man Comes Around’; the nation’s bettors almost refused to provide odds on other competitors. 

Kerr too had visualised this. At the starting blocks he stood staring straight ahead, his hands flitting methodically between his temples and his route. Ingebrigtsen maintained his customarily relaxed gait, strutting contemptuously across the lanes in an attempt to reinforce his perceived superiority. This was his vision. But even Nostradamus couldn’t have conceived of this race. At the gun, Ingebrigtsen abandoned his traditionally conservative strategy and raced to the front of the pack, setting a pace almost inconceivable to the lay-person. His calmness perfectly juxtaposed the expressions of utter pain emanating from the chasing pack, from all except Josh Kerr. As the race careered into its final lap Ingebrigtsen sought to inject further speed but the Scot reciprocated, clinging like a toddler’s backpack to the Norwegian’s right shoulder. Until the last 50 metres, the script unfolded in precisely the same manner that World Athletics, the BBC and betting companies the world over had anticipated. 

But then the American, Cole Hocker, who had never finished higher than sixth in a world athletics meet previously, revealed his elaborate deception. The fallacy of the masses was about to be ridiculed. Hocker’s unkempt hair and laborious running style was almost imperceptible for the first 1,450 metres as Kerr and Ingebrigtsen battled hard for the inside line and a fresh air lead; for their notion of a script. But for this race, there never was a script, and if there had been, Hocker made sure it had a third, unanticipated ending. The forgotten man came through at the end, the man nobody had paid any particular attention to.