
Thereโs an unwritten rule in Irish sport, it goes a little something like this: โShould one of our people reach the pinnacle of their sport they automatically become a national hero.โ It doesnโt matter if the sport in question is something weโve never even heard of or donโt properly understand; if an Irish person is good at it then weโre going to get behind them.
I follow this maxim to the letter, cheering on showjumpers, rowers and walkers alike, all because they happen to come from the same country as me. But thereโs one Irishman who has dominated his sport, put it on the map, revolutionised it, all while draped in our tricolour, who I simply cannot abide.
Itโs not hard to guess who Iโm talking about, itโs Mr Marmite himself, Conor McGregor. He may be one of our most successful exports ever but itโs fair to say that McGregor divides opinion in his homeland. Reared on humble, taciturn heroes, the kind of men and women whoโd blush if asked to describe what made them so great, there are some of us who find โThe Notoriousโ a lot to take.
But as much as I dislike him, and itโs quite a lot, I have to hand it to him; the manโs a genius. Knowing nothing about mixed martial arts (MMA) I couldnโt possibly attest to his skills in the octagon. Iโm aware that heโs been in some bruising encounters and won all but a couple, and Iโm aware that heโs brave, courageous and inordinately skilled in his field of expertise. But thatโs about as far as it goes.
McGregorโs true genius, the thing which will soon make him one of the richest Irish sportspeople of all time, is not his ability to walk the walk, but his skill at talking the talk. His exploits in the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), although considerable, have not led to this once-in-a-lifetime showdown with Floyd Mayweather. Those knockouts, those bloody battles, those dominant displays, arenโt the reason this fight is going ahead. This fight wonโt even be contested in the ring, it will actually cease once the first bell rings. No, it will be conducted via series of interviews, press conferences and behind-the-scenes documentaries, places where McGregor excels, regardless of the sport.
Conor McGregor has made an art form out of self-promotion. Not since Muhammed Ali has an athlete courted the media with such dexterity. He has made it impossible not to have an opinion on him, imprinted his ugly mug, and his even uglier mouth, upon our psyches and demanded that we take note. And we have. His army of followers, and thatโs what they are, an army, are among the most fervent, most passionate, band of supporters in any sport, in any country, and his army of haters, myself included, cannot wait to see him get humiliated by the only marginally less loathsome Mayweather.
But all this would have been for nought had McGregor not had the talent to back it up. MMA may be an emerging sport but McGregor is its standard-bearer, he has done for it what Katie Taylor has for womenโs boxing. He is the UFCโs standout star, the best in the business, the number one fighter in the world. The pool of talent beneath him may be questionable, but becoming the best at anything, and especially something as violent as MMA, is laudable.
So, having conquered one sport, McGregor now sets his sights on another. Except he doesnโt really. Iโm sure there are people reading this who believe he has a chance of beating Mayweather, but youโre wrong. This is a total mismatch, a farce, a joke, whatever you want to call it. And yet I, for one, will be glued to it on the night. Iโll be glued to the prolonged, interminable build-up too. And as I sit there, riled by his impudence, enraged by his bluster, Iโll doff my cap to the abominable Mr McGregor, as he talks his way to a $100million pay night.