COLUMN: Subtle signs McCarron is a long way from recovered

Paul Fitzpatrick

When it broke, there had never been a story like it. It was the very definition of GUBU – grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre and unprecedented. Cathal McCarron, a high profile Tyrone footballer, had participated in a gay pornographic film.

McCarron is a brilliant footballer who plays the game on the edge. He’s a corner-back by trade and, as he admits, well versed in the dark arts of that position, where a player’s primary job is stop their direct opponent from exerting influence on the game. He’s a former All-Star and without doubt one of the best in the country in his position.

McCarron recently released a book, ghost-written by the top GAA writer Christy O’Connor, called Out Of Control, which was short-listed for the sports book of the year award. I read it in a couple of sittings; it’s well-crafted and, more than anything, tells a truly harrowing tale.

It details the Dromore native’s descent into a chronic gambling addiction – how low he stooped, including stealing from friends and family, his various run-ins with the law and how he is striving to get better.

The protagonist has been lauded for his “bravery” since the book was released, with many readers stating that they found the story “inspiring”. 

I have to say I didn’t. McCarron is still in recovery – he always will be – and that’s a hellishly difficult road but there are hints on the pages of Out of Control that he has a long way to go.

Arrogance is a trait synonymous with addicts. It’s generally accepted to be a self-defence mechanism borne out of low self-esteem, defined as an offensive display of superiority or self-importance. It should be anathema to someone in Cathal McCarron’s situation yet there are signs of it there.

The writer William Hay has stated that “arrogance is only possible with gross dishonesty. Honesty leads us directly to humility. Honesty is the cornerstone of recovery from addiction.”

McCarron’s autobiography is littered with anecdotes in which he appears to have done wrong but mentions the mitigating circumstances or argues that he is, in fact, a victim of sorts.

McCarron, who has trained in Mixed Martial Arts, brings the reader through numerous scrapes. The language he uses in describing them drips with machismo; there’s an element of bluster to them which jars when set against his undoubtedly sincere admissions of how low he fell, of his dream for a “normal life”, how his family is his main priority now and he takes nothing for granted.

“I had a reputation for being a hard man around school,” he recalls at one point. 

“It was more a sense of comfort for me, having that power and strength over someone else. It was nothing to do with wanting to win, it was a sense of exercising that power. ‘You either listen to me or fight me. And if you do, I’ll take you.’”

On another occasion, he encounters a man who has written disparaging comments about him online and accosts him.

“It wasn’t the time or the place for a confrontation but I had drink in me and couldn’t contain my anger. I approached and asked him to explain his actions. The hurt of what he had written was still vivid in my mind’s eye. I flipped. I didn’t care who was around or what backup he had. I decked him. Twice.”

Maybe it’s just me but the those last short lines seem gratuitous in the extreme. And again, McCarron goes some way to justifying his actions with a “but” (he was under the influence of alcohol) and a reminder of how hurt he felt.

He tells the story of a night out, when a bar man wrongly refuses to serve his friend and acts rudely before a bouncer intervenes.

“The bouncer tried to wrestle me to the ground. Bad move. Wrong move on his part. I chopped him down with a box on the side of the head.”

The humility – so essential to recovery from addiction – in the telling of this yarn is conspicuous by its absence.

That night, he ended up in Garda custody.

“We have a court appearance somewhere on June 8th but, fuck that, I won’t be turning up,” he writes, adding:  “I did hit the bouncer. It’s not good when you end up decking someone with a punch but I felt I was standing up for myself. He was man- handling me. I wasn’t going to take that shit lying down.”

This year, playing for Tyrone in the McKenna Cup against Derry, the defender was in the wars again when he tangled with opposing manager Damien Barton.

“I made a go for him. I don’t know how I connected with Barton but I did. Whatever it was – a dunt, a half- box, a slap – I nailed him,” he recounts.

Nailing, decking, chopping people down, clocking someone else ... These are not the words we associate with someone who has reached a state of emotional sobriety.

Hay has written that the addiction to substance can move on to addiction to external validations such as fame or fortune. In this case, Cathal McCarron’s vice is gambling, not a substance, but the point still stands.

He mentions at one point how he told a counsellor he feared he was addicted to his iPhone yet he has re-activated his Twitter account, where he has been inundated with praise from readers of his book. I don’t know if this is a wise move.

In the final passage of the book, McCarron has the following to say.

“I don’t think I am how people think I am. People will judge me. People can think who I am. It makes no difference to me. I know who I am.”

It does take bravery to open up so publicly but that's just a tiny part of the process, as Cathal McCarron will know better than anyone. His book is a compelling read but the subtle signs we mentioned, for this reader at least, remain unsettling. We can only wish him well.

 

* Published in The Anglo-Celt print edition, Wednesday November 30, 2016.