Yes, exceptionally nice guys can actually be winners

If you don't like name-dropping, switch pages straight away to the many fine articles from Eilís, John, Paul, Una, Helen and Olga elsewhere in this paper. If you don't like me, whether name-dropping or otherwise (and many people have every reason to feel that way), turn away also now. Because what follows describes the most amazing sporting weekend of my sports-mad life. And it is all entirely true, as whatever else I am, I am not a liar.My contact with Chris Hughton dates back to early 2003 when he was appointed as Republic of Ireland assistant manager to Brian Kerr. Since I was a child, my two greatest sporting passions have been the Westmeath Gaelic football team and the Irish soccer side and I always send a snail mail/fax/text/e-mail to a new management team (I hope my text to Pat Flanagan last Thursday reached the right number). In Chris' case, a little over seven years ago, I received a handwritten acknowledgement on letter-heading from his domicile at the time, Spurs. I was bowled over. In December 2008, I wrote a column in this paper to honour Chris' 50th birthday and sent it on to him at Newcastle. A week later, he rang me for a half-hour on my mobile. I was completely bowled over and the piece of salmon I was trying to cook at the time was bowled over on my George Foreman grill and duly cremated - and that name-dropping is not to get me a holiday in regular reader George Foreman's mansion!A weekend in Newcastle, organised by Mick Rutledge and friends from the landmark Paddy's Point pub in la Zenia (owned by fellow-columnist Bernie Comaskey) prompted me to fax Chris in the (slim, I felt) hope of getting a very quick chat with the 53-times capped and ultra-loyal full back, on the day his charges were being presented with the Coca-Cola Championship trophy at St. James' Park (irrespective of a win, loss or draw against Ipswich Town). With Bernie having reached Newcastle by a marathon trek from Spain, due to the recent air restrictions, my Ryanair journey from Dublin to Newcastle airport last Saturday morning was child's play, even if my child-like hope that I would meet Chris was pretty well written off as I boarded the metro to Newcastle city centre. However, as I passed Jesmond station (clearly two spiky-haired singers from the locality called John and Desmond brought great honour to Geordie country!), my phone rang and it was Chris Hughton, making an arrangement for Bernie and I to meet him after the game. To say that I was bowled over was then the understatement of the Millennium. I was glad that I had topped up my mobile in Ireland as I frantically texted all and sundry back home to break the news. One self-confessed non-sports-loving friend still knew enough to say how much he respected Chris from afar and I replied that I was as excited as his youngest (and very precocious) daughter on Christmas morning. Another extremely knowledgeable sports-lover felt that grim days awaited Newcastle (and consequently Chris) in the 2010/11 Premier League. Boy, do I hope he is wrong!Unsurprisingly, with Newcastle guaranteed promotion and Ipswich assured of Championship safety, the game had a testimonial-like feel about it. Bernie and I joined 52,179 others in the resplendent stadium and were both fascinated by a vociferous chant which echoed around the ground, 'greeting' the visitors manager, Roy Keane (I hear he was a fine player but opted not to play for the country of his birth in the 2002 World Cup). "Keano walks his dog" (alluding to the aforementioned walk-out from Saipan for a walk-out with his beloved Triggs back in England) seemed harmless enough for me to join in, until I discovered from a nearby Geordie 'translator' (what lovely people they are) that the word was not, in fact, 'walks', but a word which rhymes with 'banks'! The semi-meaningless match ended 2-2, Andy Carroll's header and Shola Ameobi's late penalty looking like they would seal a 2-1 win (Connor Wickham having scored for the Tractor Boys), but Jon Walters' last-gasp injury-time strike spoiled the party ever so slightly (a fan positioned in line with the equaliser texted his father beside me swearing the scorer was offside).After the wild on-field celebrations ended, I made my way to the designated meeting point under the Milburn Stand. Chris Hughton, still wearing his winners' medal, greeted Bernie and I with a warmth that I will bring to the grave with me. He then left us alone in the very small team manager's lounge (it would hold 20 people max), inviting us to partake in the drink and refreshments on offer and apologising, repeat apologising, that he would have to leave us for 45 minutes or so. A couple of Cokes and sandwiches later, a well-dressed man joined us and congratulated us (we were wearing black and white scarves) on our success! We thanked him for his good wishes and offered him a drink! The Ipswich manager, in tow with two of his backroom team, then entered and said "hiya lads". I grunted and Bernie stayed silent, before moving as far way as possible, even hitting my head off the telly in my rush to disassociate myself with Mr Keane, who then stepped outside for a long chat with former Manchester United team-mate, Nicky Butt, who had signed my match ticket while still togged out and who was ending his Newcastle career that day. A case of a pain in the butt with a solid pro called Butt?After Bernie and I spoke briefly to first team coach, Colin Calderwood, Chris returned and chatted to Bernie and I at length, his sincerity evident in all he said and did. His respect for Liam Brady and Frank Stapleton was immediately evident, particularly their ongoing turning up for Irish friendlies (unlike, as I called him, "your rival manager today"). Ironically, the failure to turn up for an important competitive game by flawed genius Paul McGrath (whom we also talked about) gave Chris an unexpected cap for his adopted country in October 1990 in Lansdowne Road against Turkey, as his career at the top level was coming to an end. We were then introduced to Chris' charming wife Cheryl and beautiful (in looks and personality) daughter Aisha, who is employed as a planner with Sky TV near Heathrow. The latter talked proudly about her brother Cian, now doing well in defence for Lincoln City. Indeed, Aisha beamed as she showed us a photo on her mobile phone of Chris with his three grandsons. We were also treated wonderfully well by Chris' PA, Sue Banks (née Miller) and her husband of less than a fortnight, Simon. It was no surprise when Sue told us that Chris was her favourite boss, after spells in the same role with Messrs Souness, Roeder, Allardyce, Keegan, Kinnear, Shearer and Pearson (the latter once in temporary charge).Word-count restrictions force me to end the report of this truly astonishing experience. My December 2008 column on Christopher William Gerard Hughton was called 'A gentleman in green who gave us all a lift' (the 'lift' reference alluding to his original training as a lift operator). However, on very rare occasions in life when you meet somebody, you realise that the term 'gentleman' is insufficient. Frankly, I have never, ever met a nicer person than the current Newcastle United manager.