I was desperately sad to hear of the death this week of the truly great, Paddy Sweeney.
For those of us of a certain era, Paddy was the greatest vet of his generation. The history of the Greyhound Derby alone would look so different but for Paddy. (Check out the winning presentation photos of the English Derby between 1970 and the mid 80s and the distinguished silver haired gent in the bow-tie was omnipresent.) His expertise in treating broken hocks and refining the treatment of other racing related injuries was years ahead of its time.
But there was so much more to Paddy. He loved greyhounds with a passion that most people cannot begin to imagine. He hated authority and pomposity to similar levels. Paddy was brought up in Donegal and I often wondered whether that hatred of class-led authoritarianism was born out of the injustice of British rule felt particularly keenly in that part of North West Ireland in the early 1920s. Being told what to do by the bunch of pompous ex military types who dominated the GRA and NGRC was more than a proud Irishman could stomach. (Particularly a ‘Paddy’ with an intellect that they could only dream of matching.)
Paddy was warned off by the NGRC for setting up an owners and trainers association – the Greyhound Council of Great Britain – but that just made him more determined. He bred and won an English Oaks with a bitch who had been spayed – so out of undisguised spite, GRA immediately banned spayed bitches from taking part. He regularly led protests about the treatment of greyhounds and trainers by tracks and would commit his thoughts to the greyhound editor of The Sporting Life on a weekly basis.
Paddy loved coursing, he trained and bred greyhounds and bull terriers. He was the first to make the association between track sizes, race surfaces and injury rates and campaigned tirelessly for bigger circuits.
But Paddy also loved people with a passion. It was not unusual to see him reduced to tears with perceived injustices to trainers. Even in his late 80s, we would drive hours to attend funerals and pay his last respects.
Over the years I spent hundreds of hours in Paddy’s company, visiting him both at his famous clinic in rugby and then in retirement in Yorkshire. Or during meals at Clonmel or on a coursing field putting the world to rights. In latter years, he was sighted less often but was a regular phone caller – “Mr Amphlett” he would announce with a twinkle in his deep Donegal tones “Mr Sweeney here”. Hours would be lost putting the world to rights. ‘Why won’t The Racing Post print my letters?’ he would ask.
Sadly – Paddy was shunned by ‘the establishment’ throughout his career. It was a price he was prepared to pay. His services to the greyhound industry were never acknowledged by my journalist colleagues, though he didn’t care for them much anyway.
In the next few weeks I will endeavor to track down a couple of the articles that we did manage to commit to paper. My friend Paddy was too important to have his passing too swiftly forgotten.
A great greyhound man and an incredible human being
