The Olympics transformed the life of Terry McHugh in an irrevocable manner. It wasn’t a whimsical or fairy tale transformation but a permanent alteration to his life. In 1988, as a 25-year-old production manager in a garment manufacturing unit, he attended Seoul Olympics. At that time, his life consisted of a corporate job with an attractive salary, the stress of handling 240 employees, a brand-new house, a company car, a work week of 50 to 60 hours, and the perpetual grind of corporate life.
Seoul compelled him to contemplate his existence and life choices. Even though he was the first Irish man to participate in the javelin throw at the Olympics, it did not resonate in any meaningful change to his life, not that he anticipated anything. His journey as an accomplished athlete was akin to flying blind. The governmental financial aid was inadequate and had shoddy administration. Athletes pursuing sports full time were virtually non-existent in 1980s Ireland; they seldom had a chance to thrive. The Irish culture was deeply ingrained with other values such as Catholicism, capitalism and amateurism.
Upon qualifying for the Olympics and informing his employer, his boss’s response was simply ‘Brilliant’. McHugh, however, took the least possible amount of time off to participate in the Olympics. Now, reflecting back, he realises how regressive the entire situation was. He landed in Seoul approximately five days prior to his event. He was practicing with Carlos O’Connell for the decathlon and both happened to have similar distances in their throws.
McHugh recalls having a sense of leaving his potential behind and wondering if he could find the perfect approach to throwing the javelin again. He was soon going to participate in one of the most prestigious sports event in the world, and was battling to regain his momentum. Finally, when he pitched his first throw in the stadium, it marked an Irish record of 76.46 metres. Not only did it alleviate his stress but also made his Seoul experience an unforgettable journey.
Upon his return home, McHugh was confronted with a profound realisation; he couldn’t simply turn his back on the situation. The issue wasn’t about his potential Olympic involvement, it was about his personal path and progression. He questioned how much he could develop his own ability and if he was willing to pay the price. The only concern that held weight were the first two questions.
The fact his father was seriously ill triggered some introspection. He realised in the solitude of his thoughts that although he had the capacity to involuntarily dedicate his life to work until he was 65, the same option was not available for his sports career. Thus, he found himself with two choices; manage his work commitments and give more time to sports, or withdraw from sports.
He was in a comfortable financial position. He purchased a house for £33,000, taking benefit of a first time home buyer’s grant of £3,000 from the government. He was making £15,000 annually, which meant he was earning roughly half of the cost of his home in a year. From a financial perspective, pursuing sports full-time was essentially unwise.
Yet, despite the apparent foolishness, he moved forward with it. The decision can be described as an obsession or even madness. However, for McHugh, it was primarily about trying to push his limits and be the best he could.
Despite his commitment, his finances took a hit. He found himself almost £8,000 down in his first couple of years as a full-time athlete. Nonetheless, once he stepped on this path, there was no room for doubt or turning back. He collaborated with some sponsors and initiated a side business of selling trophies to make ends meet.
His situation was slightly eased by state funding, although it was irregular and often came with varied assessment criteria. McHugh was at odds with the system, constantly having to validate his choices while striving to reach his goals. During one instance, his grant approval in March was processed in August when he competed in the World Championships. The funds only reached him after he stressed the situation and requested for an immediate transfer to cover his mortgage payments. He acknowledged that he had chosen this life.
Being among the first full-time athletes in a nation did bring along a share of negative reputation. The comments like ‘He doesn’t work’ were not uncommon, even within family circles. My sister, after the Barcelona Games, asked me when I planned to quit, perhaps because of her concern for my well-being as she was someone with a regular job. My retirement, however, only came after some time.
At the Sydney Games in 2000, I became the first and singular Irish athlete who competed in six Olympics: four were Summer Games participating in javelin and two Winter Games participating in bobsleigh. My effort to qualify for the Athens Games in 2004 was unsuccessful. On the Olympic appearances list, there are other multiple-timers, but my position is unrivalled, high up among the clouds.
Since 1992, the Winter and Summer Olympics have had their own separate cycles, however, that same year, I competed in both: the Albertville in February and Barcelona five months following it, a unique feat in itself.
The Irish bobsleigh team was an idea brought to life by Larry Treacy, a businessman born in Britain with Irish parentage. He had an love for winter sports. The whole operation was executed on a budget. My partner in the duo bob, Pat McDonagh and I were the only crew, except for the secondary team of New Zealand, that didn’t compete constantly on the World Cup round. The funds depleted after we attended three World Cup events that season.
The endeavour was groundbreaking and invigorating. It represented a audacious step out of their comfort zone. A retired racing bob was used for practice runs in an ice rink at Dolphin’s Barn and we would perfect our take-offs and pushes there.
It’s difficult to describe the experience as fun. Bobsledding involves eight hours at the track for a brief two minutes of exhilarating ride on a sled’s back. The process included heavy lifting, preparing the sleds, loading and unloading, managing the equipment and other organisational tasks. We managed our own logistics.
The thrill of competing at 120 kilometres per hour in the bobsleigh race was incredible. It was akin to driving a low-riding vehicle with no suspension, manoeuvring around 15 curves on a narrow country lane, attempting not to crash. It was a wild experience and the opportunity to spend a month enjoying ice sports with a close companion was incredibly enjoyable.
However, the journey to the top was not without its hazards. Prior to the games at Albertville, training led to McHugh sustaining a knee injury. During the bobsleigh race, the only stipulation was that he avoided bending his knee beyond 90 degrees. Despite this, a return to the gym in preparation for Barcelona saw his knee condition deteriorating.
Many would criticise McHugh’s performance in Barcelona, but the reality was that the 1992 season was marred by the aforementioned injury. The lack of professional support led to inadequate recoveries, and none within the system had the power to inform him that he was unfit to participate in Barcelona’s games. In hindsight, it was an incredibly poorly managed situation.
Recognising the need for external assistance after the Seoul games, McHugh sought out the guidance of John Thrower, responsible for Team GB’s javelin athletes. The team embraced McHugh, with renowned javelin thrower Steve Backley becoming his training partner. Despite McHugh’s superior strength, speed, and jumping capabilities, he couldn’t beat Backley’s prowess in javelin throwing.
Track and field sports like javelin had their fair share of challenges, notably doping problems. McHugh, however, was not inclined to participate in foul play. He stayed motivated by believing in his potential and observing the successes of clean athletes like Backley. With three Olympic medals and four European golds won without resorting to cheating, Backley was a testament that genuine talent still held sway. His pursuit of such authentic brilliance was what drove McHugh.
In 1987, during a trip to Germany, I was told by someone in the German sports system that securing a medal in a clean manner was beyond my reach. I saved their contact details and rang them years later, after accomplishing a throw of 84.54, to share my achievement. Their astonishment was palpable, yet they reminded me that I had yet to clinch a medal in a major championship and advised me to quit bobsledding.
In my view, I could have attained a medal during the European Championships in 1994. I made it to the final after launching a throw of 82.14 in the qualifier, and the bronze was achieved with a mere 82.50. However, an injury to my abductor in the fifth round put a definitive end to my race. In spite of the setback, that event showed me that success, albeit improbable, was nonetheless within my grasp.
As I reflect on my career, I note that many of my competitors were eventually found guilty of using performance-enhancing drugs. My feelings on this matter could easily come off as the resentful lamentations of someone who never clinched victory. However, it would be untrue to claim that such events do not still arouse a sense of bitterness within me. There were moments in my sports career when I seriously considered using such substances, contemplating the idea that I must be foolhardy not to. But I am satisfied with the choices I made, and do not regret choosing to remain clean. That decision still holds significant meaning for me.
I firmly believe that my best throws were powered by emotion – a potent blend of yearning, intent, and the magic of the moment. These feelings were elusive, and not always there when I needed them the most. Take the Swiss Championships as an example, where I missed the Olympic qualifying standard by a mere 80 cm after the best throw I’d accomplished in almost four years. My plea for inclusion in the team was rejected by the Olympic Council of Ireland. In desperation, I sought entry into the British Grand Prix at Crystal Palace a week later. It was my last shot, but I surpassed my Swiss throw by over a metre, meeting the A standard.
Throughout my career, such miracles seemed to occur with some frequency. For instance, nine years prior in Limerick, I managed to launch a throw of 84.54 Metres, the longest of my career. Such an achievement always began with a feeling.
“I recall cautioning myself, ‘Don’t start rejoicing, you haven’t yet launched the javelin.’ However, I was certain that it was going to be a successful throw, there was no doubt about it. It felt as though something within me just blew up. It was the strangest feeling.
“I was attempting to maintain my composure. I sprinted to the end of the track and I hastened there, fearing that this sensation might fade away. I struck the javelin and before it even touched the ground, I was already in a state of celebration.”
The throws came from deep within him. Those were the emotions that drove him on.