I always endeavour to be helpful to the media. Murt Murrihy, veteran photographer for The County News, will vouch for my affability whenever he asks me to stand in for a snap.

It’s not that I enjoy being in the limelight, but if it means to a lot to a young fellow who has just been awarded U10 player of the year to have me in the picture, I’m happy to oblige.

At Tuesday night’s training, I overheard JP Darmody make much the same point to Frank Lyons. "Frank," he said, in his endearingly gentle way, "we had so many cuttings of Noel up on the wall beside the Sacred Heart, I grew up thinking he was bigger than God."

As it happened, JP’s oral modulation was a touch off, and the entire dressingroom heard his remark, causing all to succumb to a lengthy bout of laughter. Thus is team spirit built: a wise old trout like me is keenly attuned to signs of growing camaraderie. The fact JP felt no inhibition about making me the butt of harmless humour speaks volumes for the progress made.

I have been interviewed by them all: O’Muircheartaigh, the old rogue, dozens of times; Paudie Palmer (I started him off); Bob Lester; and Pascal Sheehy, once, on a garden bench. Accordingly, I was calm and composed for my scheduled interview with Bonnie Sheahan-Franzoni Thursday afternoon, a third-generation Irish-American making a documentary (‘Sane and off-the-sauce: the sporting fix that keeps red-blooded Paddies on the straight and narrow’.) It’s about how the GAA keeps ex-pats in touch with home.

She was a fine girl Bonnie, graceful and earthy. We developed an immediate rapport. I have long noticed how my gentle demeanour, underpinned by an understated firmness, puts women of all ages at ease.

Before long it was "oh, yes, Noel" this, "gosh, I never looked at it that way before, Noel" that, her right arm brushing regularly off my forearm. I sensed Nancy was not bonding quite so effortlessly with Bonnie, which I put down to her natural caution, lest a girl like Bonnie would develop a debilitating dependency. Bonnie admitted to knowing nothing about the game – I lightened the moment by joking "manage the county, so" – and her opening question was certainly not that of a zealot:

"Noel," she said, "you’re Mister GAA here in Ballybore, but did you ever play a bit yourself?"

I sensed Nancy bristle. However, the outrageousness of the question did not discommode me one bit. It was clear three failed marriages had left Brooklyn girl Bonnie uncertain and vulnerable.

"Did I ever play a bit myself," I began, deliberately, for dramatic import, the hallmark of any good documentary, "well, eleven county titles, seven provincial championships, five All-Irelands, four Railway Cups, and two Texaco Awards – if you call that playing a bit, I suppose I did."

The interview continued in that tone. I remained patient and understanding, of course. Yes, I did study for the Priesthood in my early 20s. Yes, it probably did cost the county two more All-Irelands. Yes, my being a selector did render me ineligible for inclusion on the Team of the Century

Yes, I had been county chairman, treasurer, secretary, and PRO. Yes, I’m still Youth Officer. Yes, I was asked many times to run for Uachtaran. Yes, Ballybore means more to me than anything else, with the possible exception of Nancy and family.

Yes, I have been to America. Yes, we trained on the boat. Yes, I played in the Polo Grounds. Yes, I was introduced to the crowd at Gaelic Park.

Five minutes ran to two-and-a-half hours as I helped her piece together the minutiae of my career. The lads started arriving for training. A lesser mortal would have been aghast at the thought of these practical jokers circulating during such an extensive interview, but I welcomed the likelihood of some jollity.

"The boys love nothing better than poking some innocent fun at me," I told her, conspiratorially, on the record, "and that’s great, because they were in awe of me first with all I’ve achieved in the game. I keep telling them, I’m just an ordinary mortal like themselves. I find it touching to see them lose their nervousness around me."

As if on cue, JP Darmody came into the picture, walking on his knees, stopping in front of me in the manner of a possessed supplicant reaching the end of a long, exhaustive pilgrimage. He swooned as if overcome by religious fervour when confronted by the Deity he had come to worship – in this case, my good self.

Blessing himself, he buried his head in the ground, and spoke in riddles.

"…forgive me, Noel, for I have sinned, it’s been three weeks since my last training session…oh clement, oh loving, oh sweet Ballybore legend, play for us…Oh Noel, I know I’m not worthy, but pick me wing-forward, and those backs I will worry…"

He continued in that entertaining vein for five minutes. We all laughed heartily, most notably the players. They are really warming to the playful side of my personality.

"She’d my head cracked, Noel, mutton dressed as lamb," said Nancy that night, "but the JP crack was mighty. That’ll bring the lads together and return the Frank Franks to its rightful place."

She’s right, of course. I fell asleep dreaming of deftly landing planes on the River Bore, and inspirational homecoming speeches on the curtainside. Like the planes, everything’s going swimmingly.

Noel would never milk outside the bucket. Email him at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or shadow him on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

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