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 Dimitri from Newtwopothouse (the Cork one, I presume) writes: “Noel, you’re typical of the modern-day reporters – all flowery language, and tuppence ha’penny opinions, and no facts and figures.
The Examiner is full of your type.“ We expect more from you and Nancy. We still don’t know how Ballybore got on in the first league game. Information, please.”
I have long operated on the principle that a fellow who has to ask should never be told. But, for the record, Nancy and I are both exceedingly happy with Ballybore’s start to the season: two league matches played, both lost, both by five points or more, a player sent off in each match, a walk-out by Nancy, two referees put in their box, three dropped players causing dust storms in the car park, one mother not talking to us, and the chairman talking out both sides of his mouth. “Mighty entirely,” said Nancy Thursday night, as we reflected on the season to date while watching the Dragon’s with the commentary turned down. We only keep an eye on it because it was us who dared DJ’s woman to go through the entire series without spending a single cent. “I wouldn’t like to get caught in a round with her at a wedding,” joked Nancy, who’d never let it be said.
Of course, the doubters are beginning to raise their heads around Ballybore. He should never have gone back, they say. Times have changed. The old Noel won’t work with them. I’m a bit like Paul Galvin. I have them all in the black book. Nights I lie awake dreaming of the Frank Franks up on the curtainside, and me hushing the crowd to silence, not speaking until there isn’t even the sound of a distant vehicle, taking an hour or two if necessary until complete stillness is achieved, and then…
…a 45-minute servicing of all those who ever doubted. Names and all. Things they said. When they said it. Where. At the interval of a poetry reading in the library, February. In the queue in the car tax office, May. Back of a taxi going to Cloyne, July. During the picture round of a Niall Mellon table quiz, October (the night before the county final, high treason.)
Of course, it is but a fantasy. My innate sportsmanship would preclude me from ever besmirching the integrity of a homecoming by indulging in petty score-settling. When the time comes, as it most assuredly will, despite the two hammerings we’ve got, I will do what I’ve always done – say a short few words for no more than half an hour, and over another half hour introduce every panelist, starting with No. 30 and working backwards. My witty anecdotal nuggets will capture the essence of each man in a flattering light and inspire great swells of pride among their assembled families: “Ultan Dalaigh – gave blood, sweat and tears for Ballybore – dry-lining the dressingrooms. At the dear rate. Pity we couldn’t get him to stir on the field”; “The great Pat Culhane – brings a whole new dimension to the phrase ‘deceptively slow.’ He dummies left. He goes left. If anywhere at all”; “Errol Lynch – close the gates, or he’ll solo it home. If he had a home to go to. Mary might have caught him typing on another man’s terminal, but no-one can deny his loyalty to the jersey, and that’s always a good sign in a man”;
And so on, in that vein. The crowd will love it. The game is gone far too serious – and not serious enough either – so anything I can do to lighten the mood, I will. Still, levity aside, I’d be aiming for an upturn in Ballybore’s performances after the St Patrick’s Day get-together in our house. We’ll watch the club finals together and vow not to be in Ballybore this time next year.
“If Nancy and I have to break our sequence of 37 years as Grand Marshal of the parade, lads, to lead you out on Croke Park, we will – sure it’s time we gave someone else a chance for a year anyway,” l’ll tell them. No Ballybore team has risen to the challenge yet. Something tells me this could be the one.
They have a nonchalance about them, as if they couldn’t give two hoots about Gaelic football. You can’t coach that sort of insouciance. Insouciance wasn’t even invented when I was playing, but I had it myself, and Walter P McMorrow often wrote about it: dancing eyes, fire in the belly, and chest out, all wrapped up in a deceptive languidness that might cause the easily-duped to think you were half-innocent. I had it. Maurice Fitz had it. Connell too. But you could never rely on Connell, of course.
So that’s where we’re at. Right on track. Just trying to be the best we can be. I wouldn’t worry one bit if we lost the first half-dozen league games, as long as we are doing the right things. I don’t mind players making errors. You’ve got to encourage them to take a risk. This is a special bunch we have, in my humble opinion. They take direction so well. We have players you could blind for a full half-hour – trust me, I’ve run this experiment – and they’d still be laughing back at you at the end of it much the same way DJ’s woman handles the entrepreneurs.
And if they’re half as cagey as her, they’ll get their just reward.
Noel always put his hand in his pocket. And sometimes leaves it here. Email him at
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; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or stand him a round on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel).
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