I’ve always done things differently.

"I’m not your typical dyed-in-the-wool mentor," I told the Ballybore minors the first year I took them over, 1955, "You are modern young men, not one bit like my generation growing up, when all we had was the game of football in the meadow of an evening, and a marquee dance every two months."

They appreciated the empathy. Well I remember that year, and the exasperation of the club executive when I hired a bus to bring the team to the cinema for team morale. Most of the lads had barely seen the inside of a bus before, let alone the inside of the Carlton inside in town, before.

That one gesture brought them out of themselves and gave them the confidence you need. And the suit of clothes for every man before the county final! Oh, how the executive felt threatened. I have always been quite the maverick.

The communal club bicycle was another innovation rigidly opposed by the Gods of Ballybore, but how it worked: that bike brought more quiet, rural lads into the club than any promotional initiative ever undertaken, apart from, as Nancy often says, my own annual The Whole Noel Summer Coaching School.

I was a proud 20 year-old as we toured the parish – on bicycles – with the county minor cup that year. I stuck to my guns to the very end: despite widespread denunciation, my two-man full-back line tactic completely discommoded our amalgamated opponents in the final.

The club chairman begged me to put myself on for the last 20 minutes – "sure these are a backward crowd, Noel, there isn’t one of them able to read, let alone track your feats in The County News, go in yourself and stick two quick goals and come off again", were his exact words.

I didn’t know the cut of Nancy’s hatchet as well then, though we were going out for almost two years, but I do recall her pursed lips as she heard this exchange on the sideline. "Noel," she whispered to me, solemnly, and she out of breath after giving one of the lads a rub, "if you go on, your reputation as a sportsman don chead scoth will be shot to pieces."

And, then, a long pause "…but a county final is a county final…" She had an older brother manning a corner-back berth, as best he could, and, like the rest of us, she was keen for us to win.

As she spoke, the lads conjured up two magnificent goals. They were the best minors I had in a 43-year stint at that grade, and while some in the parish have been known to make disparaging remarks about the Annual Reunion of the Minors of ’55, that sole county minor championship victory remains a source of great pride to all here in Ballybore.*

I recall as clear as day the gracious speech our captain made, as he stood on Meara’s high wall, and the pig roasting slowly on the spit: "Here in Ballybore, all we care about is football – chasing that leather – and tonight we are rewarded for our dedication."

"That’s right," roared a local wit, moved by the great success, "the football, and Ol, Ceoil, Feoil, Dole – agus Noel." Oh, how the people of Ballybore enjoyed his spirited contribution. I bowed my head, and, after 35 minutes, bade the gathering to cease their generous applause.

As it happens, the Annual Reunion of the Minors of ’55 took place last Sunday. The same format as always: meet for a training session and a conditioned handpassing game at midday, followed immediately by lunch and the video of the final at 3pm, the traditional motivational session with the current Ballybore team until about 7pm, and, much to my embarrassment, yet another presentation to honour my humble role in that famous success.

The giggle that accompanies the captain’s concluding words ever year – "go mbeirimid beo ag an am seo aris" – doesn’t quite generate the levels of mirth it did in the early years. "The ‘an am seo aris’ won’t be too long, with Noel around to organise the reunions" was one comment that generated an enormous laugh a few reunions back. But, as time goes on, the cohort of ’55 minors still the right side of the grass gets smaller ever year, and it’s no longer a throwaway aspiration.

Before they break up, they like me to give them a motivational talk. "Men of ’55," I told them last Sunday, "your display in that county final serves as an inspiration to us all.

"The tide was going out. Supporters looked to me, shouting things like ‘Noel, for the love and honour, do something lad?’

"But, together, we pulled through. What matter their goalkeeper emigrated to Cleveland unannounced the following Thursday, in the fall-out from those two goals, and has only come for funerals of close relatives ever since? The only thing that matters is that, once again, the knee we didn’t bend.

"And it’s the spirit of Ballybore that will pull this country through at a time like this."

Without the aid of notes, I spoke in this vein for close on two hours. It was riveting stuff. Most of the survivors of ’55, transfixed by my inspirational oration, took to leaning their heads back, closing their eyes, and beathing in and out deeply, rhythmically, to full absorb my call to arms.

When it was over, they were deeply moved. "We’ll see you next year, Noel," they said, "that’ll be a big year, 55 since ’55." And, already, I feel that familiar stirring.

* The fact that none of the team made the county minors that year speaks for itself.

Noel is his own golden circle. 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 get your share on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

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