"Noel," Nancy asked, Tuesday night, and we sitting up in bed asking questions from Christy O’Connor’s book, "will you ever manage the ‘Bore again?"

"I can’t turn sideways in this town without someone asking if there’s any chance."

She added: "I tell them what I told Peter Quinn the night long ago – Noel is Noel, and Noel’ll do whatever Noel wants to do, but if Noel decides to do it, Noel’ll do the job right, or Noel won’t do it at all. That’s Noel for you, I said."

She rolled over and was snoring inside minutes. I tossed and turned for a while, surprisingly intrigued by her enquiry.

Could I? Would I? Should I?

Would even another three-in-a-row give me the same kick now? I hadn’t seriously considered it for years, despite the annual delegation at the door.

I still go to all the matches, of course, and leading up to championship matches, I help out with some tactical stuff: backs-and-forwards, off-the-ball running, my famous ‘goal from the throw-in’ move, and the like.

I stand beside the dug-out for all championship matches too, and the occasional team talk. But that’s all.

Had I have the heart for it again? Has Nancy? (Yes! Of course! If there’s a better man than Nancy to put out bollards, fill bottles, and give a solid half-time blinding when needed, I’ve yet to meet her.)

When the pull is on men like me, it’s hard to resist it, as I tell Dwyer every time he rings.

I imagined Walter P McMorrow’s amazement in his Gaelic Gleanings column. From under the pillow, I fetched some of the old cuttings.

The headlines further aroused my enthusiasm. "Modest Noel admits his masterstroke decided this county final" read one. Then there was "Noel says ‘teamwork paid off’ but grudgingly accepts second-half tactical re-alignment paved the way."

Before I knew it, it was dawn and I hadn’t slept a wink.

Through Wednesday, my sap continued to rise.

Wednesday night, there came a knock on the door. It was the chairman, secretary and assistant Oifigeach na Gaeilge. There was something contrived about Nancy’s apparently wide-eyed greeting: "Gentlemen, it’s a bad night you’re out, what has you here at all at all?"

I knew then her throwaway remark the night before was not as incidental as it had seemed. Moves were afoot.

After 40 minutes on the recession, they cut to the chase. "Noel," started the chairman, "we know you gave this club everything you had, and more, and no man did more, and we hate prevailing upon you again…"

"…but is there any chance at all you’d take them this year? We’ve gone through five outside managers in five years. And not even out of the group once."

And, then: "Noel, if you don’t come back, we’ll go back intermediate entirely. It’s time to put a bit of smacht on these players. And all the money spent on them."

There were tears in Nancy’s eyes as they spoke about the boost it would represent were I to answer the call. After 90 minutes of unstinting praise, I cut their tributes short. "Anything I ever did," I said, "was for the good of the club."

Nancy stared at me through the entire discussion, even while she was out in the kitchen making tea and some of the currant cake for which she is famous (she picked up the recipe from my late mother.)

Men like me were born for the cut-and-thrust of championship football. It is our Globe Theatre, our Madison Square Garden, our raison d’etre. Without it, there is only one hand clapping.

I visualised curtainside trailer homecomings, the week-long tour of the parish, the excitement in the children’s as I tell them how old glories were restored to Ballybore, and, purely to imbue in them a sense of history, a run-through all

my county championship triumphs down the years.

After 20 minutes of silent contemplation, I gave them my answer:

"Give me a week," I said, "but if I do, I won’t tolerate the nonsense that has gone on since I left."

As ever, Nancy’s political antenna was razor-sharp. "That was the way to handle them, Noel," she said, when they were gone, "leave them hungry for more."

With that, I sent Walter P. McMorrow one of the cryptic text messages for which I am renowned. "Don’t quote me," I said, "but there could be something big stirring around Ballybore. Vesuvius on the verge of eruption again."

* There’s a well-known sales theory which claims the person who makes the tea, never makes the decision. I told Nancy to make the tea here purely to throw them off the trail. They were perplexed. For the record, Nancy will fully support any decision I make.

NEXT WEEK: Noel communicates his decision.

Noel gives youth a chance. If they know their place. 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 track him down on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

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