I was running Nancy through her weekly Vertical Leap from a Standing Start* test, when the phone rang. "Ballybore 213," she replied, breathless, "ah Tony, yourself that’s in it, tell O’Flynn I disagree with his analysis of left half-back play in the book. I’ll put Himself on."

The sports editor asked me to "craft a think piece on the presser, Noel. The readers will devour your take."

I told him I wouldn’t be able to make Cork, as I had promised Daithi O Se to co-present Glor Tire with him, but I could do an opinion piece for Tuesday.

There followed a long silence. "Not the Cork boys," he barked, "your own presser for the Ballybore job. That’ll shift papers."

Yes, the dilemma on whose horns I had shifted for a full week. Would I stay gone, or would I chance coming back, or can you ever really come back a fifth time?

Rather than let rumours fester, I invoked my entitlement (as a Parochial Committee member) to convene the first Whole Parish Meeting held in Ballybore since we saved the railway. Others might have been un-nerved by 450 people squashed into the Canon Con Concannon Memorial Hall, but, Thursday night, I was calm and composed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began, after the chairman had one-two, one-twoed the microphone for a full five minutes, prompting one audience member to enquire if he was learning to count.

I looked left at Eileen McCabe with her triplet sons. To my right, Walter P McMorrow, quill at the ready. A metaphor about past and future coinciding began to form, but my intense reflections were cut short by a loud cry from the back.

"Noel, if you go back, will the Ballybore forwards run again? I saw more movement in Antarctic penguins guarding eggs under their feet."

A loud ‘ooooh’ swept the room like I hadn’t heard since my goalbound shot in the ’58 semi-final veered just wide.** And, then, the aching silence. All eyes on me. The hungry sheep looked up, but would I feed them?

Would I, the man Walter P once dubbed The Voracious Carnivore of Ol’ Ballybore, satisfy their basest need (stay up in the league, and a run in the championship)?

Taking great care to remain in side profile, I began: "Ladies and gentlemen, sudden times. Banks falling. Jobs lost. Emigration up."

I continued: "Politicians fail us. Media depresses us. There is a leadership vacuum today."

I paused. There was a deep longing in the 450 faces staring up at me. "You," I addressed them, "are My People. I have spoken at your weddings, played your music on my radio slot, and orated at your funerals.

"I have elevated your empty, weary lives by winning county titles for you."

From the back of the hall: "Noel, there was only new car ordered around here this year – a 09 Sunny – you must be coming back."

A gale of laughter swept the room. I recognised the sustained mirth for what it undoubtedly was – an anxious release of chronic tension, pent up since word of my possible return had gripped the parish.

Five minutes later, we were in a position to continue. "Ladies and gentlemen," I elaborated, "tonight you seek light at the end of the tunnel"

Another pause. "Well, tonight, ladies and gentlemen," I resumed, "you can dream again. You can believe in the man in front of you."

And then, barely audible over the rising chorus of cheers, I added: "Know this Ballybore, when next your footballers play, they will have pride in the jersey, or my name is not Noel."

There were rapturous scenes. Nancy led a standing ovation. Some of the players – I was clearly mistaken in my evaluation of them as deep-rooted cynics – took to crowd-surfing up through the hall singing Football’s Coming Home.

Others chanted, rolling the ‘o’ and ‘e’ sounds in Noelie in a style not dissimilar to Johnny Spillane in A Song for Rory Gallagher. It went on forever, almost lifting the roof off the hall.

I don’t mind admitting I put my legendary modesty aside as I reflected on such an uplifting occasion.

"It would restore your faith," Nancy said, as we sat up talking later that night, "to see footballers bowing ‘we are not worthy, we are not worthy’ at the front of a hall, this day and age. They can say what they want about the youth.

"Now, give me the jotter and we’ll draw up the plan to run them to within an inch of their lives. It will be a great year, mighty sport entirely."

I nodded sagely as if to say "you’re certainly right there, Nancy." And, lest there be any misinterpretation of my gesture, I said: "you’re certainly right there, Nancy."

* She needs a step-ladder to clean the eave-chutes these days. In the old days she often managed the two-storey farmhouse. I saw some deterioration in her wrist work, too, when sparring with Michael Shields. I will push her so that hardening of the arteries does not set in.

** You’re right, that was the day I caught the resultant kick-out and landed the equaliser.

Noel makes the hard calls. And never reverses the charges. 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 block his run on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

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