The Austin Burglar

What a very unusual build-up there's been to this Mayo-Cavan game. For a game that leads to another day out in Croker in the (please God) hot summer sun, the reaction and rumblings at home have been muted. There is no real sense of anticipation, only a vague tingling of dread. Dread of losing, dread of what exactly Kerry would do to County Mayo in ten days' time were Mayo to be so careless as to beat Cavan.

John Maughan, normally a man that can seldom resist the footlights, has gone to ground, leaving just Georgie Golden as his representative on Earth. The only word that seems to be coming out of the camp is that "Marty McNicholas is going well in training"; only thing is, we've heard that about Marty Mac since Pat Holmes first brought him on board. Marty, Maloney, Andy Moran - these fellas are always flying in training. No news there.

The really interesting thing about this game, at the remove of Wednesday evening, is whether or not Austin O'Malley will pull on the green and red when it matters. Austin was one of the stars of the 2004 league campaign, but he only got two runs out in Championship afterwards - the dying minutes of the Connacht Final, and the dying minutes of the second replay against Fermanagh, the All-Ireland semi-final. He did not get the call on the fourth Sunday, and, while he spent a hot ten or fifteen minutes running up and down the sideline in this year's Connacht Final, he did not cross the white line.

Why not is the chin-scratcher for all Mayo fans. Austin was popping them over for fun in the league in 2004, not least in that miraclous and joyous game against Dublin in Castlebar when he scored seven, from frees and from play, from right and from left. That's not bad. He did well down in Cork as well, but as the ground got harder the word began to seep out that Austin was a bit of mudlark. That Austin had very little by the way of jet engines, and would be found out on the hard veld of high summer. Or else Somebody Important didn't like the cut of Austin's jib.

Whatever the reason, Austin was sparingly sprung during last year's Championship, and never had a chance of a start. So why he's starting now is the three-pipe problem, as Mayo's championship, and John Maughan's reign as Mayo manager, both hang by the same thread.

If Austin starts, why is he starting? Has the Mayo Brains Trust spotted something at last? If he was "going well in training" we surely would have been told - by Georgie, inevitably. So could it be that Maughan has decided bugger it, I've nothing to lose? I'll spring Austin and my critics will have one less stick with which to beat me?

The last named is An Spailpín Fánach's best guess. It's the final shout in the Last Chance Saloon, and Maughan is sending for a saviour from the Wild West - or, to be more precise, Louisburgh. The only thing that's causing An Spailpin Fanach concern is that Austin is meant to be filling in the same role as saviour as BJP, An tIolar Breá Iorrais, was meant to be doing in the Connacht Final, and see how badly that went.

Not that an tIolar should be blamed, of course. Billy did as he was told, and if his ball providers couldn't find him with the ball, he could hardly be expected to whittle one out of the goalposts. The thing is, if the ball coming in wasn't coming in to BJP, who's to say it'll come sailing in to AOM? Besides, wasn't Austin playing at wing-forward on that marvellous day in Castlebar, where a man has some space to turn and shoot? Surely there's a world of difference between playing on the wing and playing as that forward with his back to the goal?

If Austin is given the 14 shirt, does that mean that an tIolar should have his wings clipped? Is there an single intelligence behind all this, or is the current Mayo setup like something from a Pirandello play, with Fifteen Footballers in Search of a Manager?

Radio Johnno will be fascinating tonight at ten o'clock. Hopefully. It depends on the Great Man's mood, of course. Sometimes you get ball-hopping, having-a-cut Johnno, but other times you get butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth Johnno, who is a touch on the dull side. And is there any chance of giving Heaney a run at midfield? His interview in this week's Mayo News, where he admitted lapses of concentration in a position that he acknowledged can badly punish such lapses, make for another nervous trip to Da Hyde. Will Austin save the day and, if he does, will he start again against Ciarraí in a week's time?

Biff! Bang! Pow! Violence and the GAA

It is with a weary and bloodshot eye that An Spailpín Fánach has been observing the mild eddies of outrage in the media after the slapathon that was the Ulster Final. Same old, same old, I'm afraid. Peter Canavan will get his sending off rescended, Stephen O'Neill already has had his rescended, and there's a fortunate meeting of the Games Disciplinary Committee tomorrow night when they boys can hang a certain Mayo footballer out to dry as an example of the organisation's committment to stamping (boom! boom!) out violent play. And then it's on with the motley, as per usual.

God help any mother's son that has to referee a game of football anymore. The rules, as currently written, have been ignored for at least the past fifty years, if not longer. The famously quoted one, about striking or attempting to strike being a sending off offence, is about as relevant as that Cromwellian law that's still on the statues by the banks of the Corrib, where it remains the case in law that neither "an O nor a Mac shall strut nor swagger" through the streets of Galway city. And you thought the Rossport 5 had it tough.

Striking and "sorting out" have been a part of the game for so long now that to try and stop them would involve inventing a completely different code, alien to what we've been looking at since we were kids. The problem is that while biffing and putting oneself about evolved into the actual play, the written rules were never changed to keep up with this aspect of football's evolution, if indeed football in 1884 was as innocent as Michael Cusack and my Lord Bishop Croke would have us believe.

It's the Irish solution to an Irish problem, and when the game was strictly amateur this didn't matter so much. These things happen, it's a game for the players, yada yada yada. But Gaelic Football, for better or worse, is Big Time now, where you have men training every hour God sent them and all manner of dieticians and sports psychologists and whatever class of a lug you call those bucks who earn their wages by figuring out that armbands are what win All-Irelands. That's too great an investment in money and time to be messed about with.

The other problem with games going Big Time is that fellas are slightly more inclined to give the rules a bit of a short trip under the carpet. You take as much slack as you can get. For instance, when a player thumps the ball carrier in the kidneys, an offense of the sending-off-for-striking variety as outlines in the Laws, the player simply pleads that he was simply attempting to play the ball, and hit the kidney by accident. There is no law covering that player who's lack of skill is such that he never strikes the ball but somehow always connects with a kidney.

The GAA tried to legislate for this persistent fouling at the start of the year with the Sin Bin that was used in the league, but turned chicken once the moaning started. A pity; it was a noble experiment, and, if persisted with, it may have stopped the appalling vista of this year's All-Ireland Final being decided by the referee.

The referee in an game of football has his work cut out for him as what he has to do is enforce rules that don't exist. If you ever had the social dilemma of asking someone how much they'd like in their tea and for them to reply "I'd like just enough, neither too much nor too little," you know exactly the dilemma that faces any Knight of the Whistle at a quarter past three on the fourth Sunday of September.

What would be interesting of course, would be if a GAA dream could come true and Da Dubs were in the All-Ireland Final. It certainly be interesting if the penny hadn't dropped for who-ever is reffing that final that there is one team that has learned the hardy wee mon lesson, and that's our friends in Sky and Navy Blue. Did anybody notice how the two Dublin defenders in the Leinster Final that were minding Laois' dangermen, Ross Munnelly and Billy Sheehan, were both yellow-carded before half-time? Was that a co-incidence, do you think?

Not only was your faithfully chronicler astonished at how well Ross Munnelly played in a losing cause in the Leinster Final, An Spailpín Fánach was rather surprised he was able to walk off the pitch at all. And that's what this question about violence in football boils down too, the GAA's ideal of what they want their typical footballer to look like. According to the rulebook he's Ross Munnelly, but in reality, the most imprtant player in Gaelic Football today, player of the year, is Francie Bellew. Biff! Bang! Pow!

Michael McDowell and the Vision Thing

Constantin Gurdgiev of Trinity College was a guest on the Business Show on Today FM yesterday morning, and made a remark in passing about vision and Irish politics. Gurdgiev said that there was only one politician in Ireland who was really bothered with the concept of vision, who believed what he believed and asked the people to either back him or not based on that vision. This is in contradiction to the prevailing wind in world politics, where one invents oneself by focus-group, or the traditional way in Irish politics, which was generally a choice between feathering one's one nest, bringing bread and circuses to one's rural constituents, lamenting the Fourth Green Field from the safety of the Free State and being an economic incompetent - 0r any combination of the above.

And that's what makes the Vision Thing so unusual. For someone to say I have looked up the matter and I believe that such a way is the way to go. Vote for me on this basis, not on any other. And, in what may seem like a bizarre choice to someone whose only information about Ireland and Irish politics is gleaned from our remarkably unreflective media, Dr Gurdgiev's choice for this politican of vision, this Moral Leader, is current Minister for Justice, Michael McDowell.

An edited version of McDowell's address to the McGill Summer School in Glenties last week was published in yesterday's Sunday Business Post, and it was this speech that inspired Gurdgiev's remark. McDowell has been so demonised by the media that it's hard not judge him as a man rather than an ogre, so why not take a peek at his McGill address in the SBP, and ask yourself - is McDowell really so terribly wrong in his analysis?

Ivan Neill - Imithe Go dTí an tSíoraíocht

Cailleadh Ivan Neill, iareagarthóir spóirt ar an Western People, an nuachtáin áitiúil i dtuaisceart Mhaigh Eo, an Déardaoin seo caite. De gnáth, deirtear nach mbeidh a leithid arís ann tar éis sochraid duine éigin, ach is léar nach mbeidh leithid an Néilligh againne arís - tá oiléan na hÉireann ró-athraithe ón chéad lá a thóg an Néilleach suas a pheann, chun cluichí an Chumainn Lúchleais Ghaeil a insint dá phobal.

Tar éis sochraid scríobhnóra nó iriséora, is minic a ndeirtear gurb sárscríobhnóir é an fear a chailleadh, go mbíodh an pheann mar claíomh na fírinne ina lámh aige, go mbeadh áilleacht a stíl scríobhnóireachta mar lasadh coinnle ar oíche dhubh dhorcha. Ní féidir siúd a rá tar éis an Néilleach - ní bhacadh sé le stíl phróis ghalánta, nó le stíl Mheiricéanach cosuil le Grantland Rice no Red Smith. Ba iriseoir den seanscoil é an Néilleach - scríobhadh sé cad a tharla ins an chluiche, agus ba chuma leis faoi cibé rud eile. Dá mbeadh cluiche maith ag Séamus Ó Murchú ó Bhaile an Chíl Bhig, seacht gcúilín bainte amach aige, sé chinn ón imirt, insódh an Néilleach go raibh, agus dá mbeadh cluiche maith ag Tomás Ó Ceallaigh ag imirt mar cúl báire ar son Baile na hEaglaise Mhór, insódh an Néílleach go raibh. Tar éis tuairsc an Néilligh léite agat, ní bheadh radharc nua agat ar fheallsúnacht an tsaoil nó ar chúrsa pólaitiúla faoi láthair, ach bheadh fíos agat gur imríodh cluiche Gaelach ar an Domhnaigh, agus gur rinne gach aon fear acu ag na h-imreoirí a dhícheall ar son a gceantar agus a muintir.

Níl an stíl sín, an stíl gnáthúil, míghalántach, ró-fhaiseanta sa lá atá inniu ann. Inniu, cuirtear gach cic liathróide faoi crinnmhiondealú, agus i ndeireadh na dála bíonn fíos ag an lucht tacaíochta go léir go fir iad na himreoirí peile, agus go ndeanann botúin, cosuil le gach mac mhathair againne. Ní raibh spéis ag an Néilleach ar sin; ba bhreá leis go raibh cluichí á imirt, agus bhíodh gach rud eile tar éis an scéal dó.

Feictear seo i saothar an Néilleach ag deireadh a shaol, agus eisean éirithe as eagorthóireacht spóirt an Western. Bhíodh sé ag scríobh fós ar cluichí ach, in ionad na cluichí mhóra Mhaigh Eo mar a scríobhadh, cuireadh an Néilleach tuairisceacha isteach ar cluichí scoile. Ní cluichí galanta péacadha cluichí scoile - imrítear i rith an Geimhridh iad, ins an dorchadas, ins an fearthainn, ins an fuacht. Ach ba chuma leis an Néilleach - bhí fíos aige gurb iad na cluichí seo ina théann gach gluin nua peileadóirí faoi bláth, agus ba bhréa do iad a fheicéal i lúchair na cluichí ar leathaobh an Ardáin Móir. Ní bheidh leithid an Néilligh arís ann. Ar dhéis Dé go raibh a anam uasal, agus go mbainea sé sult agus spraoí ó gach liathróid buailte i bpáirceanna an Phárthais.

Greim Daingean ar an nDingle

Léann An Spailpín Fánach ins an Irish Independent ar maidin nach dtaitníonn le chuid phobail An Dhaingin ainm an baile a athrú ón leagan Béarla, "Dingle," ar ais go dtí an leagan ceart Gaeilge, "An Daingean," nó, "An Daingean Uí Chuis."

Tá faitíos ar na daoine seo go gcaillfidh an baile gnó na gcuairteoirí a fhilleann chuig an nDaingean, agus go rachaidh na cuairteoirí a fhilleadh chucu thuas chuig an Chontae Mhaigh Eo, b'fheidir, agus go mbeidh na cuairteoirí sin á chrú ag siopadóirí agus lucht gnó Mhaigh Eo in ionad lucht gnó an Dhaingin. Tá faitíos orthu go ndéanfadh na cuairteoirí a théadh chuig an nDaingean dearmad orthu nuair a fheicfidís "An Daingean" in ionad "Dingle" ar a léarscáileanna, agus fillfidís thuas go Luimnigh nó, níos measa, thíos go Corcaigh.

Mar sín, cuirfear faoin votáil é, aimn an baile a leagan as Gaeilge nó as Béarla ar fhograí, léarscáileanna agus mar sin de. Agus tá sé sin ceart go leor - is daonlathaí é An Spailpín, agus tagann sé le toil na daoine. Ach is saigheas feallsúnóir é An Spailpín freisin, agus dar leis, ba cheart leis an rialtas rud tabhachtach amháin a cheangáil suas leis an votáil seo.

Tugann An Spailpín faoi deara go bhfuil An Daingean i Gaeltacht Chorca Dhuibhne, agus mar sin, tá roinnt deontais ag teacht ó airgead cánach an rialtas go dtí an Daingean chun an teanga a choimead beo i mbéal na daoine. Mura dtaitníonn leo ainm a áit dhuchais a leagan as Gaeilge, is léar nach dtaitníonn leo bheith ina gcónaí i gceantar Gaeltachta ach an oiread. Mar sin, is ceart don rialtas stop a chur ar an abhann airgid atá ag teacht leo, agus é chur in áiteanna eile - na daoine a thug cabhair le Microsoft Windows XP a chur i nGaeilge, nó daoine eile a dhéanann sársaothar ar son an teanga nach bhfagann pioc tada as. Beifear í bhfad níos ceart ná í a chur chuig pobal míbhuíoch an "Dingle."

Glenn McGrath Bowls a Few Snorters Before the Ashes

Anyone with any feeling at all for the great game of cricket has to be licking his or her lips in anticipation of another Ashes series. If England win the toss and choose to bat first, when they arrive in the middle at eleven o'clock in Lord's this Thursday and the opening batsman takes his guard to face the first ball of the Ashes 2005, the man storming in will be Glenn McGrath, looking for his 500th Test wicket.

McGrath, as well as being a tremendously talented cricketer, is also a master of the subtle art of psychological warfare. Have a read of the interview with him in this morning's Guardian and whet your appetite for the battle ahead.

Puke Quiddich

The mountains of hype in the papers and on the news this week about the release of the new Harry Potter book reminded An Spailpín Fánach of something he'd written in early September 2003, just after Kerry and Tyrone spent an All-Ireland semi-final lamping the tar out of each other. I was wondering how well such violence from those beyond the law would translate into another code. Here we go again:

It was another beautiful September Monday at Scoil na bhFaithnemhuic. The butter coloured sun shone its beatific rays all over the old grounds, from the ivy-clad gates, through the ancient halls of the main building onto the bike shed at the back, where Muggeridge minor was busy working on an extra-circular spell to make the girls' scrunchies disappear. He knew that once he could eliminate the scrunchie, the pinafore, blouse and scanties could not be far behind. Taking a deep breath, Muggeridge minor returned to his awesome work.

Unaware of Muggeridge minor's magnum opus, games mistress Letitia Dunbar-Harrison strode out to the playing field, her broomsticks under her arm. Last year the proud old school had got to the Provincial B Final at Quiddich and she had high hopes for her charges this year. It was so nice to see the young people getting out and playing sports away from those musty old books - it always gave Miss Dunbar such a special feeling of reward to see her charges grow as people, not just wizards.

Miss Dunbar distributed the broomsticks and chose captains for a loosen-up game of Quiddich, to run the rust from her charges. After a brief argument over who'd be left with one stout young man on their team was resolved by sharing the burden over the halves, Miss Dunbar strode to the middle, and threw up the ball.

What she was to witness was to stay with her the rest of her life. Young Parry Hotter accelerated onto the pill, snaffled it and turned his stick goalwards, only to be karoomed into the ditch by a burly young man recently arrived in the school. Poor Parry was catapulted into some hawthorns that skirted the playing field, and it was some time before he got his breath back. He leaped back on his broomstick, and flew up to where battle was thickest.

Unfortunately, battle was the operative word that day in the skies. Any time a child got the ball the opposition surrounded him. One would firmly box his ears; another would grab his broomstick and run it back and forth between its pilot's legs - so disconcerting for boys at that age - until the child submitted. The defensive players would mass and attack the player in position like the monkeys in the Wizard of Oz, swooping down, whooping and crying, until eventually all that could be seen was something of a cross between a low flying cumulus and an asthmatic in a lime pit.

This was not the ancient game that Miss Dunbar knew and loved. She gave a shrill blast on her whistle.

"Children!" she cried. "Come down here this instant!"

The children flew down and dismounted. Some where shamefaced, some wore clothes that had been torn to ribbons in the battle, some were crying and some were aching, just aching, for that damned Baden-Baden to come near me one more time and by Jesus, I'll let him know he was in a fight. The children assembled around Miss Dunbar.

"Children! What is the meaning of this?" demanded Miss Dunbar. "This is not the game that I have been teaching you for the past five years, and it certainly not the game that your fathers and their fathers' fathers fought and died for you to play! What is the meaning of this?"

There was silence. And then a small, reedy voice piped up.

"Please Miss," said Parry Hotter, "it's all to do with that Irish game."

"Shut up! Shut it, ya wee tout!" roared Máirtín Mac Aonghusa, his face red and his eyes glaring. "Tell them nothing!"

Brave Parry carried on, the words coming in a tide now. "Please Miss, it's all to do with that Irish game that was on telly yesterday. It was meant to be a great game with the best forwards in the country going at it and may the best man win but instead it was all frees and pulling and dragging and spitting and men behind the ball and force of numbers and Pat Spillane said it was puke football on The Sunday Game and maybe it was and maybe it wasn't but Tyrone won it in the end and isn't winning all that counts?"

"Do you mean to tell me Parry Hotter," said Miss Dunbar, her words icy, "that some bunch of Nordies aren't content with ruining their own game but with ruining ours as well?"

"Please Miss, it wasn't just the Nordies," said Parry. "Kerry were at it as well. Uncle Eugene says so."

"Parry Hotter!" said Miss Dunbar. "How dare you say that about the Kingdom! Don't you know that they have the finest footballers in Ireland? Everybody stands back to admire their Gaelic athleticism, and then sends them home from Dublin every third September with Sam at the back of the train?"

"But Miss," said Parry, aware that he was challenging authority but equally aware that truth conquers all, "Uncle Eugene says that Kerry haven't been right since Meath spanked them in 2001 and Armagh emasculated them last year in the second half. Uncle Eugene says that the first thing any Kerry back did when a Tyrone man came near him was give him a big hug and hang onto him, the way Uncle Dudley said I was to do with a lady if I was married to her or if she was very, very drunk. Uncle Eugene says that they were at it all day, even Séamus Moynihan."

"Enough!" cried Miss Dunbar. "I can't believe that such a thing would be done by anyone wearing Green and Gold. Wash your mouth out with soap this instant!"

"But it was, it was, it was!" cried Parry, oblivious to all caution now. "There were over seventy frees in the game, that's more than one a minute, it wasn't like a game of football at all, it was like rugby league with all the players bucking and bouncing on the ground the way Uncle Dudley..."

"Stop! I've had enough of your nonsense! My ears hurt! My faith is shattered," cried Miss Dunbar, slumping to the ground. The players gathered around her. Some thought of giving her a good shoeing, but remembered that this technically was a stop in play, making shoeing unnecessary. Miss Dunbar looked up at the children through dishevelled hair. The children thought of the shoeing once more, but stopped when she spoke again.

"More than seventy frees, you tell me? Why didn't the ref send anyone off?"

"Please Miss," said Parry - how Miss Dunbar was getting sick of that reedy voice and those dopey bloody glasses - "if the ref sent anyone off then whomever got the man sent off would have been whining for the next month that the ref didn't let the game flow and was being pernickety but when he didn't send anyone off they're all saying that he lost control of the game and he's only a bollix."

"Well, that's not a nice a position to be in," said Miss Dunbar. "Maybe if the GAA made up their goddamn minds on what's a foul and what's not a foul and not listen to half the amount of ráiméis that the ref should have done this or shouldn't have done that we'd be spared nonsense like yesterday. Every other goddamn game on Planet Earth has a set of rules they can stick too - how hard is it for the GAA to do that? You can't have your cake and eat it. Slow Learners of the Earth Unite, wha'?"

Miss Dunbar pulled herself to her feet. "You know," she said, "all this soft chat about Gaelic football has given me a fierce lip for porter. What say I follow another great GAA tradition and introduce you all to the joys of underage drinking? Smear some blackberries on your chins now like good like boys so no-one will know you're under-age and we'll all head down to Pat Joe McGinty's there at the cross - are you on for that?"

"Yes, Miss," chorused the children happily.