Get in the Ring, Dessie!

Mr Dessie Farrell, self-styled chief executive of the self-styled Gaelic Players Association, has been doing the media circuit again lately. Dessie has been droning on about a final smackdown between the GAA and the GPA over players’ “rights.”

To which An Spailpín Fánach says: Bring it on, Dessie. It’s never been entirely clear just whom the GPA represents, and that leaves cynics wondering that maybe they just represent themselves. A glance at laughably named Facts and Figures section of the GPA website is instructive: President, DJ Carey; Chairman, Dónal Óg Cusack; Secretary, Kieran McGeeney. It reads rather like the roll-call of the Justice League of America, don’t you think? President, Superman; Chairman, Batman; Secretary, Wonder Woman, and so on.

The current bee in Dessie’s bonnet concerns certain grants that the government has made available to all inter-county players for the great contribution they make to public life in this great and wonderful little green nation of ours. The sordid details of handing out the actual gelt the Government is leaving to the peons, of course. It’s infra dig for the Government to get it’s hands dirty, you know. You know yourselves the chances of the average civil servant being able to do it.

The GAA itself can’t administer these grants, as that would be tantamount to paying for play, in complete contraction with the organisation’s beliefs. And this is where Dessie sees his chance – he wants the GPA to act as the intermediary, or bagman, to distribute the loot.

The GAA is damned if they’ll let him get away with this, and they’re right. Bad and all as paying players for playing, paying Dessie and the boys to pay players for playing is just plain stupid.

Dessie is currently doing the media rounds throwing shapes because the media lack either the will or the knowledge to call his bluff. To wit, there never will be a players’ strike called by the GPA because that would be the same as turkeys voting for Christmas, and Dessie doesn’t fancy giving it all away just yet. Besides, even if the media haven't done their sums, I'm sure Dessie has - a grant of €5 million, as reported in the Irish Times link above, distributed among 150,000 GPA members, works out at €33.33 each before tax, and about seventeen clams or so after it (as the GPA would never encourage tax evasion). Hardly enough to throw away an inter-county career on.

What will happen if all the GPA members in the country decline selection for their counties? Nothing. Their county boards will find someone else to wear the shirts, and the county will be represented just as before, on those countless other occasions when players declined selection. The striking GPA member will then be in considerable negative equity with his team manager, for whom any sign of doubtful commitment is almost always a reason for the chop. You say county teams can’t go without their star players? It’s October – they can all tick along just fine until May at the least. And An Spailpín Fánach gets the feeling that no-one is going to give up their Championship summer just so Dessie Farrell can ponce around like some sort of Séamus Guevara. In the meantime, Dessie Farrell is just taking advantage of a dim and docile media to try and Uriah Heep some positive PR for himself and his organisation.

I would suggest that the next time Dessie appears on any media outlet the interrogator asks him a few questions that An Spailpín Fánach – always an eager student of the human condition – is quite anxious to know.

1. Who pays Dessie Farrell’s wages as CEO of the GPA?


2. Who pays the rent on the GPA offices at 132 Lower Drumcondra Street, Dublin 9?


3. If the GPA owns the premises, how did they fund the purchase?


4. Who pays the rest of the wages for the full-time staff of the GPA, to say nothing of the three new positions currently advertised?


5. If they GPA is so awash in money, does that not invalidate their central thesis, that the players haven’t a pot to piss in?

Time to call these jokers’ bluff. They make me tired.






Technorati Tags: Ireland, sport, GAA, GPA, Dessie Farrell, Justice League of America

All-Blacks Bite the Dust - Who Weeps Not for Baldr?

The cheap sniggering that’s accompanied the spectacular crashing to Earth of the best team at the Rugby World Cup™ has been unedifying, and the one bum note in what’s otherwise been a spectacular weekend for the game of rugby football. We are a nation that allows its head coach to make an eejit of himself bigging up Triple Crowns when the real action is elsewhere, and have been celebrating a game we lost (v Australia in 1991) for sixteen years and counting. Can you imagine the reaction here if Ireland had been on the business end of referee Wayne Barnes’ zanier decisions?

But that’s rugby. The New Zealanders like to big up their team, but your close-attention-paying correspondent doesn’t hear much whinging out of them. Chris Jack was interviewed on Newstalk last night, before the Scotch game. He sounded like a man at his own funeral, but never once did he whinge or whine. To do so would have been the work of a “sook,” and the All-Blacks were never that. They have been able to dish it out, but now they’re taking it, and taking it like men. It’s hard not to feel that the tournament is poorer without them.

Not least as Saturday night’s quarter-final would have made such a thrilling final, if the tournament had gone according to plan. Just what exactly happened is harder to figure, as three narratives are already developing. The first is that the Blacks got done. The second is that they choked. The third is that the French were able to strike back at the Blacks by playing the champagne rugby for which their nation is far-famed and of which is rightly proud.

The incredible potency of the ball-in-hand approach is George Hook’s analysis, a man lately much given to discussing potency, according to the worrying ads An Spailpín Fánach has seen in the gentlemen’s rest rooms of the bars of Ireland. On this occasion, however, George must be on stronger tack than the little blue pills. Surely, as Brendan Gallagher points out in the Telegraph this morning, the reason that the French were still in it was because Bernard Laporte, who’s been derided as a fool since his appointment as head coach of France, played a tactical game at the start and kept the All-Blacks frustrated for the first hour. To go toe to toe with them was to invite doom. Instead, the French waited for their opportunity, and struck hard when they got the chance. Richie McCaw mentioned the same thing in his post match press conference, and he ought to know.

Judgement on the referee is up to the individual. These things happen in rugby and the game is such that referees’ interpretations will always have an influence stronger than the ideal. In the 1980s, games were won and lost according to how the old lineout was refereed. Now, it’s all about reffing the breakdown. The bottom line is that the ball just isn’t round, and it’s going to bounce funny from time to time. C’est la guerre, la vie et la rugby. The choking is something your philosophically inclined correspondent hopes to look at more fully before the tournament is over - or else just after it. Watch this space.

New Zealand's demise was not the only shock of the quarter-finals. For the first time ever your correspondent, who has shed tears for Parnell and always thinks well of the Fenian dead, was cheering England for all he was worth on Saturday as they screwed Australia to the sticking-post. Australia was always more a league than a union nation, and their inability to scrummage correctly is proof again of that. Fare thee well to them.

South Africa are the team that are coming out of this tournament the best, as momentum builds and builds behind Die Bokke. New Zealand’s experience shows how vulnerable you become without hard matches, but too many hard matches will leave you physically smashed to ribbons – not many Frenchmen will be able to sit up today after putting in tackle after tackle on Saturday; in fact, Imanol Harinordoquy probably lacks sufficient strength to shave off that disgraceful moustache of his. Die Bokke got a thorough going-over from Fiji, and the Argentineans will have a good close look at them as well, but South Africa will not have that just-spent-the-night-in-a-cement-mixer feeling that the winners of France v England must endure. An Spailpín hopes it's France - cheering for England is something An Spailpín can't do every week, and besides, my little flutter on France is still alive. Où est la vie, l'espoir, mes petits!

Finally, An Spailpín is sorry to write off the Argentineans, who have thrilled so many in this World Cup, not least with the firefly genius of their stand-off half, peerless Juan-Martín Hernández. But the law of diminishing returns was looming over the Argentina as they huffed and puffed against a severely limited Scotland, and that law will be fully enforced by South Africa on Sunday night I’m afraid, when it looks very much like a case of buenos noches, Buenos Aires, and thanks for the memories.





Technorati Tags: sport, rugby, Rugby World Cup, New Zealand

Tuarimí Éagsula Bainisteorachta agus an Séú Geansaí is Fiche

Tá an ionchoinse ar cad a tharla foireann rugbaí na hÉireann i gCorn Domhanda na Rugbaí, agus conas a d'fhágadar na h-oilean mar an bhfoireann is fearr in Éirinn riamh, agus a d'fhilleadar ar ais mar caoirigh ina gclampar féin (maith thú, a Bhabs!), faoi lánsheoil arís. Agus mise féin i mo mhac leinn síceolaíochta an duine, tá spéis mór ag bhur Spailpín faoin mbearna mór a d'éirigh idir na h-imreoirí ar an gcéad XV agus na h-imreoirí ar an ndara XV - na realtaí agus na maoir uisce, más maith libh.

Dar le Eamon Ó Súilleabháin, oiliúnóir foirne na hÉireann, sin mar a bhfuil an saol - tá Drico níos fearr leatsa agus mar sin caithfidh tú fanacht ar an mbinse agus do ghobsa a dúnadh, agus a ndúnadh go daingean. Ach tá tuairimí eile ag bainisteoirí eile, agus tá Seán Ó Mathúna, TD, taobh thiar céann de na scéalta is ansa liomsa maidir le foirne, imreoirí ar imeall na foirne, agus síceolaíocht an duine féin.

Bhí Seán Ó Mathúna ceapta mar bhainisteoir na Gaillimhe le cúpla bhlian, agus meas mór air ar fud na tíre tar éis rugadh na Gaillimhí ar a gcéad Craobh le dhá bhlian is triocha i 1998. Ag an am seo, bhí geansaithe nua ag Gaillimh agus bhí na h-imreoirí go leir cruinnithe le cheile ag Johnno chun phictiúr nua na foirne a thógail agus iadsan gleasta go leor ina ngeansaithe bhreá nua. Ach nuair a tháinig na geansaithe nua, ní raibh ach cúig gheansaí is fiche ann - bhí ceann amháin dul amú.

Duirt an t-imreoir gan geansaí gan bhac leis, go mbeidh sé ceart go leor, gurbh fhéidir leis an griangrafadóir an geansaí nua a chur isteach leis an bhFótóshiopa, ach ní ghlacfadh Johnno le seo. Amach leis a ghuthán phoca, chuir sé glaoch ar an bhfear taobh thiar na ngeansaithe nua, agus thóg Johnno an cluas uaidh go dtí go mbeadh an séú geansaí is fiche aige. Choinneáil Johnno an painéal le cheile, gan le déanamh acu ach féachaint ar a mbrógaí agus a dtóna a scríob, go dtí gur tháinig an séú geansaí seo. Ach nuair a tháinig an gheansaí ar dheireadh agus a thógadh an phictiúr agus a sciop na h-imreoirí abhaile, bhí fios maith acu nach raibh duine acu níos tabhactaí ná duine eile i súile Sheáin Uí Mathúna.

Beidh sé suimiúl go leor, nuair a dtiocfaidh na dirbheatháisneisí amach, cad a tharla don nglúin órga - agus an glúin gheal a bhí acu chun deochanna a thabhairt don nglúin órga agus tart acu.

FOCAL SCÓR: Insíodh dúinn leis na miosa gurbh iad seo an fhoireann is réidhe riamh. Má bhíodh siad réidh, cé ar thug cead dóibh dul amach le brogaí donna ar a gcosa agus culaithe dubha ar a ndroma? Ní ghlacfeadh Glenda leo dá mbeadh sí ann fós, bail ó Dhia uirthi!





Technorati Tags: Gaeilge, rugbaí, Eddie O'Sullivan, John O'Mahony

Penguin Celebrations

It gives your faithful correspondent great joy, on his visits to the bookstores, to see the Penguin Celebration displays.

Anyone that enjoys books is generally aware that you can, do, and should judge books by their covers. Reading one of those gorgeous old Pan James Bonds from the sixties is a completely different feeling to reading one of those cheap looking seventies editions. And it’s a marvellous idea on Penguin’s part to celebrate their publishing heritage by taking thirty-six books from the modern canon and republishing them according to the old Penguin house style – orange for fiction, green for crime, and so on. When you pick up Niall Ferguson’s Empire, for instance, browsing the Penguin Celebration edition is a completely different aesthetic experience to browsing the original. In fact, reading the Celebration edition reminded your Spailpín Fánach of nothing so much as the happy month he spent some years ago going fifteen heavyweight rounds with the blue Penguin edition of GM Trevelyan’s splendid Shortened History of England. A comparison Ferguson himself would be delighted with, I would suspect.

So many of the books in this Penguin celebration series are worth reading, just as so many, sadly, are not. Ferguson’s Empire was quite fascinating, especially to Irishmen and women of the Republican tradition, who may be looking at Imperial Britannia with slightly different eyes after this. Not that the Tans should ever have burned Cork or hanged Kevin Barry, of course – that was taking it too far.

Some splendid choices there in the fiction section, with White Teeth having pride of place in An Spailpín selection. The sniffy tone with which Zadie Smith is discussed in the British literary press is so disappointing – as far as your constant quillsman is concerned, Zadie Smith is the greatest chronicler of London daily life, in part and in entirety, since Dickens. Go on, my son!

Marina Lewycka’s Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian is one of those books that is almost rotten, and yet somehow quite good at the same time. Of course, living up to so magnificent a title was never going to be easy. I see Nick Hornby and our own Marian Keyes are in there as well. They shan’t be troubling An Spailpín Fánach. And I must catch up with Zoe Hellar’s Notes on a Scandal – she’s always been very much a favourite as a features journalist.

Robin Lane Fox’s The Classical World was such a disappointment, although An Spailpín’s hardback edition is a very impressive bookcase behemoth. Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation is endlessly fascinating, but why don’t people realise that it’s not about the food? You shouldn’t really need a book to tell you that eating in McDonald’s can’t be good for you; what’s fascinating about Fast Food Nation is how it charts how we’ve built this terrible industrial world we live in. Chomsky how are you.

Lovely to see Donna Tartt’s The Secret History in the crime section. The Secret History is one of those marvellous cult novels that will always generate a thrill of recognition between acolytes, like two Freemasons finding each other at the Electric Picnic. An enthusiast may go to his or her fellow believer, touch them lightly on the arm and say “Bunny simply had to die, you know.” There is only one correct response – “I know; there was no other way,” and then walk away in sorrow. Marvellous.

Given the choice, I would have left Rumpole in the Bailey myself and published John Mortimer’s marvellous volume of autobiography, Clinging to the Wreckage, instead. Mortimer’s family used to take turns reading poetry aloud (the only correct way to read poetry) at the dinner table during his childhood; Rumpole’s own attachment to Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch’s Oxford Book of English Verse brought to the light.

Travel books mean little to An Spailpín Fánach, as he’s a man that won’t go to the end of the garden if I can help it. The essay collection, too, is something of a disappointment. No Joan Didion, and the fact they’re only celebrating books that post-date the original Penguin covers rule out the master of the genre, William Hazlitt, but Jeremy Clarkson instead? I saw that World According to Clarkson translated into Polish in Borders in Blanchardstown last Wednesday night. I became weak, and had to stagger off into Lidl down the way, for a shot of that Hungarian hooch they have on special offer. Beautiful and all as these Penguin Celebrations editions are, we cannot be fully sure that books are entirely while with the Clarksons of the world are still on the loose. Couldn’t they have celebrated Anne Fadiman’s lovely Ex Libris instead? Jeremy Clarkson. Dear me.




Technorati Tags: culture, books, publishing, penguin, penguin celebrations

An Andúileach Drugaí, na Ceoltóirí Sráide agus Cór Nimhe na n-Aingeal

Bhí tuairisc ana-ghreannmhar ar Morning Ireland ar maidín faoi crinniú Comhairle BÁC atá chun coisc ar cheotóirí sráide ag seinnt ar sráideanna éigin na cathrach a phlé. Bhí bean éigin darbh Lucinda ann sa tuairisc, agus ise ag tabhairt amach faoi fear agus a thíuba ag seinnt ar na sráideanna agus gan ach dhá phort ar eolas aige, siadsan "When the Saints Go Marching In" agus "Happy Birthday to You." Mí-shástúil go leor, ar ndóigh, ach tá an bhean chéanna ina cónaí i mBéar an Teampaill, agus 'se mo thuairimse féin go mbeidh uirthi cur suas lena dóthain eile seachas a duine agus a thíuba.

Tá ceoltóirí sráide im' aigne agam as ucht rud a chonacas oíche Dé Sathairn. Bhíos ag cur fúm ar Shráid Grafton anseo i mBleá Cliath, ag breathnú ar chúrsaí na h-oíche ag cúig nóiméad chun a deich, nó mar sin. Tháinig triúr, beirt cailín agus buachaill, os comhair siopa HMV agus thosaíodar triúr ag canadh - an Wild Rover, más chuimhin orthu i gceart. Ach - agus tugaigí áire ar seo, tá sé tabhachtach - níor chanadar i stíl tradisiúnta, ach i stil chóir, cosuil le Cór na mBuachaillí Vienna nó Cór Airm Deirg na Rúise. Bhí beirt soprano ann, agus an buachaill mar countertenor, agus bhí gach rud go h-álainn, i ndáiríre, cé go raibh sé neamh-coitianta.

Ag an am céanna agus a thosaíodar ag seinnt, tháinig andúileach drugaí ina measc, agus eisean ar a bhealach anuas, chuig Fhaiche Stiofáin. Bhí gach rud ceart go leor leis, agus é féin "buzzin' like a bee," mar a dheirtear ina dhréam, nuair a chuala sé an ceol mí-dhomhanda seo.

Stop sé, agus d'fhéach sé thall is abhus, ag iarraigh foinse an cheoil a fháil amach. Bhí sé corraithe go leor, agus ní nach ionadh. Is docha gurbh iad Aslan agus Christy Dignam is ansa leis mar cheol, agus ní cloiseann sé an saigheas chanaidh seo amach ón eaglais. Agus nuair a chuala sé an ceol, ar shíl sé gurbh cór na n-aingeal iad na ceoltóirí, agus go raibh a dheireadh leis?

Tá fios ag gach andúileach drugaí gur crua an saol é, agus go bhfánann an bás taobh thiar gach aon choirnéal. Nuair a chuala mo dhuine an cór nimhe seo, ar shíl sé go raibh a uair tagtha faoi deireadh?

Bhí air bheith cinnte. Chuaigh sé chuig na ceoltóirí, agus ag iarraidh orthu "where are yiz from? Where are yiz from?"

Lean an cór ar aghaidh lena n-amhráin, agus d'fhill a chrógacht ar ais le mo dhuine. Ba é a thuairim, is dócha, más cór na n-ingeal iad agus iad ar a thóir, go mbeidh barántas éigin acu air, agus nuair nach raibh, bhí fios ag an andúileach drugaí go mairfeadh sé cúpla uair eile. "Well fair play to yiz," a bheannaigh sé díobh, agus ar aghaidh leis ar a bhealach arís, isteach i ndorchadas na h-oíche.

And it's no, nay, never,
No nay never no more
Will I play the wild rover
No never, no more....





Technorati Tags: Gaeilge, Baile Átha Cliath, ceol, andúileacha drugaí

Reddan, Steady - D'oh!

This bleary-eyed blogger is surprised that neither the traditional media, nor our new friends over at the marvellous Fear of God blog, has noted that in selecting his team to play France on Friday, Ireland head coach Eddie O’Sullivan has reverted to one of the most sacrosanct traditions of the old amateur era. This is the tradition of picking a man for the game against France in Paris for his very first cap, and then somehow expecting him to escape alive. For a time it was as much a part of the Parc des Princes experience as the cockerels, the band behind the goal and the adidas ball with the black spots that meant damnation for the Irish placekicker, who could no more kick the thing than a bag of potatoes.

Remember Ken O’Connell, the openside flanker of Sunday’s Well and Ireland? His career started and finished on the edge of the Bois de Boulonge, God love him. An Spailpín would have long forgotten the poor devil except that the Sunday Times, almost certainly when Tom English was still their rugby correspondent, interviewed O’Connell years later and asked him what it was like to make his debut in the Parc des Princes. Hell on Earth was his answer. Equally, Moss Keane reminisces in his recent autobiography about being raked in the face during a ruck in his international debut in Paris in 1974, when his aggressor drew so much blood that the dazed Moss realised that if only they had a bucket to collect the blood Ireland could have made black pudding.

Welcome to the big time, Eoin Reddan.

Eddie O’Sullivan’s relentless CV padding of recent years means that Eoin Reddan, with half-an-hour’s international rugby under his belt, is now expected to turn around the tanking Irish, and to do so while the likes of Serge Betsen or Chabal is trying to turn him into a melodeon. When Ireland played the might of the Pacific Islands in Ireland’s last game at Lansdowne Road, Reddan wasn’t even on the bench. Issac Boss started at scrum-half, and Peter Alexander Stringer was on the bench. Stringer had seventy caps and won the Heineken Cup for Munster the preceding May. What could he show from the bench that hadn’t been seen already?

And the cost of that is that Eoin Reddan is now being asked to do the impossible, to turn Ireland out of the nosedive they’re in currently. An Spailpín Fánach hopes it works out for him, but my goodness gracious, it’s certainly a lot to ask.

The bizarre thing is, of course, that scrum-half isn’t the position most in need of change. There is no point in dropping the Piper Hickie either; as Donal Lenihan pointed out on Newstalk’s Off the Ball last night, dropping Hickie is like dropping a corner forward in football if you’re getting a hiding. Generally, you’ll find the problems are nearer the action.

What An Spailpín Fánach would do – presuming that he can’t turn back the clock two years and see those autumn internationals as they are – is start Alan Quinlan. Whether it’s in the second row or the back row I don’t care; I would give himself and Leamy 00 licenses and tell them to just take their chances with the cards. Besides, if they do a good enough job, the ref will be too scared to bin either of them. This would have the beneficial effect of putting the French on the back foot, and let’s not forget that Freddy Michalak (did you see the state of him on Sunday night? Good God) isn’t going to fancy being on the back foot much – least of all with Leamy or Quinlan trying to rip it off.

But out from that, there’s no hope. The campaign is already a disaster, and the only thing the team can do now, realistically, is try to stave off humiliation. As a fellow Mayoman and Ballinaman I wish Gavin Duffy all the best, and it’s my dearest wish that he can be the toast of Paris come Friday night, but anybody who has any appreciation of the impossible thrill of seeing a man running with ball in hand has to have his or her heart broken by the shameful current treatment of Geordan Murphy. These are grim days for Irish rugby.







Technorati Tags: rugby, Rugby World Cup, Ireland, France, Eoin Reddan, Geordan Murphy, Eddie O'Sullivan

Land of Coop and Glory

The nation turned up or tuned in for an All-Munster All-Ireland Final yesterday, and got an All-Ulster one instead. Pucking, dragging, joulting and general sleeveenism as far as the eye could see yesterday. Nearly broke this Mayo’s aesthete’s heart – I thought someone could get hurt out there.

Before An Spailpín Fánach’s good friends from the North leap to their keyboards in defense of the Red Hand, to let me know I’m a soft Free Stater and the rest of it – relax fellas, I come to praise Ulster, not to bury her.

While Armagh and Tyrone beat Kerry on the field in 2002 and 2005, they still lost the propaganda war, and are still losing it. Pat Spillane came up with the puke football phrase in 2003, and it stuck. Rank hypocrisy on Spillane’s part of course, because anybody that hasn’t noticed by now that Kerrymen speak with bifurcated tongues hasn’t really been paying attention.

If you listen to the Kerry propaganda machine, you’d think that football in the Kingdom involves no contact at all, and simply involves a panel of judges giving marks out of six according to how one’s style matches Micko or Maurice. This is not the case. Kerry get down in the trenches with the best of them, and have done all through their history. It’s a little more obvious with this current generation, with the misfortunate Paul Galvin as the poster-boy of that approach, but trust your Spailpín on this one – they always knew how to take or land belts in the Kingdom. You don’t thirty-five All-Irelands simply executing fouettés en tournant and glissades en arrière in the shadow of the Hogan Stand you know.

And that’s all fine by An Spailpín Fánach. Certainly yesterday’s All-Ireland didn’t measure up with the great games of the past, but whatever chance of the that happening disappeared with the second Kerry goal. That doesn’t make Kerry bums and, equally, Kerry don’t give a rooty-toot-toot what the rest of the nation thinks. Football discussion in Kerry takes place strictly on their own terms among themselves, terms to which we, as strangers, can scarely comprehend. Thirty-five All-Irelands gives them the right to look on football in a manner different to the rest of the country. Paul Galvin himself said in 2004 that there’s always something special about winning your first All-Ireland; it’s only a Kerryman that would choose that particular adjective, first, because it’s only a Kerryman that can reasonably expect a second All-Ireland as a matter of course.

Equally, while Galvin is a lazy target for sanctimonious sports commentators, I’m pretty sure that he’s not barred from too many homes in his own spot. And if An Spailpín Fánach was picking a team in the morning, he would by golly have Galvin on it. And Dara Ó Sé too, whose failure to make the Sunday Game team of the year tells you more about the Sunday Game than it does about Ó Sé. Above anyone else, Ó Sé seems aware that the day to turn on the good stuff is the third Sunday in September. He was magisterial yesterday, just like always, and a real contender for man of the match, along with Donaghy and Aidan O’Mahony.

That Colm Cooper got man of the match after his magnificent 1-5 was the highlight of the game, and the feat for which the game will be remembered. Dara Ó Cinnéide, writing in Foinse the week before last, remarked on how odd it is that Cooper doesn’t have a higher profile, considering just now gosh-darned good he is – something of which Dara himself was all too aware, having been dropped himself for the precocious Gooch in 2002 or so.

Cooper has it all – Noel Walsh and your humble correspondent were discussing just how one would attempt to stop him if one were unfortunate enough to have to mark Cooper when Noel and I spoke on Shannonside / Northern Sound this lunchtime. I didn’t like to say it on air as I hate giving bad example to young people but it stuck me the only way to stop Cooper would be to have a lead pipe half-filled with concrete concealed in one’s sock, and to boff him with it every now and again when the ref isn’t looking and it’s been ensured that the umps aren’t squealers. Even then, as your correspondent recalls a despairing Cork back leaping on Cooper’s shoulders in the first half, only to slide off as Cooper charged for the Canal End goal, a lead pipe mightn’t do it. It might only get him riled, and in the mood to make a right show of you.

All thoughts in Kerry as the winter draws in will be on their three-in-a-row prospects for next year, and it will seem especially delicious to them down in their Kingdom now their great rivals of the century, Armagh and Tyrone, are in the doldrums. But when Dublin declined in the 1970s a power arose from a totally unexpected source to put the Kingdom crying, which is part of the sheer magic of the Championship. It’s only over, and I can’t wait for it to roll around again. In the meantime, hats off once more to Kerry, who are masters of the game in all its facets. Deserving and worthy champions.





Technorati Tags: Ireland, sport, culture, GAA, All-Ireland Final, Kerry, Cork, Colm Cooper, Gooch