Joe Brolly: Happiness is…

LAST Saturday, after they had just beaten Clara in a wonderful game of hurling, I walked into the O’Loughlin Gaels buoyant changing room. When the noise subsided, their manager and legendary Kilkenny hurler Brian Hogan said, “Joe, what can be done with the football?”. The room went silent. “Ban it,” I said. The place erupted.

Liam Hinphey, the James Stephens man who came to the Castle Ballroom in Dungiven one night in the 60s, fell in love with my aunt Mary K and never left, went on to turn Dungiven into a hurling mecca. Once, in Jim McReynold’s bar (Liam called it ‘the office’) he was asked why he was so opposed to football. “The football is a bit like homosexuality,” he said, “It’s alright among consenting adults but not something to encourage in the young.”

During my five days in Kilkenny, they referred to me as “The football man” or “The Derry footballer.” I had not realised it was such a beautiful county. Rolling pastures, idyllic villages, blue skies, sun and of course hurling.

The night we arrived I went for a quiet pint in Malzard’s ancient bar in Stoneyford. When I went in, I was the only person there.

As the stout was settling, I could hear the barman on his phone. “You won’t believe who’s sitting in front of me…The football man from Derry… Yes, the TV man.” Twenty minutes later, the great Richie Power senior came through the door, looking mighty.

As the night went on, Powers and Fennellys gathered and I listened, wide eyed as a child at their stories of hurling All-Irelands and great hurlers past and present.

The next morning, I was leaving the hotel to head for a day of hurling championship matches, when I slammed on the brakes. There, strolling casually out of the foyer was Liam McCarthy himself, in the company of Tony Kelly. His team mate Paul Flanagan was getting married. Paul asked me if I had any advice. “Yes,” I said. “Agree with everything she says. Arguing with your wife is like arguing with a Donald Trump supporter. Logic is irrelevant. Never try to win an argument. If one starts, head it off at the pass. Agree with her and apologise. If she asks what the shoes are like on her or the turquoise dress, tell her they are beautiful. What does it matter to you what colour the new curtains are or what sort of kitchen you have?” “I’ll remember that” said the groom. My reward for this life changing advice was a photo with Liam. It is all well and good to see the sacred chalice on the television. To see it in front of you, to hold it in your hands, is a mystical experience. “Amazing goal” I said to Tony as I was leaving. “Stop” he said, shaking his head.

In Kilkenny, they stagger the championship matches so you can go to four in one day. 12 noon, 2.15pm, 4.30pm, 6.45pm. I started with O’Loughlin Gaels v Clara. I tried to pay the €5 at the gate but they wouldn’t take it. (By saturday night, I still had the fiver. My money was no good, as though they were spreading the gospel to someone less fortunate.) A seat in the middle of the stand followed. A few months earlier, I had been in Kilkenny returning a 50 year old favour. The last time I saw Eddie Keher it was the late seventies and he was sheltering under a table in the Dungiven clubhouse after a bomb had gone off in the Main Street.

He had come up with Brian Cody, Sylvie Linnane, Pat Delaney, Fan Larkin, Pa Dillon and teams from the legendary Village, Freshford, Kinnity and Gort clubs to promote hurling in the town and give us a huge lift. It was a reminder to our beleaguered, under fire community that we were not alone.

So when Eddie rang me in May this year to do a fundraiser for the Rower Inistioge, I was thrilled to fulfil the duty. Unfortunately, I had to drive down and up as I was in the middle of a criminal trial, and that night I promised myself I would come back for the first round of the Kilkenny championship.

So there I was last saturday, sitting in the stands with Eddie Keher. The game flew by. Afterwards, the great Kilkenny corner forward Adrian Ronan and Oisin Langan interviewed me for Radio Kilkenny. Then, it was out the gate for more hurling championship. My last game of the day was the intermediate game between The Rower Inistioge and Danesfort in the magical setting of Thomastown’s field. What a game it was!

Like all of the matches that day, it was a shock when the referee blew the half time whistle (Is it half time already?). In the second half, with the game in the balance, Danesfort’s Richie Hogan took control, dropping back round the middle, firing three wonderful scores and generally leading his team to a narrow win in a terrific game. What a delight to see one of the greatest ever hurlers close up in the flesh.

At half time in all of the games, the pitch was suddenly packed with boys and girls of all ages, a couple of hundred of them with their hurls, zipping the sliothar back and forth. I closed my eyes and you could hear the tick tick tick of ball on hurl and the happy sounds of young people absorbed in the sacred art.

Before I left, I was presented with an O’Loughlin Gaels shirt and a Rower Inistioge shirt, with my organ donation campaign Optforlife emblazoned across the back. Both these fabled clubs, like hundreds of other clubs across the GAA world, wear it as an act of solidarity and love. My son Niall wore them all this week on alternate days until his mother finally nabbed them and got them in the wash.

I would love to have been a great hurler. I played with our under 14s who beat the fabled Dunloy in the 1982 Feile final in Croke Park. I won senior club championships with the Kevin Lynches. But in the end, I was a living example of Liam Hinphey’s description: Football is only for the lads who aren’t good enough to hurl. In Kilkenny, they don’t even have the option.