Gaelic Football: In Burgh Quay in Dublin's fair city there is a modest monument that played a part in my life. When first I came to work in the Evening Press, I experienced a degree of hostility that amazed me.
It mainly took the form of anonymous letters and interference with my work - cutting or altering pieces I had written. Almost all of this came from my fellow journalists; I got on well with the men in the printing room. Part of this hostility was due, of course, to the distrust that exists between town and country all over the world. And I often read the inscription on that modest monument to ease my frustration. It tells of how a Garda from rural Ireland lost his life while attempting to rescue two Dublin men who were trapped in the sewer. I doubt if it did much to diminish the concept of Culchie and Jackeen.
We experienced it in a specially virulent form about midway through the first half of the All-Ireland final of 1975. As Mickey O'Sullivan raced up the middle with a goal in mind, he was felled. As he was being borne unconscious from the field, a storm of triumphalism erupted. It was obscene. It may have come from a minority, but they were a very vociferous minority. That hostility owed something to primary teachers from rural Ireland, some of whom showed excessive zeal in inflicting knowledge, especially of the Gaelic language.
The best aspect of the football war that broke out between Dublin and Kerry in 1975 was that it lessened that domestic racism. That war is lovingly chronicled by Tom Humphries in his new book. In a sense, it is as much a story of two men as of two counties. I know Kevin Heffernan as a friendly man who I meet off and on; I rarely meet Mick O'Dwyer but I feel that we know each other well. We belong to the same generation, more or less; we attempted to grow up in the bitter Ireland bequeathed by the Civil War.
Kevin and Mick were good footballers who went on to greater fame as managers; it is fair to say that both left an indelible mark on Gaelic football. Before their arrival you could say that the preparation of county teams was mainly cosmetic. Players achieved a fair degree of fitness with their clubs and from walking and cycling in the course of their daily work. Heffernan initiated the managerial revolution in 1974. Such were his training methods that in later years the very mention of his name caused players to turn pale. When Kerry met Dublin in the 1975 final, O'Dwyer met fire with fire and brimstone with brimstone. I won about 700 very old pounds that day and, flushed with success, bought a few paintings in the Arts Club that night. Kerry had Sam Maguire; I had Arthur Power and James Le Jeune.
It was the best money I ever spent. It became a habit.
Dublin beat Kerry clearly in 1976; they met again in the semi-final of 1977 - it was dramatic and is embedded in publore. Kerry seemed to be cruising into port with 10 minutes to go; a scorequake sparked off by Tony Hanahoe wrecked them at the mouth of the harbour.
If the 1977 semi-final was dramatic, you could say that the final of 1978 was melodramatic. Dublin were so superior that after about 20 minutes, Paddy Cullen was all alone in the Canal half of the pitch. A sudden clearance found Johnny Egan at halfway; he carried the ball about 30 yards and fisted it past Paddy Cullen.
Soon came the most bizarre and the most celebrated goal in Gaelic football or possibly in any kind of football. Paddy Cullen ventured far out of his goal to the left to confront Ger Power - he was deemed to have fouled him. While Paddy was arguing with the referee, Robbie Kelliher handed the ball to Mikey Sheehy who put it down with great care. As he ran up to kick, Paddy suddenly resembled a woman who had smelled a cake burning. He flew back towards goal as the ball floated over his head - it won the race. Dublin didn't recover. An almost unknown man named Eoin Liston scored three goals in the second half. When a ship is going to the breakers' yard, all the vessels in the vicinity sound their foghorns. Now read on . . .
As I came into work on the morning after that crazy game, I experienced its equivalent in the culture of printing. Every inhabitant of the caseroom - typesetters and compositors and the rest - knocked pieces of metal against metal and created an almighty cacophony - the old building trembled. I wasn't sure about the meaning of that unsolicited testimonial but it was the greatest tribute I got in all my life. Alas - it was the last knockdown in Burgh Quay. John O'Shea, my colleague, rang Jimmy Keaveney a little later and said "Were ye a bit unlucky?" The reply was not printed. Life went on.
The counties met again in the 1979 final. Jimmy had been harshly suspended and watched in his street clothes. Dublin seemed lost without him - it was no contest. Rivalry was renewed in the finals of 1984 and 1985. Kerry won both clearly. The saga ended quietly.
The Irish Times has a fine tradition of writing on hurling and Gaelic football: it included PD Mehigan and Paddy Downey and Seán Kilfeather - and now has Seán Moran and Tom Humphries and Keith Duggan. Tom has a special gift for the interview: much of his book is given over to conversing with survivors of the saga. It is an ancient adage that you should keep away from your heroes - this book suggests otherwise. We see that behind every good player there is a good man. You will enjoy this exposure.
My career as an interviewer was brief. I was sent to talk with Seán Doherty. We met in the Blue Haven in Templeogue. The great man was in the midst of friends and admirers. About closing time I got my chance. I said: "Mr Doherty, where did you meet your wife?" "At a bus stop. And it was raining."
Con Houlihan writes for the Sunday World
Dublin v Kerry By Tom Humphries Penguin Ireland, 293pp. €22.99