In Kilkenny a few weeks ago, the American writer Richard Ford gave a brief and scathing introspection of his time working for a sports magazine. He recalled, with comic horror, the dread he, as a sportswriter, used to feel approaching the stars of his nation and seeing the disdain in their eyes, the ill-concealed contempt with which they half mumbled replies to his questions. Though Ford has long since left those days behind, he affectionately recalled the one athlete who used to afford him a basic measure of respect. He was, in sporting circles, nobody special, just a journeyman baseball player who possessed a sense of courtesy and humility in an environment where neither traits were fashionable.
In Ireland, we are lucky. Although the traditional understanding between GAA players and media members has suffered from alarming erosion in recent years, there are exceptions. There are, occasionally, wonderful and unforgettable diamonds of conversations with players who care enough to simply . . . talk.
One such moment took place in the very city in which Ford embarked upon his glum reflection. Kilkenny's favourite son, DJ Carey, was to be found sitting in Langton's hotel last Monday night, perhaps a dozen people encircling him.
The Gowran man, at 29, is already a mythical figure. He is the Michael Jordan of his game and, like the basketball legend, DJ "came back" to his sport after his bombshell retirement in 1997.
But, since that time, he has played in two All-Ireland finals and lost both. Last September, he went scoreless. Now, on Sunday, he returns with Kilkenny for a third consecutive final, facing the accusation that he has yet to leave his touch on the greatest stage.
"That criticism is there," he says, "and I have no problem with it because, when I am going to sleep at night, the first thing I do is criticise myself. But I do feel that enough people don't see the bigger picture.
"It's just `what did he score?' Like, I got praised for my semi-final performance against Galway because I got a goal and then it was said I worked very hard. Would that have been said without the goal?
"I felt I worked just as hard in the All-Ireland last year, laid on passes that fellas might have driven wide or whatever. On Sunday, yeah, absolutely, I would love to have the game. But I'd truly more love to win. I won't be putting any extra pressure on myself. If it happens, fantastic."
For most of a decade now, Carey has been seen as one shaped by a divine hand, as truly gifted. He is Tiger Woods without the logos and the fruitcake father. That he didn't make the all-time hurling 15 is a circular argument.
What is beyond debate is that Carey has, at times, done things with a hurl and ball that seem beyond anyone else on this earth. Goals are his art, his medium. The sweeping speed, the heart rush, the flourish; goals are the way he best explains himself.
When asked about his favourite, he selects a county final move from 1996, when he apparently changed the hurl from hand to hand while soloing. "That was for the parish and was very special.
"There was the goal against Wexford that won the match. I remember one against Tipperary in the National League when I went up with three fellas for a sideline ball and batted it in. It's hard to pinpoint because to get any goal is just a great feeling.
"I got a goal against Antrim a few years ago and a lot of people say it was better because it came back off the bar and I hit it in then. But I'd prefer if I'd walloped it in first time. Though I'd have to say, I really miss the handpass goal.
"I got a very good goal a few years ago in an intermediate county semi-final by running along the endline and handpassing it in. Because the kick, well, . . . in Kilkenny, it can go anywhere. We don't practise it too much down here."
Carey gets enthused by goals; not just those of his hand, but by the very concept. His whole game is driven by a joyous lust for attack. He has, famously, never been booked in his long intercounty career, a statistic which he is proud of and which could well have closed in the semi-final against Galway when he careered into Ollie Canning.
"I have never been booked, no. But I don't go out with that in mind. I'm not as soft as - I'm not saying how soft people think I am - but I'm not that soft on the field. But I don't go out to crease a fella either. I ran into the Galway man, but I didn't go out to do him.
"I went to hook him, but he turned his body to hit the ball to the far side of the field. I couldn't stop myself from running into him. And I can't make any apologies for that. But the day I go out to deliberately injure or hit someone, that's it."
Because DJ has seen enough of such sly malevolence to recognise its cheapness, to see that it detracts from its perpetrators. Sometimes, when a man's legs betray him, he is inclined to do whatever is necessary to hinder his opponent.
He is tempted to sacrifice the values he has long held dear. "My advice to him is - give it up," says Carey.
"If that happens to me, the day I find myself having to turn nasty, well, it will be bye-bye. Now, you will get a few belts in games. I have over 250 stitches in my face and head. I've had my nose broken three times even though I have worn a helmet all my life.
"I broke this (touching the left of his face) jaw several times. And some of those blows are accidental. But there is no way that the handle of a hurl into the face is accidental or a hurl coming from behind is accidental. You get that and then hope that the referee will protect you."
But it is impossible to fully protect Carey from the forces which orbit his sporting genius. He has been treated a lot more shabbily than he deserves, but remains steadfastly open, gallant and hopeful.
His "retirement" taught him a few things, maybe wised him a little on the vagaries of human nature. Carey walked away from the game amid a welter of rumours, most of which emanated from the land in which he is messiah.
"I might have been naive to think my retiring wouldn't have been a big story, but, as a player, you can't really appreciate what's out there, how people feel. At that time, I was putting up with stuff I didn't need.
"Like, if you are getting, `oh he didn't play because his brother is not on the team', if you are getting that sort of shite - forgive my language - you just don't need that.
"And I can guarantee you, if I had my brother playing on the team, if he was good enough, there'd be even more pressure on me. But it was everything - my business and things to do with that. And it was small-minded people, begrudgers who hadn't the guts to start their own business that were behind all this talk.
"But, what I later found was that, for every one of these people, there were 1,000 fully behind me. And it has not totally gone away, but it doesn't affect me now, good, bad or indifferent."
As Carey spoke on, his words burning with a quiet incandescence, the crowd around swelled and still he made it seem casual, like an invited gathering. Sunday's All-Ireland final reeks of closeted dangers. Losing three All-Ireland finals would be unconscionable in itself, but, that it is Offaly, the laughing, wizardly team that await them again is troubling.
"It has been a bitter pill to swallow because every year we have gone up there with the greatest confidence and to get those kicks in the teeth, well, it is very disheartening.
"Running on to the field the next day in front of 60,000 people, a kind of freeze can come over players. I'd never criticise any player that takes the field in Croke Park. The chill that goes down your spine is incredible. And Offaly will be as nervous as us the next day. It comes down to whatever team gets the breaks."
As it does, in every sport, right across the globe. This Sunday, the nation will tune into Croke Park and, each time the maestro gets the ball, we will expect. And, deep down, DJ Carey demands that expectancy; he expects our astonishment.
"Hurling is what I know," he said that evening. "You can be good at other sports. But golf is not my life. Hurling is. It is the passion that I have."
The sport is blessed.
