Man and Ball: technological follies and fumbles

It’s a different pre-season to usual, but not exactly for the reason you’d guess.

Because of the restrictions on public gatherings, the annual poc fada on St Stephen’s Day (or Stephenses’ Day, to give it what seems to be its more common name in conversation) had to go by the wayside. We weren’t alone in that, of course, but the post-Christmas congregation on the roads – and the subsequent debriefing session in Nóirín Byrne’s pub – meant that there was usually a heated exchange or two, leading to a rift as training began in January.

Absence has made the hearts grow less belligerent at least, though it should be noted that there was a suggestion that the poc fada could somehow be held remotely. My old mucker Larry Maher summed things up though when he said that the cheating was rampant enough when there was witnesses, so asking lads to self-regulate was like making Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid joint-bank managers.

Most of the players are thankful the ‘creative’ January sessions are restricted to their computer screens. Every new manager felt he had to be original by deviating from the norm in trying to build fitness. When Pat Giles (the biggest farmer in the area) took over, he brought the team out to the farm and had them lifting bales – “You can’t cheat a bale!” he’d roar as we saved him diesel by feeding his cattle.

Seán O’Toole, a fabled ‘outside manager’, wanted to earn his (ahem) travel expenses, so he felt that the legendary healing qualities of Lough Dineen, 20 miles away in Baurleigh, should be used for midnight swims, when the plankton or algae or whatever were most potent. None of us were keen, but you have to go along with what a new boss wants in case he takes a set against you early and you can’t get out of the bad books. Except for Paul O’Regan, that is. He went to the trouble of setting up a fake Facebook account and going on the Baurleigh Community page to report an infestation of electric eels in the lake, ensuring it was given a wide berth for a few months. Nobody thought to question why a South American fish should be decamping to Ireland.

With a tighter budget this time, we’re gone back to basics with an indigenous manager in PJ Harris; a legendary player in the 1970s, but perhaps not someone who has kept pace with the developments in the modern game. I was asked to be a selector but conjured enough excuses to get out of it without getting on his rather large bad side.

Someone who did agree to be part of the management, though, is Steve Keohane, who would still be playing but for a bad run of injuries during what should have been his prime. Steve did sports science in college but avoided suspicion among the old guard by putting in full-blooded displays on the field. So it was that he could appeal to PJ’s better nature by suggesting yoga sessions via Zoom for January, as a way of building a rapport between team and management as much as anything else. In order to show that PJ wasn’t yesterday’s man, he would be taking part as well.

He began the first session with a speech that hit the right notes – no need for barnstorming so early in the year, just an expression of optimism for the campaign, whatever lay ahead. Noting the absence of some of the stars, he promised that the 13 players present would be starting the first league game.

After that, he gave the floor over to the yogini, Niamh, but unfortunately his lack of familiarity with the video system meant that he didn’t mute himself. So it was that, ten minutes or so into it, he was heard to tell Theresa, his wife, to bring a cup of tea, some of the leftover Christmas cake and the fancy Aldi biscuits.

From the kitchen, Theresa questioned the wisdom of such an example during what was essentially a fitness session and, again, the reply was audible for everyone else. “Sure this yoke is on silent! Anyway, it’s only most of the dregs are here. I told them they’ll play in the league but there’ll only be a championship this year!”

The second session wasn’t as well-attended as the first.