No escaping ‘Shanks’!
Tipp defender haunted by his rival’s name
THE LOCAL pub is a wonderful outlet to many G.A.A. fans, particularly on a Sunday evening when arguments abound about performances, and management decisions over the weekend are hotly debated.
When present-day subjects are exhausted, it is not unusual to reminisce and maybe compare our greatest players, and this can very often add a bit of spice to an already passionate forum.
The Sycamore House, which is situated precariously close to my house, is no exception and gives rise to many sporting debates which are excellently refereed by Declan and Mary who are not afraid to produce the odd yellow card (Declan has no time for the black card) if the protagonists are not playing by the rules.
A while back we were discussing the big ball game (yes, I talk about football as well) and the conversation strayed as to who was the greatest fielder of a ball in Wexford football history.
We had a broad range of opinions ranging well back to the ’50s, and names thrown into contention were greats such as Mick Carty, Willie Goodison, Jack Berry, George O’Connor and John Harrington to name but a few.
Well-known local goalkeeper and recent runner-up in the parish Mr. and Mrs. Competition, Lorcan Doyle, listened intently before offering the opinion that he was shocked and a little hurt that his relative, the legendary ‘Tearing Tom Doyle’ of Ballyhogue, wasn’t included on the shortlist.
Tom was a part of the glorious four-ina-row Wexford team of over a century ago and, given the time span, nobody present felt qualified to comment.
Lorcan told us of a day that the Ballyhogue man was so dominating the Enniscorthy Starlights in the air that the opposition detailed a man to take him out.
As Tom left the ground to claim the leather again, his direct opponent took aim and struck him viciously somewhere between the knee and the belly button.
Continuing his upward spiral and gathering the ball, Tom looked down at his opponent and said, ‘you better be gone by the time I get back down’.
Given that the story couldn’t be contradicted, we accepted that no man was better in the air than ‘Tearing Tom Doyle’.
John Henderson was a super defender and one of the toughest I have come across, and his battles with our own legendary Jimmy Holohan (one of the best forwards I had the pleasure to play with) were worth the admission money alone.
Knowing that the Kilkenny man’s full attention would be on Jimmy in a league semi in Croker, I colluded with my great friend and team-mate Billy Byrne (there was none better) to come in from both sides (fairly) on the first high ball, and the rest would be history.
It worked perfectly and, just as it seemed that John wouldn’t continue, he got up in a dazed state looking around for the person responsible for his injury.
Thinking quickly, I shouted to the big Rathnure man, ‘well done Jimmy, keep giving him plenty more of that’.
Sometimes self-preservation kicks in and I knew Jimmy was more than capable of handling the situation. Who said corner-forwards weren’t cute?
Moving county, ‘Babs’ Keating tells a story of rooming with Tipperary full-back Noel O’Gorman the night before the 1968 All-Ireland final.
The young full-back was particularly nervous and couldn’t get the next day’s opponent (that time you marked a man), ‘Shanks’ Whelan, out of his mind.
Despite the best efforts of ‘Babs’, he tossed and turned and, when he went into the toilet at about 3 a.m., ‘Babs’ shouted into him, ‘for God’s sake, will you go asleep and forget about Shanks’.
Appearing at the door, his room-mate said, ‘how can I, his name is even written on the toilet’.
Staying with the Premier, Joe Hayes was legendary as a player in the ‘80s and ‘90s, but also as a character.
Tipp were getting a roasting from their fiercest opponents, Cork, in a Munster championship match, and at half-time the game was all but over.
‘Babs’, the team manager, was furious at the break and nearly blew the windows out of the dressing-room before roaring to his team, ‘are we going to win’, to which he received a muted response.
He turned to Joe and roared, ‘are we going to win Hayes?’
The midfielder replied, ‘God, Babs if I’m being honest, I think you’d be putting your money on Cork at this stage’.
The second-half didn’t get any better, particularly for Joe.
Sport can be unintentionally cruel yet, if taken in the right way, funny.
Pat Critchley, the Laois great, told me a story once of a Junior club in the midlands who qualified for their first county final in over 30 years.
Two of their players were brothers, with one (let’s call him Pat) being a steady and unspectacular player, and the other brother (Seán) the basis of the team’s success, accounting for almost all their scores in the run to the final.
On match day, Jim, the boys’ father, appeared in the dressing-room to explain why Seán was on crutches.
‘I sent Seán up for the cows yesterday evening and he twisted his ankle going out through the gap; he’s out I’m afraid.’
There was a collective groan before the devastated manager screamed, ‘for Christ sake Jim, why didn’t you send Pat up for the cows?’
He told me of another team who were rank outsiders sitting in the dressing-room before a knockout championship match.
The referee had come to the door twice to tell them to enter the field, interrupting the agitated manager’s long-winded pep talk.
On the third interruption the manager told his players not to mind the ref, because the longer we stay in here, the longer we will stay in the championship.
Not good for the confidence.
I am assured all these stories are true but, as an old friend used to say, if you don’t believe me ask John Murphy of the hill, God rest his soul.
Until next week stay safe, stay connected, take care, and remember help is only a phone call away.