The day I met a giant

A few months back a Prime Time debate about secret manager payments in the GAA was chaired by the unusually quiet Miriam O'Callaghan. On the night in question I was following the #primetime Twitter stream (Twitter is all the rage these days!) and decided I wanted to add something to the party. I wanted to say something profound but I was at a loss... In the end I retweeted @HMFerry's offering which read, 'It's the amateur status that makes the GAA unique, and the best sporting organisation in the world. No to payments.' I couldn't agree more. 

The blades have been lowered and the talk of payments to managers has dried up. I've just spent eight euro on a bottle of Nivea After Sun and Aodh O'Fearraigh's aka @HMFerry's stance on the GAA still stands.

The GAA is indeed 'amateur' and 'unique' but what do these words really mean? I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent here. Stay with me.

While my mother was on pilgrimage in Croatia, my father was 'larging it up' in London town. Sixty years have passed since the auld boy entered the world and to mark the occasion myself and my brother, all wealth and svelte, decided to treat him to a weekend away. There was no GAA in the English capital last weekend so the Heineken Cup final had to suffice. As we slowly made our way to 'Twickers', it's affectionately known as that, memories of walking to GAA matches with my father came flooding back. One in particular, one of my first.

I'm back. Let me sum up what the words 'amateur' and 'unique' mean to me by bringing you back nearly 25 years. The venue is Fitzgerald Stadium in picturesque Killarney. Tipperary and Cork are the teams. The event is the 1987 Munster hurling final replay. I've just turned eight and couldn't be more excited. My father and brother are in tow.

The platform in Thurles is thronged with supporters. Announcements are being made every minute. Marathon bars, super tins of Fanta and Opal Fruits are the order of the day. And homemade sandwiches, of course. I'm decked out in the blue and gold. The train is approaching. My father seems to know everyone.

The giant that was Charlie Nelligan!

We arrive at our destination and I'm sure I had a lump in my throat. The atmosphere is electric. En route to the pitch my father announces that we'll go for a cup of tea. We walk up High Street and into Charlie Nelligan's Hot Bread Shop. Nelligan, the famed Kerry netminder and one of the biggest babies born in the county, greets my father and then turns his attention to us. His giant hands reach down to grab ours and at once I feel like I am in the presence of a giant. In hindsight, I suppose I was. His hands were not those of any mere mortal. No, they were like shovels. Like shovels.

We left and walked towards the stadium. Colour everywhere. Out of control chat. Nerves a jangling.

The events that followed have been written into GAA folklore. The 'famine' came to an end after extra-time as we watched on from just behind the wire. That day my love affair with 'the best sporting organisation in the world' began and I'm still madly in love.

As last year's vanquished finalists prepare to enter the fray this weekend my mind is drawn back to that day in Killarney. The day I met a giant. The GAA is full of them!