Twilight in the bones of the old stadium. A bunch of well-groomed lads and a number of middle-aged gentlemen have positioned themselves along the rows of brown seats which face a security desk. If there is a county demarcation, it is ill-defined. The talk is of the traffic, the games on Sunday, conversations similar to those in most Irish bars on any evening.
A Coke machine hums, a tall plant supporting what seem to be cabbage leaves clings valiantly to life. The players from Westmeath and Wicklow stare pensively toward a set of brown wooden stairs, which run to a dimly lit corridor.
Eventually, a Games Administration Council (GAC) figure, suited and smiling, shimmers into being and the show begins.
"Sorry to have kept you, we'll try to deal with you as quickly as possible," he says, addressing them like a sympathetic old dental assistant seeking to reassure a few young scamps in for the first fillings.
Individually, the names are called. Mick Murtagh, Darren Coffey, Robert Doyle. The list goes on. They lope off through that gloomy corridor and, worryingly, do not reappear. You begin to wonder if Wicklow or Westmeath, involved in the celebrated tunnel incident last month which led to this inquiry, will be even able to field teams come the championship.
The security guard springs from a long period of motionlessness and swats an unseen fly. He brushes his prey into a waste bin to general laughter. Tension lifts. Soon afterwards, a phone rings. Media boys.
"The big guns are coming," announces the security man.
"The f****n' media are f****n' scurrilous," declares a suited gent with a laugh. "Lock them out."
There is no argument from The Irish Times representative, who is hungrily eyeing the cabbage plant. If any of the athletes from Wicklow or Westmeath are adhering to the Nutron Diet, they need not have worried that the GAA might place temptation in their way. It's Coke or bust.
"Ah, if we only had a pack of cards," offers a lone voice wistfully. And indeed there is a sense that with a fresh pack and a few dozen brews, a good night might be had. Border tensions have evaporated and both parties are beginning to find common bonds. Conversations are broken though, as one by one, the subjects are summoned up the bare stairs and vanish through that opaque corridor.
What is transpiring on the other side is, of course, one of the unfathomable mysteries. At the heart of all this lies a serious matter; an athlete had his cheekbone broken at a Gaelic games event, things went awry and reasons do, of course, need to be ascertained.
But as a low wind ghosts through the arena and a bunch of civil young men help the security man through his vigil, the events of that muddy Sunday seem so far removed. They reckoned it might be today or even next week before the ramifications of the meeting are made known to the public. Eventually, the last of the stalwarts are called to give evidence. The idea is that, to conclude, all concerned will file out in unison. The press skulk off, grumbling. What if the whole group of them just vanished for good?, we wondered.
Would there be an enquiry then? Would there be food?
