SIDELINE CUT:There is something unsavoury and sad about the frequency with which disaffected
players now call up managers to trial, writes KEITH DUGGAN

THIS IS supposed to be the silent season for the GAA, but it is still pretty noisy. The association, having opened its 125th year with the sort of fireworks bash Jay-Z (“Welcome to the bright lights, baby!”) might employ to celebrate a milestone birthday, bowed out with a quiet-sherry-in-the-parlour type of celebration on Sunday afternoon in Thurles.

Whether by accident or design, the understatement of the closing ceremony, with a wreath laid on a frigid day in the old town and a terrific hurling match served up by the champions of Tipperary and Cork, worked. But there is no real sign of the GAA actually disappearing for a couple of months.

Games. Disputes. Strike rumours. Emergency meetings. Books. Rows. Melees. Training bans. Down Under. Even in the lean months of November and December, wintertime GAA plot lines run as snappy and antic as the most convoluted week in the lives of the folks on Coronation Street.

The rights or the wrongs of what may or may not happen to Limerick manager Justin McCarthy or his Clare counterpart Mike McNamara is a matter of perspective. But as with the protracted and bitter saga that resulted in Gerald McCarthy quitting as Cork manager, the natural instinct is to feel sympathy for the individual.

There can be no question that the hurlers of Clare and Limerick have serious and heartfelt reservations about committing to a new season under their respective bosses. But it is equally true there is something terribly unsavoury and sad about the frequency with which disaffected players now call up managers to trial.

The Limerick situation seems particularly needless, arising from a basic lack of courtesy to senior players more so than anything else. For decades, it was acceptable GAA practice for county boards and managers to let senior players know their day was done by simply never contacting them again.

By March, when the games had started up and some new fellow with a great leap and a streak of peroxide was wearing the number eight jersey he had worn for 14 years, the veteran would kind of get the message. There are scores of well known GAA men who endured this kind of indignity. It probably came down to disorganisation rather than any malice. It probably came down to the fact nobody really wanted to make the phone call to tell him the general feeling was he was yesterday’s news.

Or a new management might come in, pick their panel and feel no compunction to contact senior men with whom they had no relationship and had no plans for. But too many greying football and hurling men were left smarting, like teenage boys jilted without warning or explanation. And the 12 players excluded from the recent gathering of the Limerick panel felt they deserved better.

It is hard to believe players of the calibre of Andrew O’Shaughnessy were, through this lack of communication, being informed their day was done. Chances are some or most of the group would have been back in the dressingroom when serious training resumed. But their refusal to tolerate being left out in the cold without even so much as a phone call is indicative of a general impatience with the old GAA habits.

Whether McCarthy intended any insult – or was ultimately responsible for the grievous lapse in communication – is academic now. The damage has been done. But it is a rough situation for a distinguished hurling man like McCarthy to find himself in. Bounced without ceremony out of Waterford, his decision to throw himself into the stormy politics of Limerick hurling was always going to be risky.

If he ends up leaving his latest post through the machinations of hotel meeting room showdowns rather than the cut and thrust of summer hurling, he may begin to wonder if he still recognises the sport which has been at the heart of his life. Equally, McNamara has always worn his heart on his sleeve where Clare hurling has been concerned.

Funnily, Clare’s early league outing last season was against Limerick in the Gaelic Grounds, a match the home team won. It was not a particularly promising day for Clare but McNamara was easy going about the defeat. He seemed confident his side would pick it up later in the competition and probably had his attentions fixed on the championship.

But the string of poor league results sucked whatever va-va-voom was in the Clare dressingroom and the championship was bleak. The tremendous Under-21 All-Ireland win has been the big bright spot for Clare hurling and one gets the sense that at the heart of this impasse is the sense that it is vital the Banner uses the wisest counsel over the next few seasons.

So McNamara finds himself in the perilous position where votes and not goals or points will dictate his future and if he too leaves, he is bound to wonder what the hell it is all about. But it has become a serious, serious business.

This weekend, the best of the clubs in the country will meet for what is a packed programme of games to hold in the perishing days of November. Few would deny the GAA, when all is said and done, is a bastion for eccentrics. Playing Gaelic games in the heart of winter is a form of madness but it has its glories too. It is something of a throwback to the more carefree and truly amateurish days of the association.

Go to Clones or Hyde Park tomorrow and you will encounter patrons dressed as if they are heading straight for a summit attempt on Everest after the match. Everyone will be blue with cold and the ground will be heavy and the stand will be packed, except for a lone diehard on the terrace thrusting an umbrella into the gale. You hear the best lines at club matches.

At the Mayo county final a couple of weeks back, we watched the pre-match parade in fading light and heard the observation: “The poor brass band are a few trumpets short. Must be swine flu.” You can pay still pay at the turnstiles, you can bet only two or three will be open and you can see hurlers and footballers defying good sense and logic by playing on long after doctor’s orders – in the Leitrim county semi-finals recently, a 46 year-old came in from the bench to hammer home a goal.

That wasn’t just a blow for the club; it was a strike for ageing sportsmen across the world. It was the most eloquent affirmation that you should play for as long as you can.

So on these sharp afternoons, the great GAA stage belongs exclusively to the clubs. The county sides, banned from training together until the New Year, grumble restlessly and uneasily in the wings.

The GAA may be 125 years old. But, as with all of humankind, it will never be finished growing up.