Keith Duggan: GAA behind closed doors may shut out personalities

The phrase “behind closed doors” has always been one of the most loaded in the GAA lexicon. Ostensibly, the in-camera match arrangement allows both teams to dummy-run new concepts or patterns of play without spies from other teams looking on. In truth, it is often a coda for a challenge game in which players often test the limits of the rulebook.

Only the Dublin and Armagh management know what they wanted from their recent challenge match in which one of the Dublin players was reportedly hospitalised with facial injuries. But we can be sure they didn’t want that. The attraction of the game for both sides is easy to see. Dublin’s advance through the Leinster championship has been about as physically demanding for the metropolitan athletes as a stroll through Stephen’s Green.

A friendly match laced with the sort of rough trade for which Ulster football is famed might be just the ticket, a sharp taste of what lies ahead. For Armagh, the attraction was even more neon: Dublin. Here was a chance to test themselves against the most formidable squad in the country before what is a fascinating qualifier match against Galway. You can bet they were up for it.

Part of the problem of “behind closed doors” matches is that they invite all kind of rumour and speculation. Stories of sparks flying at in-house training matches – meaning team-mates boxing – have been part of the theatre of championship summers for decades. Breathless stories of violent challenge games are the food and drink of idle championship gossip. The more firmly closed the doors, the more unbridled the scenes inside. Supporters love to swap violent tales, interpreting the stories as proof that their team is ready. But every so often, it turns dark.

Serious repercussions

During the week, word that a Dublin player had suffered numerous facial injuries – including a broken eye socket – was suddenly everywhere. It evoked potentially serious repercussions – official enquiries, possible bans, possible legal consequences for the perpetrator and a slow, painful convalescence for the injured player.

When he turned up for Thursday's scheduled press conference, Dublin manager Jim Gavin knew that the incident would be high on all agendas. In several interviews, he reiterated that the players concerned had sorted their differences and were content to move on. The injuries suffered were less severe than the original speculation. "Croke Park" – through the Central Competitions Controls Committee – would not be investigating. The game itself had been "spirited" and rewarding. Both Gavin and his Armagh counterpart Kieran McGeeney were disappointed by the incident because both placed a high priority on discipline. That was it.

It was, in short, one of those things. There is no cause to doubt Gavin’s account of what happened. But the incident illuminates the strange ground between professionalism and amateurism on which GAA teams currently reside.

Years ago, I sat down with Jim Gavin at his work place in Baldonnel, where he served as a pilot with the Air Corps. He was one of the last remaining All-Ireland medal winners on a Dublin team just hoping to win a few games in Leinster. He was bright, engaging and good fun – as I am sure he still is in the company of friends and family. Kieran McGeeney was also obliging with his time as a player – including the evening Armagh's All-Ireland final press night in 2002 ended, when Joe Kernan gave a guarded blessing by growling "Don't be keepin' him too late" before he headed off to Crossmaglen.

Times have changed.

As managers, both Gavin and McGeeney, try to run their respective shows as professionally as possible. Dublin conceived the idea of the 8am press meetings during Pat Gilroy’s time in charge, obliterating the lifestyle patterns of a generation of media people in one fell swoop. Orchestrated press events have become the way to go for all self-respecting GAA teams.

These (frankly depressing) events offer extremely limited access to one or two chosen players who appear to have scored top marks in media management courses on how to say nothing. The managers also appear and generally give as much time as is required. Most county teams have started to follow that lead. The intention is good but it means that the perspective of the players on the matches of their lives is reduced to one minute sound-bites suitable only for radio sports bulletins.

Since he has become manager of what he habitually refers to as “the Dublin senior football team”, Gavin has decided to all but suppress his personality and opinion, offering polite and measured statements before and after games which are so steadfastly businesslike that it is only a matter of time before they are quoted on Bloomberg.

Genuine belief

That is Gavin’s right and is possibly informed by his genuine belief that the story is not about him: that he is a facilitator for what happens on the field of play. He also clearly figured that this brisk, courteous form of media management was the best way to front a GAA team that has become a hugely demanding entity. The association’s first real franchise and a team capable of generating serious revenue. Tightly controlling media access serves two purposes. It safeguards the one commodity players cannot get enough of: time. And it stops them from giving their views on the sport – and culture – in which they excel.

Media coverage of Gaelic games is growing by the season: most managers and teams can reasonably argue that there simply isn’t sufficient time to accede to the demands of the media. When it comes to the Dublin team, in particular, that is probably true. Others have gone the same way, whether it is true or not.

Part of the reason why Gaelic games and the championship has pulsed so strongly is that the players were never just players. They were of their community: their town, their city. They were – and are – ordinary people propelled, through their excellence and perseverance, into these demanding and fabulous theatres known as championship Sundays.

The reason that RTÉ broadcast a documentary on the late Páidí Ó Sé isn’t merely because he was an exceptional footballer who won a heap of medals. It is because through the force of his personality and his contradictions, he somehow cast a light on whatever the hell it is that makes Kerry different to the other 31 counties. Not all people blaze with the same intensity as Ó Sé did. But some do.

Some contemporary players undoubtedly do. They must, by the law of averages. But who are they? We won’t ever find out. In 10 or 20 years’ time, the loss of that will become apparent.