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This week Talking Balls can report an increase of sales of wax overcoats, large golfing umbrellas and tweed jacket and hat ensembles as those great aristocrats of Ulster, the Down men, head south for another tilt at All Ireland glory.

For years now they have sickened the shite of the rest of Ulster with there uber confidence and their ‘we’ve never lost and All Ireland semi final” nonsense. Truth is they haven’t the hoors.

While Tyrone might be all nouveau riche, bouyed along by Mickey Harte’s infectious Wooden-esque psycho-babble and the Armagh men float along bouyed by Buckfast, Down have that sure stepping arrogance, dressed in the best and in Croker to impress. Even the fact that Wee James is part of the Down aristocracy adds to the mix.

Apparently his first words were”We’ve never lost an All Ireland semi final” and he has moved on from there winning All Ireland medals, playing for Ireland alongside that other legend Jack O’Shea and now managing his native Down in his own right.

They have this arrogance about them Down, I met a fellow the other evening who would just about know a football if it bounced off his head. But he was from Down and sure enough of his origins to spout his load whilst leaning nonchalantly on the golf umbrella. We pointed out that there was a new stadium built at Croker since the last time he was there, but still. . . that old arrogance is hard to dismiss.

Goodluck to them on Sunday. We have placed an order for a set of industrial strength noise excluding earphones just in case they do win. As usual if they do the hot air will blow steadily from the Mountains of Mourne down to the sea and outwards across every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon Armagh and, farther westward, softly gusting into the dark mutinous clubs of Tyrone and Derry and across the rest of Ulster.

There isn’t hardly a week goes by or county final played where the efforts of faceless groundsmen – the men (and women) who cut the grass, mark the lines and fertilise the whole place into the bargain are lauded. These humble people, along with the saints who wash the playing gear, are frequently hailed as the true embodiment of the ethos of the GAA.

“Ah, oul Mickey? Sure he cut the grass at St Patrick’s Park for 49 years. By Jaze he started out with a pair of hand shears, clipped the surface for two weeks before every big game.”

“And the wife Maisie, sure she washed the shirts for thirty seven years, even she found a players Y-Fronts among the bag she’d still give them a rinse whether she recognised them or not. These people are the heart and soul and fabric of d’association.”

You can understand why protestants and the likes of coaches and players get a  bit fed up having these activities rammed down their throat at every opportunity. One fella who declined to be named said:

“I’m getting fed up with all this shite about grass cutting and lining the pitch. We train three nights a week come hail rain or shine. Yer man rides about on his lawnmower lovin’ it as if he’s f***in Valentino Rossi with his silly bobble hat and wellies and then he has the cheek to tell us we can’t train on the pitch, his arse is his elbow.”

Now however, to add insult to injury, that well-known body, the Irish Institute of Sports Surfaces (IISS) www.irishsportsurf.ie has unveiled a new awards scheme to recognise and reward the high standards of groundsmanship achieved by Ireland’s volunteer GAA groundsmen. The Oscars of the turf if you like.

The Playing Surface of the Year Awards have been created in association with the Leinster Council of the GAA and specialist grass seed breeder Barenbrug by the IISS, a newly-formed body dedicated to promoting and implementing the professional development of people who maintain and manage sports surfaces in Ireland.

It is not known if that particularly grumpy Englishman that tends the Croke Park surface will be on the judging panel but by Jaze he’s dour and not much craic when it comes to his pitch.

Falling into the usual trap of hailing the messianic work of irascible and curmudgeonly groundsmen everywhere, IISS Managing Director Donal Kearney positively gushed:

“The Club Playing Surface of the Year Awards have been created to highlight the hard work of the GAA volunteers whose dedication and endeavours have long gone unnoticed – until now. We hope that the awards will encourage others to get involved in the maintenance of GAA surfaces and raise standards of sportsturf care even higher.”

The winning club will get a load of free Barenbrug grass seed, a bag of horse manure, a peaked cap, new wellies and a piece of cord for the trousers. What next?

GAA volunteers interested in entering can find out more at www.irishsportsturf.ie before the closing date of September 5th. Judging will take place later in September before the winners are announced in November.

First it was teams striking because they didn’t want their new manager; then it was teams striking because they wanted their manager to go. Now could we be about to see a team striking cos they want their manager back?

That’s the scenario in the ‘highly successful’ Monaghan camp where Seamus McEneaney, famous for wearing his heart on his sleeve, ‘emptying the tank’ and speaking in a thick hick accent that only the uneducated ear can pick up, has refused to allow his name into the ring for the vacant Monaghan position, all in a big huff with the County Board cos he wasn’t handed the job again on a plate. So there.

In the sort of toys out of the cot-ery for which the GAA is renowned, Banty was given encouragement by the County Board wonks that he would continue his spell in charge of the team, but then clubs were invited to nominate candidates. Banty did what any self righteous manager would do, he told them to go feck themselves and now he won’t let his name go forward for a job he patently wants and the players patently want him to resume.

Since, the players have come out in support, threatening all sorts if their demands aren’t met. Well, they would, wouldn’t they since they stand to retain their positions on the squad if the same manager returns. Former captain Damien Freeman has called on the Monaghan county board to do everything in their power to reinstate him.

“As players, we are very unhappy with the way our manager has been treated. We feel we have one of the best management teams in the country and cannot understand why we would be seeking nominations.”

Two things strike us about this ridiculous scenario. One, how do these boys know they have one of the best management teams in the country? They have yet to win anything despite Banty’s years in charge for all their chat. Secondly, it is of course in their interest to support the manager who has persevered with them through thick and thin.

I was reminded this week of a story (possibly apocryphal) of a number of Derry players calling at the house to implore their former school coach Adrian McGuckin to take the Derry job. McGuckin of course rebuffed their advances but also commented that half of the fellows on his doorstep wouldn’t have made his county panel if he were county manager.

Anyhow, we haven’t really had a winter of discontent for a while now that Donal Óg has come out and the Cork team are at ease with themselves. Let’s hope Monaghan make it a good one, without too many tears.

Is it the way they breed them? Or is it what they feed them? For the best part of this decade we have looked on in wonder as Brian Cody assembles another production line hurling unit made of indestructible skill, power and pace designed to dismantle all-comers.

Who outside of Cork wasn’t purring and gloating at the Cats destruction of the Rebels in the All Ireland semi final? The latest exhibition of power and pace on the hurling field. It may be hurling alrite, but it’s a different game to the one everyone else in the country is playing.

The downside to the game was of course King Henry’s injury which is set to rule him out of the All Ireland Final Drive for Five.

Not so according to 8,000 witnesses who turned up last night at Kilkenny training, only to watch the King score 0-3 and play his full part an an in-house match.

Shefflin has apparently been receiving intensive treatment from Ger Hartmann, the Limerick based super physio. How can this be?

Did they keep some of the spare parts leftover the last time they operated on him? Did they tissue engineer a new knee? Or perhaps they cloned a new Henry, as skilful and influential as the last?

Whatever the case, the next time someone goes down with a cruciate, Henry has raised the bar, but then the Kilkenny hurlers tend to do that don’t they. We’re backing Henry to complete his own personal two in a row and Kilkenny to get their five.

According to former Aussie Rules manager Kevin Sheedy, Irish people and ‘indigenous’ Australians (we mustn’t be allowed to call them Aborigines anymore) have a lot in common.

He made the comment when advocating the introduction of a third team to the International Rules series made up entirely from Aborigines.

“It would be fair to say that the two groups have a lot in common. Irish people and indigenous people have had a pretty tough life.”

Sheedy you will recall was in charge of the team of kangaroos who boxed, kicked and thumped their way through the 2006 series. Highlights of his time in charge included Graham Geraghty stretchered off the pitch in Croker and Philly Jordan clotheslined out in Oz.

So what exactly do the native Irish and the native Aborigines have in common? Well, probably a fondness for the drink; a history of being battered by white Australians; and a language and culture all of their own that has been systematically oppressed by the Brits. And the perennial problem of listening to patronising shite form the likes of Sheedy.

Talking Balls has a better idea, why don’t the regular Aussies, Sheedy and all feck off and let the natives get on with it without them. That sounds like a good international rule.

Last Sunday in Co Down a young footballer lost his life dying suddenly on the football pitch. Patrick Dinsmore was playing a minor match for his club St Peter’s Warrenpoint at Rostrevor when he collapsed on the field away from the playing action and died. By all accounts Patrick was a typical young lad who enoyed his gaelic games and having the craic with his friends. Sadly he will enjoy that no more.

Patrick is the latest casualty of Sudden Adult Death Syndrome. This week both Bridget McAnallen, the mother of the late and great Cormac McAnallen, and John Lundy of Cardiac Risk in the Young who lost his son Aaron, have called for widespread screening to help prevent unnecessary death.

On one radio programme we listened with blood boiling to a respected cardiologist argue why there shouldn’t be widespread screening. The counter argument runs that if it saves a single life it is worth it. Surely something must be done?

The reality of the situation is that every so often tragedy strikes and the issue of cardiac death in the young is placed in the media spotlight. But, as with all news stories, today’s headline is tomorrow’s chip wrapper. People like Bridget are hauled out to face the press, to state the same argument to no avail and to their own growing frustration.

All GAA clubs have the opportunity to to do something about it for their own members, whether it be to have players screened or as a basic minimum to fill out the GAA approved questionnaire. If you are a player and there is any history of sudden death in your family, speak to your GP. Don’t let your club be the next to mourn the unnecessary loss of a young player.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

The papers this morning are full of bluster about the ‘disgraceful scenes’ that marred the Moorefield and Dromard second replay. ‘Appalling Scenes as Second Replay Descends into Violence’ screamed the indo – obviously they’ve been watching Noel Thompson too much.

In true gaelic and athletic style, the row broke out towards the end of the game with both benches emptying as people who should have known better got involved and added their h’pennyworth. This we might add is not an unusual event in club championship matches this time of year as you will know – take note Clontibret v Crossmaglen a few weeks back and the infamous Ballymacnab v Stewartstown fracas in Ulster last year.

Yesterday’s hanlin’ had all the usual ingredients for a successful row and – even better – for a po-faced response from the media and the PTB. All it needs is a BBC camera or a Belfast Telegraph photographer and we’ll be home and hosed.

‘Worryingly,’ Cliona Foley of the Indo piously tells us ’some small children who had got inside the perimeter also ran into the middle of the chaos.’ No doubt the children can expect a lengthy ban.

Actually all this nonsense about children and rows at matches – remember Thurlesgate, the crime wasn’t the belts but the weans that were watching – reveals Ms Foley mustn’t be too close to a real GAA club. In Talking Balls‘ experience youngsters love nothing better than to see a good melee, in fact they will invariably be seen loitering about the fringes and can relate chapter and verse about who hit who – y’know the sort. Seamus got kicked in the nuts by their number six and then Bernard came in a busted his nose – there was blood everywhere – I could see his brains.

Like, it’s not as if one of the pugilists will burst one of the Óg supporters is it? ‘That wee fecker’s wearing a Dromard hoodie so I’m gonna bust his jaw with this oul handbag I have here.’

No, kids are much too sprightly and agile for the average club player. The nearest Talking Balls has been to kids getting injured at a match was after an Intermediate Championship Final in Derry when Derry player Jane Carey deliberately collapsed the team line-up for the victorious Eoghan Rua team and a wee two year old fella called Peter ended up stuck under someone’s skort. A scary thought. Yes, youngsters love all the brouhaha round matches – keeps them talking for, oh twenty minutes at least. Talking Balls nephews used to regularly hang round the periphery of half-time team talks to hear the bad language – they could write a litany of teamtalks. Disgraceful altogether.

Oh, and by the way no-one was even booked after the hostilities finished yesterday. Sure it was all a bit of a shemozzle.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

The word Pundit is an Indian word as we explain. . . it sparked off an eloquent attack on some of the well known pundits sitting in your living room every Sunday night.

The dictionary definition of a ‘pundit’ is a learned man or teacher (from the Hindu Pandit); one who gives opinions in an authoritative manner, an authority or critic.

Talking Balls has learned that the obsession with wise men from the East has led RTE’s Sunday Game and BBC’s Championship teams to consider drafting in genuine Indian Sadhus to contribute to their programmes, such has been the success of the use of Pundits in recent years.

For the uninitiated, Sadhus make pilgrimages across the subcontinent of India spreading faeces and ashes on their body, while the most radical test themselves by holding one arm in the air for years on end or spending twenty-four hours a day standing up. (They would make ideal umpires and/or linesmen particularly at Ulster Championship games when the umpire’s arm is required to be erect for long periods – thus commented one disgruntled pundit who declined to be named.)

A more widespread characteristic, however, is their tendency to get stoned out of their minds on a regular basis. The Sadhu tradition consists of renouncing worldly ties in pursuit of higher values of life. Ideally a Sadhu lives in the society but is detached from its pleasures and pains – a bit like an inter-county footballer.

Sadhus typically survive on alms provided by families, and spend most of their time in meditation. A large number of Sadhus assemble for holy festivals such as the Kumbha-Mela, the Sadhu’s equivalent of the All-Ireland weekend. One commentator describes:

“The big gathering of the Sadhus is the Kumbha Mela and it takes place every four years at various points along the holy River Ganges. Here every kind of sadhu in India comes out of the woodwork to meet up with old friends and put on a few shows. There are yogis who bury themselves underground, men who have held their hands in a fist for so long their nails now grow out the other side. One friend told me how proud he was to see his guru pull a bus along with a rope attached to his penis.” www.roadjunky.com/guide/687/hindu-sadhu-guide-india

Neither Pundits or Sadhus are to be confused with ‘Studio Guests’ who rather than smear themselves in faeces, talk it – and occasionally have to don ashes with sackcloth following ill-judged and inconsiderate interventions on air. They too wander the country relying on alms, speaking to the over-fed and over-watered faithful at expensive fundraising dinners. As for pulling buses…

Talking Balls Link: Pundits and Sadhus at play: http://www.adolphus.nl/sadhus/

FROM THE ARCHIVES

From June 2007 No-one can go to a match without using the toilet facilities, whether it be the wall behind the main building at Omagh St Enda’s or the luxury crappers in Croker. We were literally moved to write after an unexpected surprise in Clones.

One of Talking Balls associates took his life and god knows what else in his hands when he visited the bog at the Pat McGrane stand side in Clones this weekend past.

After a heavy night on the Guinness at an undisclosed location, it was inevitable there would be repercussions. Percussion in deed was reported by ear witnesses, but the most surprising aspect of the whole visit was the resounding thumbs-up the Clones facility received on our man’s return to his seat. The seating in the convenience was cheek friendly, the door had a lock and the deal clincher then – the presence of bog roll. So, a visit that could have been a real hovering buttock clencher turned into a user-friendly experience. “A good place to be,” as Mickey Harte might say. “Yes, the only part of Clones that isn’t crap,” added the office WAG here.

If you’ve been suffering from Championship nerves and had to make a visit, let Talking Balls know – we want to hear if it needed fumigation or a forensic lock down after you left, or if you emerged smelling of Roses like a player leaving a DRA hearing. If we know what grounds provide foetid, rank dungeons, it’ll make planning the summer a lot easier – especially for Talking Balls’ female reporters.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

This one first appeared in April 2008. Some people accused us of neglecting the Cultural Wing of the Association. Not true says Talkingg Balls.

The INEC at the Gleneagles Hotel in Killarney this Saturday night is the place to be if you really consider yourself to be a true gael. The All Ireland Finals of Scór Sinsear throw-in at four o’clock in the afternoon kicking off a wonderful evening celebrating all that is deadly about Irish culture.

We’re lookin’ forward to a real cultural maelstrom with lads and lasses a leppin’, singing, balladry, banjo strings a twangin’, novelty acts, recitals, shite talkin’, quizzes – sure jaze doesn’t it sound like a typical Saturday evening in parishes throughout the land. All we need is Morgy on the Bodhran.

Be there or be quare.