The days of wine and posers

Final days are the stuff of legend as well as legerdemain - for fans as well as players. And the outgoing GAA PRO Danny Lynchhas seen it all

WHEN I was growing up in that lovely place Dingle, between mountain and ocean, nobody went on foreign holidays and few went on any holiday. Money was scarce and spent only on essentials. Our horsey set's accessories were plough and harrow rather than saddle and silk. An older cousin told me one time that having borrowed a halfpenny to gain access to the pictures, he was told by his apparent benefactor, "This is a loan, not a grant." But the All-Irelands were the thing.

As soon as Kerry had posted their habitual victory over Cork in July the common salute was, "Are you going to the All-Ireland?"

People saved and planned how to get there and sometimes the journey took on epic proportions: several days to reach Dublin and more to get back. Loved ones sprinkled holy water on the departing and checked to see if the St Christopher medal was still attached (they said Christy had a great reputation for keeping a benign eye on the affairs of travellers).

Letters and telegrams were sent to relatives in Dublin to book lodgings. Boarding houses with Kerry links were in huge demand; the Kerry Arms in Talbot St, which had a Dingle proprietor, would be overrun, 10 to a room.

The strange thing about this near-annual ritual was there was never a mention of a ticket. The reason, of course, was that admission to most parts of Croke Park at that time was by cash payment at the stiles.

The All-Ireland final had such significance in my area that weddings were planned with the final in mind and honeymoons consisted of a few days in Dublin with the privilege of being nearly crushed to death on the terraces as the highlight of all daylight experience.

With the exception of 1970, when I broke a leg in the week before the game, I have been at every All-Ireland football final since 1968. The scams and the stratagems applied in the pursuit of tickets were many and varied.

Like a member of the magicians' guild, I feel prohibited from disclosing methods of ticket procurement (I might need to use a few again).

A favoured approach of mine, however, was to apply to Croke Park in the name of my Minister of State or Secretary General, once I had established they had no interest in the games.

A prerequisite to this exercise working was the collaboration of the girl who opened the mail of the relevant gentlemen. Usually a large box of chocolates took care of that.

I have come to the conclusion that people consider there is unilateral dispensation from the Lord in the matter of tickets. Jack Boothman was a vet and farmer when he was GAA president (wise in the ways of the world, one would think).

He came to me and said, "Danny, the reverend mother from an enclosed order of nuns has asked me for 10 tickets as all her sisters want to go to the games." I said, "Jack, they're pulling the wool over your eyes."

Jack explained he had rung the convent, verified he had spoken to the reverend mother and had insisted he would part with the tickets only if the nuns undertook to attend the game in their full habits. I said, "Jack, you're being had," to which he replied: "Right, a tenner bet."

On the day of the game I accompanied Jack on an inspection of the row of seats where his "little sisters" were supposed to be. There were guys with earrings, studs, ponytails and leather jackets, but no nuns. As Jack foraged deep in a wallet that hadn't seen the light of day in decades, he muttered something I took to be unparliamentary.

I had one regular customer directed toward me by a "foxy" uncle-in-law. This man was supposed to be a bishop, no less, working with a headhunting tribe in darkest Borneo. I often felt it was a pity the same head-hunters had not done the decent thing.

When it comes to tickets no one can be trusted. My good friend Moss Keane cannot to this day figure out how, in an attendance of over 82,000 people, I could establish he had pulled a fast one.

Tickets are only a small part of any All-Ireland. Preparations start months in advance. Printing, match programmes; press arrangements and accreditation; catering, security and entertainment - these are just some of the ingredients that are part of match-day arrangements.

There have, however, been many unforeseen and unusual occurrences. I remember being at home one Saturday when the telephone rang. It was Gerry Collins, then Minister for Foreign Affairs. He explained he was in an airplane somewhere over the Eastern Mediterranean with Brian Keenan, the hostage who had just been released after years of incarceration in Beirut. Gerry explained that, when he asked Brian what he would like to do when he landed in Ireland, Brian replied, "Go to the All-Ireland."

All the tickets were out so the only thing I could do was forfeit my two seats.

As it turned out, I recall, Brian could not handle the open expanse of Croke Park and the crowd - apparently a natural reaction to being in a confined space for a long time. He did, however, enjoy a few bottles of Guinness.

On another occasion I received a telephone call at home on the Saturday before the game from Anne Harris, the deputy editor of the Sunday Independent. She explained that the film star Kevin Costner was in Dublin and considering getting involved on a film on Michael Collins.

He had visited Ireland on a number of occasions, had developed an interest in hurling and was asking if there was any chance of getting to the hurling final.

My initial reaction was a blunt no but then it dawned on me that some local residents were going to try and embarrass us on the big day with protests about the building works. I figured that if I got the news people access to Costner the residents would be gazumped from a publicity premise. And, so it turned out.

There was a day that we started getting telephone calls from America that the final was not reaching their television sets. It transpired one of our handymen had put a few concrete blocks on top of a wall the week before and, lo and behold, the satellite signal - being beamed from Croke Park to a space station over the Andes and in turn being relayed from there to the USA - was being deflected by the blocks.

The blocks were removed and peace was restored in the Bronx.

There have been few All-Ireland final days without incident. In the old Croke Park period, Monday was a torrid time, with accusations of overcrowding and crushing on Hill 16 and the Canal End.

In his Evening Press column, Con Houlihan fulfilled the role now assumed by Joe Duffy and he described me on one occasion as receiving more media attention than Meryl Streep, who was everybody's favourite Hollywood actress at that time.

Who will forget the old press box and the press hospitality in "Ollie's diner", which consisted of a large kettle of tea nearly too weak to travel?

Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh and his lot sat on rickety chairs having crossed a gangplank wobbling over the crowd in the lower deck of the Hogan Stand. Their eyrie was protected by armed Special Branch officers for fear the microphone might be confiscated by subversives.

After games, journalists went straight back to their offices to write and file copy, but on one occasion a well-known scribe dallied. When he got down to the exits they were locked and it suddenly dawned on him that he was all alone and likely to face the night in this cavernous, Bram Stoker-like building.

He started shouting for assistance and after some time received a response from local kids on the outside. A deal was done; a fiver was attached to a stone with a plastic band and fired over the wall to the kids, who promised to return with ladders and the fire brigade. That was the last he heard from them.

Luckily, the groundsman returned shortly afterwards for some item he had forgotten.

As can be seen, an All-Ireland has its own dynamics and subplots and I am only mentioning a few cameos. The full story will be for another day.

I would not have swapped the experience for anything.