"Don't the years go quick, though?" Pad Joe Whelahan drains his cup and for an instant, his eyes, lively and laughing, fall still. He has been summoning hurling faces from other years, the countenances of men who would ask it of you on the field and leave it there afterwards. John Connolly. Dan Quigley. Some days they'd wither him, other afternoons he'd have his fun. Either way, he'd shrug and move on.
He saw Jimmy Doran buried today. A Banagher man like himself, one of the St Rynagh's gang that stormed the flatlands on a seemingly unstoppable roll in the sixties.
"I hurled with him at full back in '64 and '65'. Then we lost in '67 and came back and won three in a row. We lost the next one and came back and won five in a row. That was 10 county medals in about 13 years with Rynagh's. My brothers Frank and Michael have handfuls of them too. Who remembers it now?
"They were good times but the whole aspect of life was different then. Like, you'd walk to school or wherever then. Now, if one of the boys was crossing the road, they'd jump in the car. Can't tell them any different."
Pad Joe Whelahan is so immersed in Offaly hurling lore and is in turn such a pivotal figure - his presence runs through so many of the diamond days - that he seems to have reinvented himself over the decades. As this Sunday approaches, he is the sage among the backroom boys of the Birr hurling club. He is the father of all the Whelahans. But he is also the man behind Offaly's rich minor success in the late 1980s, triumphs that were the genesis of today's charismatic crop.
And in 1989, he stood in the sideline and watched half in horror as Antrim stung his senior team in the All-Ireland semi-final. His response was to have his players form a guard of honour for the Northerners who left the field half dazed in disbelief.
"That was unfortunate," he smiles now. "Probably a case of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thing was, the Leinster final win over Kilkenny was great because Dermot Healy was training them and it was nice to get the win. But, ah, we had problems that day - Ger Coughlan has lost his brother in an accident and Mark Corrigan had a hamstring which took its toll.
"But Antrim was always going to be tricky. The year before they nearly had Kilkenny, Harry Ryan came on and beat them in the end so they were a coming team. But sure we had 20 wides. I came under a lot of pressure at the time but I went back the next day to the minors and got on with it."
Rarely, though, does his mind labour over the darker hours he has witnessed on hurling fields. There has simply been too much joy. June 29th, 1969 is a day that he would certainly live again, perhaps above all others. Wexford were the All-Ireland champions and even though Offaly had torn strips off Laois, not too many gave them much of a prayer.
Still, the county footballers were opening a double bill and a massive Offaly crowd made the pilgrimage. Wexford believed the previews and were down 2-1 to nothing before they even began hurling. Whelahan ran at half forward and saw his man, Ned Buggy, retire early in frustration. Gradually, the scale of the tussle became clear to the Wexford men and the game evolved into a thundering showdown. Offaly lasted it and came through on a scoreline of 5-10 to 3-11.
"It was an incredible thing for us. The first time ever Offaly was in a Leinster final. Kilkenny beat us in that game but the seed was sown then. We stayed in Power's Hotel on Kildare Street. It's funny, now you go up to Croke Park in the car and you're back in your own town a couple of hours after the match has ended. Then, people weren't arriving back 'til Tuesday."
Whelahan hurled on for 13 years with Offaly and quit the game just as they were on the cusp of pre-eminence. After 1980, he was 34, working solid shifts in Banagher and with a young family to think of.
He packed it in and then watched the following September as his friends hurled a path to the McCarthy Cup. In the drowning bloodrush of celebration, it was hard for him not to at least let self-pity singe him.
A few years ago, he talked of standing in the County Arms Hotel with Damien Martin the night after that first All-Ireland, a bit beered up and, acknowledging that All-Ireland honours had eluded him, putting his hand on the shoulder of his young fella Brian before saying: "this lad will win every honour in the game".
Pad Joe smiles in remembrance of the prophecy.
"Ah, I was kinda shook that day, like, and had the few drinks taken. I was with Damien Martin and yeah, I said it. Brian was very young then. He was small growing up, we thought that at one stage he might be no good, that he'd be too timid but it's amazing how quickly he developed. But all that bunch - Declan Pilkington, Johnny, the Cahills - they all grew up together. They are a long time at it now and it's great to watch them, still there."
Pad Joe began "messing around" in the Birr club even before the family had fully settled there and for as long as he can remember, young fellas have been in and around the house, talking about the game.
"Like, this Monday morning now, after the evening of the Athenry game, there might be up to six or seven lads sleeping around the house. That's our set. My wife is originally Dooley and she played camogie for Offaly and Leinster as well, so it - the game - is just . . . it is the way I live my life."
When Pad Joe isn't training Birr, he visits friends or helps out in Brian's pub. Keeps him occupied, he says. He speaks of his sons, Simon and Barry and Brian, with a reticent pride, admitting that he does marvel at their mastery of the sport but never is he too keen to dally on their achievements.
Instead, he talks about the group, the joy of having watched a gang of youngsters knock around together in a town and almost casually write their own bit of history. Normal, unique lads. And it's no bother for him, to admit his fondness for them while simultaneously preaching discipline on the field.
"No, well, I wouldn't socialise with them or drink with them - okay, you might bump into a lad and sit down with them now and again. But you keep a distance. If a player has a problem, you try and sort it out quietly. Like, Declan Pilkington came along and said he wouldn't go back training for a week or so after Christmas. Fine, no problem. You have to let them have their heads.
"And the training we do, well, it's hard but at least it's short. And I mean, if we have a hard session - Wednesday nights are usually the tough ones - we'll tell the lads to go off and have a pint. You need to relax after a training session and a cup of tea is no good. A quiet pint of Guinness or ale, it's nourishing as well as everything else. They even said that in olden days. Like, the Athenry lads haven't taken a drink since Christmas, which I think is crazy," he says, solemnly shaking his head at the mystery of it.
Whelahan's features become animated when he talks of Athenry and Thurles this Sunday. The stuff that warms the soul. He just prays for a dry, firm sod.
Over the years, he has driven through every back-parish in Ireland and is well versed on all hurling country. Athenry holds no secrets for him, even as Birr are a known quantity around Galway. There is talk of a mood of redemption in Athenry, a sense that they must put right last year's sickening loss to St Joseph's, when they had a perfectly valid score waved away.
"Ah, 'twas their own fault, they had the chances to win it," whispers Whelahan. "No point in crying poor mouth after a game. You do it or you don't."
And that's how it will be this Sunday. If Birr win, he'll get his back slapped every time he goes to the counter on Sunday night. If they fall, there'll be the usual contingent baying behind venomous smiles. It's all the one to him. "To be back in Croke Park on Patrick's day? Sure, there would be nowhere better. But if you get beat, that's it. We have had plenty of good days." He stops a minute and then his eyes light again.
"As long as it's a dry day," he says again and he grins, alive to the promise of another blank canvas, of another unwritten Sunday to witness, and it all still new.
