As he weakened, Old Moran became afraid of his creditors. Bills piled up while he tried to make provision for a modest retirement. Although by no means an imprudent man, neither was he a stranger to kicking cans down the road and paying off a little here and there.
The trouble was that when his employers – with what he felt was more relief than regret – wrote his last pay cheque, the means to service ongoing liabilities would become constrained, if not completely undermined.
Originally, he had viewed all of this as tediously pessimistic. Of course, he would command a nice share of the freelance work on offer, what with his “contacts” and the high if wary regard in which he was held in the world of Gaelic games.
It had been in trying to firm up a few “projects” that a distinctly uneasy feeling “came o’er him stealing”.
READ MORE
Match reports which would be needed in abundance once the club championships got under way, appeared to be regarded of as much value as international agreements signed by US president Donald Trump.
He could not work out whether the match fee of “five guineas” reflected how long since the markings rate was struck or an effort to make a scandalously small sum of money appear “ironically” retro.
Still, a few of those and there would be a butcher’s bag of “cheap cuts” ideal for slow cooking, a task Young Mrs Moran regarded with nearly as much distress as the offspring of the animals from whom the cheap cuts had been removed.
The fear of God was becoming an ever more pressing issue for Old Moran and the older he got, the more easily it was put into him, as opposed to his young carefree days when as Youthful Moran, he cared little for the chains of convention.
But, but. The business was clearly not suited to a senior practitioner more likely to be found wandering in the moonlight of a locked, deserted stadium than “filing” a match report, player ratings and quotes simultaneously “on the whistle” as younger colleagues could effortlessly do.
If he was lucky, a groundsman who had forgotten something, or who had been alerted to the presence of a trespasser, might turn up and release him into the night.
To paraphrase a well-known combo from his past, The Boomtown Rats, is that any way for an old guy to be?
He knew, though, the dangers of being stereotyped as basically obsolete and had tried to dye his hair jet black and wear a vast cowl of a hoodie, a knock-off of the Nike Tech range (Mike Tex).
But this youthful makeover had to be abandoned, as it simply triggered anxiety among (even more) elderly neighbours, who kept calling the guards whenever he skulked by in the shadows.
Yet, if freelancing at matches couldn’t generate any income, what could?
Might he be able to “research” and deliver compelling feature material for content-hungry platforms? Maybe even “podcasts!”
His GAA connections were still plugged in – “before you hang up, I was wondering if you could help me?” – and he knew how much excitement was in the air as 2027 loomed: the year of integration with the women’s organisations. Might he not pursue a piece about this great modernising within the association?
Unfortunately, however, a couple of visits to clubs had revealed only men as old as himself gathered like extras from The Field and brandishing pitchforks down at the pitch, as the under-14 camogie team went out to train. He realised this may not be the warm narrative arc he was seeking.
He also had in mind “in-depth” interviews with those whose longevity was matched only by their peerless skills in long-ago, epic intercounty contests.
How hard their lives had been. Walking 20 miles to training, surviving hours of third-man tackling in the days before it was banned and then maybe thatching a roof on the way home.
That idea had, however, been compromised by an unfortunate event when Old Moran had called in to interview an ancient former Gael. Intended to show a deep knowledge of the past, the long-winded questions were widely believed to have been the principal cause of the subject dying in his sleep.
As a result, family and carers were on notice not to let him near their elderly relatives or charges.
Without further gainful employment, he would have to rely on his savings.
He wasn’t greedy – not in a malign sense, at least – but he had been worried on consulting his pension advisers at March, Hehir and Associates that their “sustainable fund” appeared to consist of nothing more than gathering Re-Turn cans and bottles and issuing “dividends” in the form of vouchers for convenience stores.
“You know what? I won’t be missing this,” he would declare with weary triumph to whatever unimpressed gathering was in attendance, their eyes flicking almost imperceptibly towards each other, smirks struggling to remain hidden.
Then, more provocatively: “It’s beneath me at this stage” – until the member of the company with the least self-control, and to the embarrassment of everyone, coughs out a loud guffaw.
There would be more time at home with the family, a prospect that had already resulted in Young Mrs Moran’s prescriptions being strengthened.
He would, of course, pester Croke Park to issue him with credentials for the following year. Then without the burden of work, he might mingle with his former colleagues, regale them with familiar, long-winded anecdotes and look on fondly as they smiled at his presence in affectionate exasperation. Maybe he’d even be able to pick up the sub-current of conversation.
“Who the f**k gave him another press pass?”
– Seán Moran retires following Sunday’s All-Ireland football final after 32 years as GAA Correspondent of The Irish Times
