Strong type, but rarely silent

Paul Shelley is leaning against his front gate, yapping with a few lads from the neighbourhood. A couple of them are clipping a sliotar across the tar, the others restfully watching the evening haze fold over Thurles. Tipperary are training in Semple Stadium tonight, but Shelley has no rush on him. He lives so close to that great shrine of a stadium that on quiet nights he could listen out for the ghostly rustlings of old hurlers.

If he were so inclined. Anyhow, it's no more than a five-minute stroll from his TV set to the pitch, which suits Shelley fine. Tonight, he is due on the training table at 6.45, but as the seconds tick on he remains slumped back on his couch, talking easily, partly out of politeness, partly because he is a natural talker.

It is touching seven when he ambles through the cavernous dressing-rooms. "God, would ya look at this. I thought I'd be the first here," he sighs, as if accepting that he'll never come to terms with the timekeeping of others.

When Shelley stands in front of you, he seems chipped out of granite. Broad planes of shoulders form their own horizon. He is a human eclipse. Every step he takes just spells natural power; he looks like a born 100 metres sprinter.

"Ah, I'd be fairly fast, but I haven't a clue what my time would be," he says. "I read somewhere that I'm supposed to be the fastest player on the Tipp team. I'd love to know who was tellin' those lies. I'll be getting some slaggin' up above when the boys hear that one."

But to see him in full flight, shoulder dipped and charging through at goal, is an awesome, even fearful sight. It would seem fair if the full back was armed with ropes. With momentum, Shelley seems an unstoppable force - and the immovable object.

Sleeves up, hair cropped, and eyes flashing, he looks like the toughest forward in Ireland.

"But the thing is, Paul isn't a robust player at all," argues Pat Fox, who carved many hurling legends in a Tipperary jersey. "He is not that tall, so having this great build does help him. Looking at him, you'd imagine he'd have made a fine boxer - we used to call him Tyson when he came into the panel. But he only ever uses his frame to hold defenders off. I think he should probably use his strength more. Paul is, in fact, a very clean player, a ball player with great hands, a fine brain for the game. Skilful."

Shelley also explodes the myth that strong types ought to be silent. He is a born gabber and it is a trait he has carried onto the field. He smiles ruefully at the memory of some of the . . . well . . . debates he has had since moving from defence to full forward last season.

"It wasn't so bad when you were at corner back, you don't get too many forwards mouthin' off," he reflects, like a headmaster lonely for the golden age of model pupils.

"But the back men . . . as a former back myself, I've done a fair bit of mouthin' off from time to time. It can get to you and if you let it, you're game is gone. Better off lettin' it in one ear and out the other."

Sometimes, though, that's impossible. Last summer against Clare, when the world was falling apart for Tipp in the second half of the replay, it was plain to see that Paul Shelley was rattled, Johnny Leahy, too, both of them at odds with the world.

"See, Johnny was flying it last year, too, but that second day, they were totally out to provoke him. The two of us were . . . they were provoking us and I suppose we were bitin' back, mouthin', arguing.

"But that's the way of the game. Players know each other, what it's about. I'd never be bitter towards any player or team - I think if you started getting bitter, your hurling will suffer. But Johnny had a look at it and said that this year, he'd not let anyone get to him. And he is hurling some great stuff."

That loss to Clare hurt deeply. After Tipperary went out, Shelley decided upon a route that was becoming too much like summer habit.

"I suppose it was a kind of mad thing but I used to go over to Boston to hurl. Dorchester - a Tipp team there, we were sponsored by Nash's pub. It was great, meeting lads from around. Like Stephen Maguire from Fermanagh was there and Ken Killeen of Sligo. Lads you wouldn't normally meet. But like, Louise, my little one, is three now and we have just bought the house here. So there'll be no movement anymore."

Strange thing it was, though, sitting in sweltering New England watching on a big screen the same guy who was breathing heat on you just a fortnight earlier.

"Yeah, into Nash's at half-10 in the morning to watch the games. A cup of coffee and a doughnut," laughs Shelley.

But this year, other guys will chew on cinnamon rolls and watch him. Tipperary's win against Clare three weeks ago was more than just redemptive, it was cathartic. With the exception of 1997 - when Clare subdued them on the two biggest days in hurling - Shelley's summers have been swift and merciless. Winning so well this year and Ger Loughnane's subsequent farewell, it must seem as if something between the counties has concluded now.

"They have been some team. Ger Loughnane has been a thorn in the side of a lot of people. Say what you like about him, he brought Clare in from the wilderness. Two All-Irelands and a few went missin' in between. I suppose he brought a glamour to hurling, perked it up a bit. The way the players looked up to him, so tough and rugged. I think he'll be back.

"Funny thing, I only ever met Ger Loughnane about twice, although I work for his cousin, Pat. He'll be going to the game on Sunday. Pat's a gentleman, treats us fair well."

So things have come full circle, Tipperary's revival gusting up as Clare flag and Johnny Leahy again the evangelist. Shelley has had many influences on his own career - his father Tom, a storied Killenaule man who hurled with Tipperary intermediates - Donie O'Connell, Bobby Ryan. And Leahy.

There is a tale going around that in the twilight of the Clare win, some Tipp fans, empty of suitable eulogies for the midfielder, began to chant, "John Leahy is the son of God".

"Well, I'd be biased about that anyway," guffaws Shelley. "No, Johnny would be a great friend of mine, we were neighbours at home. Johnny is after a hard couple of years and 'tis great to see him back. His attitude is so right now and there is a lot of lads look up to him on the panel. I suppose he is the leader of the team and he has really been pushin' lads on."

Oh, Johnny Leahy is a hero all right, but Shelley is also a cult figure in the parishes of Tipperary.

"I'd say the two of them are revered around the county," says Fox. "They are both south Tipp lads and would have a very strong following from there. With Paul, it is the personality, too. Talk away to anyone, friendly and laid back as they come. Except during the game of course."

And on this summer's session in Semple Stadium, all seems right in Shelley's world. Along with his strength, Shelley's other striking feature is his smile. It is big and frequent and generously spirited. It has mischief and good nature written all over it.

"That's him, all right," says Fox. "That's him all over."

Shelley freely admits that if he could, he'd be a Tipp hurler "forever". A distant dream, decades away, would be to manage the county. "Don't think the county board would want me just now," he explodes.

But just now, things are perfect anyhow, late June and promise hanging over the lingering evenings.

Tipperary back in a Munster final, Diarmuid O'Sullivan of Cork awaiting him under the posts. Doesn't expect much mouthin' there.

"No Diarmuid . . . no. He's a good player, tough and clean. There'll be no dirt in the game at all, I'd say."

But whatever happens. Shelley will take it, no complaints, pack his bag and walk past the TV vans and into the house. His little girl is mad for hurling and when her father plays, she likes to replay The Sunday Game. "Over and over," laughs Shelley.

He is primed now. Winter is never kind to him. Long nights and TV and tasty food. Scales creak.

"The cut-off point is when the boys come knocking for me," he grins. "Then it starts."

Now, at 14st 8lbs, he is at optimum weight. Tomorrow morning, he will waken and breakfast and stroll over to the back pitch for a puck around. At about half-10 or so. Everything he wants within touching distance.

"Ah yeah, 'tis grand, 'tis grand to be relaxed," says Paul Shelley, a big sloping grin creeping across his face, like he knows he could be no other way.