In this extract, Tom Humphries recounts the story of the All-Star trip to America in 1977 when Dublin's full forward suffered an injury which curtailed his playing duties

Dublin and Kerry met in the National League final of 1977. The teams were playing each other quite regularly now. Two challenge games a year, one, maybe two league games and major championship match. By 1977 Dublin and Kerry were so far ahead of all contenders that they organized their calendars around those meetings only.

Kerry won the League final and left town, mildly contented but wary. Brian Mullins had missed the match. Perhaps they'd just won a race against a one-legged man.

A couple of days later, Dublin and most of the Kerry team flew to Chicago for the first leg of the annual All-Stars trip.

Chicago was still cold that April; the winds licking in off Lake Michigan confined the tourists to warm spots, like saloon bars. That early part of the trip is well remembered. Dublin played the All-Stars on an artificial surface, which caused a few injury problems. Jimmy Keaveney had an accidental collision with John O'Keeffe. A genuine accident.

"John hasn't a bad bone in his body. He came out to punch a ball, it bounced funny on the Astro Turf and he hit me in the nose. Broke it!'

Pat O'Neill, the medical professional, remembers the consultation.

"Jimmy got a right splatter. Everyone was looking at him. He was a horror show. This nose with all the snots and the blood hanging out and the tip of it over at his ear. He consulted with me. Jimmy was given the option: hospital , or I could have a look at it. You could see his mind working. Hospital meant no drinking for the night. I probably meant pain."

Jimmy considered the offer.

"Fuck off, Nailer. Fuck off."

"Well it's the hospital then, James. We'll see you tomorrow hopefully."

"I don't fancy the hospital, Nailer."

"Well, we can go to the emergency room or you can sit back here and we'll try to put it back in. It mightn't be perfect but you're no oil painting to start with."

"All right," Keaveney relented. Then changed his mind. "No. Fuck it, Nailer, you're not touching me."

This went on for some minutes, Keaveney covered in blood looking at O'Neill like a cow considering the outside of an abattoir.

"Could you not give me something?"

"Yeah, a Panadol, but it'll still be broken in the morning."

Finally Keaveney said yes. They jumped him before he could change his mind. While the others held him down. O'Neill straddled his chest, got a grip on the hideous, deformed nose.

"I made the elementary mistake that I was astraddle him when I got the wrench on the nose."

When O'Neill wrenched the nose, Keaveney jerked his knee up in an involuntary spasm of agony. He caught O'Neill perfectly in the groin. Now the two men were roaring. Keaveney's face looked like a half-made pizza. O'Neill was rolling around the floor, doubled-up.

Happy days! The players referred to the incident for a long time afterwards as the time that Keaveney went to America for his nose job.

Keaveney treated the injury as a sailor would treat shore leave. He figured no more playing, and three weeks of touring and splurging. Maybe he'd never now be a matinee idol, but it had been worth it.

They spent the night of Kevin Moran's twenty-first birthday touring the bars of Rush Street. Somebody produced a cake with those candles which refuse to go out. In 1977 they were a novelty and a bafflement. The All-Ireland champions blew at the candles with the drunken intent of men who thought they were putting out the Chicago fire.

Next morning they had to move on to San Francisco. The flight was booked unhelpfully for pre-dawn. A tiny thing happened that morning which would change the course of Gaelic football history.

The Dubs, having packed before they hit the town with Moran the night before, were at the airport first. It was so early that the check-ins hadn't yet opened, so they stood in line, looking forward to what sleep they would be able to snatch on the flight westwards. Paddy Cullen was always the spokesperson for the players and that morning he had them lined up in as orderly a fashion as men in their condition could hope to achieve.

Just as the check-in was being manned, Paddy noticed something. "Ger Power and somebody else, I don't think it was John O'Keeffe, I don't think John would do that, strolled past us all and checked in at the top of the queue. We'd been there for an hour. I was mad. I followed them up to the desk. I let them know what I thought of them. There was a row, but the girl at the desk said she'd started checking them in and so she'd have to finish."

Cullen was seething. When the teams got to San Francisco, they were scheduled to play an unofficial seven-a-side tournament at a local high school. Cullen saw his chance.

"I asked Hanahoe, could I play out the pitch, see if I could get a cut at Power. We met on the pitch a few times. Nobody was broken up but there was a fair bit of animosity out there.

"I just felt he was one of the guys who would have been a little bit arrogant. He's a fine lad, but let's just say I'd rather have a drink with John Egan or Mikey Sheehy or a few of the lads."

The incident was forgotten about by all but the main participants. The tour continued without much incident, apart from the usual Jimmy Keaveney postscript.

In San Francisco, Keaveney was still wondering about his nose, which was quite sore despite the tender ministrations of Pat O'Neill. In a bar one night O'Neill got Keaveney to take a drag of a cigarette and exhale through his nose. Smoke came down both nostrils. Like a magician O'Neill stepped back to admire his work: "Et voila!"

The last game of the tour was in New York. Keaveney had a friend in the city who he stayed with. In holiday mode now, he didn't even go near the team hotel in case some training would break out.

Come the morning of the match, he recalls that he had been on the beer for three weeks. He wandered down to the team hotel to wish the boys good luck and was collared by Hanahoe.

"Jim, you're playing today."

Jimmy pointed to his trump card. "Jaysus, Tony, I'd love to, but what about the nose?"

Hanahoe listed off a long casualty list. Jimmy had no choice.

"Up to bloody Gaelic Park. Billy Morgan was playing in goal for the All-Stars. I was minding my own business but we got a penalty. I mishit it so bad, Billy never had to move. I remember though seeing Morgan's shoulders going as he was bending down to place the ball for the kick-out. He was breaking his heart laughing. The yanks knew no better. They thought it was great stuff."

That was the way of it. There was muck and sand everywhere, the usual Gaelic Park deal. They skipped into the showers afterwards and there were drunks urinating in there. The players turned around and came back out again and straight on to the coach to Kennedy and home.

Stinking. And Paddy Cullen still brooding about Ger Power.