Bryan MacMahon has gone AWOL. He wasn't training tonight and although he was spotted lurking around the stands for a while, the general consensus by 8 p.m. is that he has gone home. Des Crowe, a man who has elevated the oft-maligned art of GAA PRO to mythical levels, murmurs words of reassurance and scurries off to conduct a search. Des is gone no more than five minutes, but you know that every room, corridor, drain and gulley has been ransacked. Stones have not only been turned over, they've been formally interviewed.

He returns, somewhat vexed, to report that the Clare player, in true corner forward tradition, is proving elusive. The perfect host, Des offers lavish feasts, untold treasures and anything up to a half an hour with any other Clare player.

Far from being placated by such a bounty, The Irish Times representative stands on the sideline, huffing. Adopting the look of a man who has encountered such foolish obstinacy before, Des rushes off again and you swear you catch a glimpse of him darting into the referee's room with a mining helmet and torchlight. Some time later, he returns, clutching the arm of a 23-year-old wearing a baseball cap.

"This," he announces, with the quiet pride of a man who knows he has delivered the impossible, "is Bryan MacMahon."

The sulk from The Irish Times smiles the broad smile of the chastened fool. Young MacMahon, for his part, does not look altogether thrilled with having been located. He comes across as compliant, if not visibly excited at the mention of "a bit of an oul' chat". His indifference blossoms into outright horror when he realises the conversation could last anything up to 20 minutes.

"Sure how would it take that long?" he asks with an appalled look. "Five minutes . . . sure I couldn't tell my life story in five minutes. I'd run out of things to say."

This was not how it was supposed to be. Young MacMahon, is after all, a grandson of "The Master" from Listowel, the revered writer and story-teller Bryan MacMahon.

It seemed safe to assume, therefore, that at the mere hint of a bit of chat, young MacMahon would inevitably rack up a fire right there on the edge of the Cusack Park and see out the moon with regaling tales from this north Munster trove.

But from under the rim of a baseball cap, young MacMahon stares unflinchingly, apparently holding firm for a five-minute deadline. Des Crowe, his duty done, fades away to cater for other whimsies. Just when the moment is hurtling towards a crisis, McMahon breaks into a crooked old gem of a grin.

"Ahhh, sure I'm only jokin'. Come on, we'll go across the road."

It is noticeable that for a Munster final week, there is little bubbling going on. How different it was around these parts when July was courted by Loughnane and his followers. All folk-tales now. But this is football and Clare are happy to simmer quietly.

"It's too early in the week for that yet. By the weekend, you'll notice a buzz alright. But with so many people fancying Kerry, expectations are probably quite low. If we win on Sunday, then the hype will really begin," says MacMahon.

He cuts through the back kitchen of the nearby eaterie, scans the food situation and takes his place in a booth. Without labouring, you can see his paternal grandfather's countenance in him. Strong face, deep-set eyes, the sweep of the hair.

The MacMahon name is synonymous with Listowel. Scoil Realta na Maidne, where Bryan MacMahon taught for 43 years (like his own mother, Johanna) is something of a tourist stop now. Teaching and literature were twin vocations. Like all teachers, he stumbled over former proteges in the most unlikely locations. He used tell a story of walking in Manhattan and hearing, from the window of a zooming cab, "welcome to New York, Master". John B Keane evolved from pupil to friend and fellow literary icon.

Each of his five sons maintained his strong interest in the GAA and Garry - young MacMahon's uncle - earned county colours. With this background, it is hard to imagine that this young footballer feels anything other than a burning allegiance towards the county he will face in tomorrow's Munster showdown.

"It is a simple thing for me, to be honest. I am from Clare, always have been. It's the county I always identified with. Certainly, I had a regard for Kerry and Listowel from going to visit my grandparents and relatives, but it was for the people more so than the place," he says. "There certainly won't any emotional conflict on the field."

He carried a vague awareness from a young age that his grandfather was something other than the figure who made a fuss of him, that there were books involved.

"I think that it is only in more recent years that I am beginning to fully appreciate his work. The Master (MacMahon's acclaimed autobiographical work) was a great joy to read and I think I learned as much about him from that as many strangers would have. But I am still going through his work to be honest, which is a pleasure I'll have for a while yet."

Young MacMahon always showed flair as an athlete and was well on his way to prominence within Clare when his grandfather passed away in 1998. Tommy Curtain, Clare's manager tomorrow, remembers his initial impressions of MacMahon.

"I was in charge of the Clare minors in 1994 and, even then, it was clear that he had an abundance of ability. He is tremendously quick, a great man to kick points from distance and the odd goal, too. I'd no doubt he could make the leap to senior and he is certainly demonstrating that now."

By the time MacMahon was making his earliest incisions as a young attacker, his grandfather had given up attending live GAA matches. "He found more recently that the noise and the crowd, the whole thing got to him."

So he'd take the car and find some dust-settled back road outside Listowel and live the game through the radio. He listened to the 1994 Munster minor final that way. "He was for Clare that day, at least I think he was," shrugs Bryan.

Although he grew up in Ennis, football always drew him more than hurling. Lived the old All-Ireland theatre in his back yard, slamming a ball against his wall and pretending to be Bomber Liston, the man who made beards look cool. Football blood flowed through him anyway. His mother is an O'Neill from Kilrea and his uncle Leo won an Ulster title with Derry in 1958. Leo's brother Martin was a Derry minor star before crossing the water to invest in a brilliant passion for soccer which is heating yet.

Bryan's father was also keen on the game, lining out with UCD during his time there, but chasing a profession in law sent him travelling, first to Harvard and then Cork. Football was sidelined. And, as in all families, the pattern has proven cyclical. Bryan is now pursuing law in Galway and spent a few summers in South Boston, across the river from Harvard. But this year he is staying put. Eighteen months ago, Clare set their sights on this Munster final and, here they are, no one giving them a even a prayer. MacMahon is nonchalant about them being outsiders.

"Is the idea of us beating Kerry improbable? Yeah, most would say so. But our goal was to be here on this weekend and we have made that. All I know is that we have no fear of Kerry. Whatever myth their jersey held doesn't apply any more. They still have very fine players and for us to win would require an upset of form. But that's what we are going for."

He winces at the inquiry as to what he might do if he wasn't playing football. "Twenty-to-nine now . . . no, I wouldn't be in the pub just yet. Ah, I dunno. Travelling I suppose."

America enthralled him. He keeps a keen eye on news events there and finds himself marvelling at the blurring of real life and fantasy. It is discernible in all aspects of life there, particularly the legal field through which he is now cutting a path. He reckons he'd like to give criminal law a bash.

"Everyone says there's no money in it, but it seems to be fun. But the States, it's just . . . there seems to be absolutely no division between public and private life, particularly for celebrities. There are so many examples of that in sports alone, like the football player from Baltimore (Ray Lewis) who was up on murder charges."

On this day, MacMahon had taken a short trip to Limerick to share in the unfathomable world of Tiger Woods, who had touched down for a charity golf event.

"Yeah, watched the great man for about four or five holes," says MacMahon. "I got within a few yards of him when he was teeing off and you definitely sense the aura, the presence. But the guy's a superstar. The thing was to see him teeing off. He was playing with three fairly okay amateur players, so once they teed off, you could really judge what he was at by comparing the distances. And it was something."

You sit here and observe MacMahon Tiger-talking and are struck by how fast the generations move. His paternal grandfather passed away but two years ago and through his writing alone communicated a fierce independent, even liberal streak. Although steeped in Kerry lore, his stories transcended geography.

And yet there is a natural chasm between the world he inhabited and that of his grandson. The thought of MacMahon, who will draw gasps and ooohs from thousands tomorrow, straining to study the sportsman who is dwarfing the globe with his feats is, for some reason, unsettling.

Maybe it is because this MacMahon has this rich font of tradition and history and sport flowing through him, yet is perfectly unknown among the crowds following the supernova across the fairways. Not that he cares. Talking over, he grabs a glass of milk, nods a happy good luck and drifts across to chat to his team-mates.

Young MacMahon knows his worth.