AT THE JARVEY STAND in glorious Killarney last Sunday, the horses were still shedding their winter coats. For an impatient crow, however, the process was not quick enough. Other crows might be happy to pick up loose hair where it fell. But with mating season imminent, this was a crow in a hurry.
The cheeky bird was helping itself to mouthfuls of nest-lining, straight from the horse’s back, while his host appeared indifferent. It was a symbiotic relationship, I suppose. The horse may have appreciated the haircut, as summer looms. Or perhaps it was just the noble stoicism of the breed. “Take what you need,” he may have been telling the crow. “I’ll still have enough.” In the time it took to admire the scene, a persuasive jarvey talked us into a short tour, promising we’d be back well in time for the afternoon football match at Fitzgerald Stadium.
He was, we soon learned, a Corkman, who for the sins of a previous incarnation, had been condemned to live in a Killarney exile. “Are ye Monaghan supporters?” he asked, noting the jerseys. “I hope ye win. Ye can relegate them today – wouldn’t that be great?” His life’s mission, jarveying apart, was to take a rise out of the locals, whenever possible. But from what we could see, they enjoyed him too much. Maybe this was a symbiotic relationship too. With 36 All-Ireland titles, Kerry people probably need help to stay humble.
En route to Ross Castle, for example, we passed the former Kerry manager, Pat O’Shea, on his bike. “Look at that, Pat,” said the driver, jerking a thumb back at his supposedly scary passengers. “They’re down to beat ye today. It’ll be Division Two for ye lads next season.” O’Shea just smiled and waved. He did not look scared.
I suspect that, from his years in Kerry, the Corkman had gone native in one respect. He had learned the art of flattering visitors, especially about football. We had already been exposed to this tactic on the train the previous night when, as chance would have it, we found ourselves seated next to the Christy Mahon of Gaelic football: Paul Galvin himself.
Galvin’s wild-man image seemed at odds with the gentle soul we met. When we asked him to “go easy” on our lads the following day, he laughed and suggested that, if either team had reason to be fearful, it was Kerry. Of course we knew it wasn’t true, but it was nice to hear anyway.
By a dramatic coincidence, the train’s other passengers included the Sam Maguire Cup: being escorted home after a public engagement somewhere. Naturally we wanted a photograph. And despite being plagued by similar requests, the cup’s guardian fetched it from its hiding place again, without protest.
This is noblesse oblige for Kerry GAA officials. Allowing people from counties with special needs (including my 10-year-old, Dublin-supporting son) to hold the cup probably qualifies as charity work. So we posed with the famous trophy, which is of course named after a Corkman but – like the jarvey – has spent so long in Kerry as to have picked up local mannerisms.
“Are ye Monaghan supporters?” the cup would probably have asked us, if it could talk. Then it would have mentioned how it expected to be spending a year in that part of the world soon and, excusing its ignorance, would have asked if we could recommend places to stay.
So by throw-in time at Fitzgerald Stadium on Sunday, after all the plámás, the visiting supporters had reason to feel vaguely threatening. Then the game started and reality reinstated itself. The truth was that being involved in a Division One relegation dogfight represented dizzying new heights for Monaghan. Whereas it was only a temporary indignity for Kerry, to be disposed of without fuss.
Galvin – curse him (and we did) – was imperious: conducting the team like an orchestra, while also playing lead violin. Monaghan were typically brave, but outclassed. By half-time, hopes of a famous victory had dimmed. The more likely range of results ran from being merely beaten, to being hammered.
In the end, this was a key distinction. During the game’s frantic last moments, with Kerry leading by four points – even the score-line flattered us – Monaghan supporters were simultaneously shouting and listening to radios for the scores elsewhere.
Tyrone were down, we learned, but Derry were winning and could still pip us on points difference.
In the on-and-off-field frenzy, it wasn’t clear whether our team should be kicking Hail Mary passes in the hope of a goal, or just holding onto the ball so Kerry couldn’t score again. Then, in one last melee, the game ended. The shouting stopped.
The radio listening continued. And suddenly, bizarrely, it was the losing supporters who were celebrating. The four-point defeat had saved us, condemning Derry. Five would have reversed the order.
When the situation was explained to our puzzled hosts, they seemed genuinely happy for us. There could never have been any question of Kerry going down, of course. But if they could do us a favour while surviving, so much the better.
They were the horses in the relationship: we were the crows. We left Killarney with our Division One nest lined for another year. And if Kerry had gained anything from the experience, it was that they were looking in slightly better shape for the serious business of summer.