Kings of September

by Michael Foley

  With a local competition in Coachford a day away, two of the girls fell ill. They needed to find replacements. The secretary of the Scór group knew where to go. He went looking for Declan Lynch.

  Lynch was a psychiatric nurse in the hospital, but he was known as a singer too. When the group’s set list dried up on their nights out, Lynch was always there to pick up the slack. He was blessed with a rousing voice and a personality that demanded – and commanded – the stage. In the hospital he had befriended people who loved folk music, could play instruments and belt out songs when the night called for it. Could he pull a group together for the weekend? He agreed to try. He got three friends to join him. By Sunday, the roof on the hall in Coachford had been lifted off, and Galleon had taken to the skies.

  Lynch was the front man. He was gregarious and boisterous on stage. He wore costumes and filled his songs with jokes and catchy hooks. In time, Galleon filled pubs and venues all across the south. Noel Magnier was their manager and he sensed big things. There was a wild streak in their songs and their image, and the crowds loved them. All they needed, reckoned Magnier, was a break.

  Aside from music, their weekends were built around football. The group was filled out by two Corkmen, Mick Mangan and Ger Walsh, and Kerryman Tim O’Sullivan, from Killarney. The boys followed Kerry everywhere, but nothing beat the adventure involved in heading to Dublin.

  They had arranged a string of pubs into their weekend routine over the years, and filled them all with their own songs. There was one tune that never seemed complete, but always stuck in their minds. Lynch had liked the melody from the first evening he composed it. It swung gently along, almost like a languid version of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. In the pubs, lads would ask them for a song, and as long as Kerry kept accumulating All-Irelands they had a verse to fit the tune and the occasion.

  In 1979 it started as ‘Two in a Row’. In 1980 it expanded to ‘Three’. By 1981 it had reached ‘Four’ – and the free pints were more than paying its way. By September 1982 the song was due another alteration, but Magnier and Lynch sensed it had the capacity to achieve even more than a few laughs. The right song this September could change their lives for good.

  * * *

  One evening in early September, Lynch started to work with some lyrics. He dredged up a few lines that had been rolled out on previous September Sundays, and laced them together with some new ones. Praising the Kerry players came easily, and prodding the Offaly team with good humour came quickly to him, too. Matt Connor was the only player any right-thinking Kerry person was concerned about – but Lynch could puncture that notion. By the end of the night, he had a song. It felt good. It felt right. He called it ‘Five in a Row’.

  Five in a Row

  You’ve read in the papers

  Of teams from the past,

  Of Galway and Cavan

  And Dublin so fast,

  But none can compare

  With the green and the gold,

  Who are first to be champions

  Five times in a row.

  It started in a downpour in ’78,

  Against the Super Dubs who thought

  We just didn’t rate.

  Paddy Cullen’s hindquarters

  We’ll never forget,

  ’cos he picked it five times

  from the back of the net!

  CHORUS

  And it’s five in a row,

  Five in a row,

  It’s hard to believe

  We’ve got five in a row.

  They came from the north,

  South, east and the west,

  But to Micko’s machine

  They’re all second best.

  ’Twas the Dubs once again in ’79,

  Jimmy Keaveney was trained

  On gin and slimline.

  But the blackguards with placards

  Were up on 16

  When the Dubs were mowed down

  By O’Dwyer’s machine.

  Next came a soldier,

  Dermot Earley by name,

  His regiment had plans

  To win the big game.

  They couldn’t win Sam

  At the match in Croke Park

  But we wonder who stole it

  In far off New York!

  CHORUS

  In Offaly Matt Connor

  Is a footballing star,

  He scores goals and points

  From both near and far.

  In Kerry we call him

  A meteorite,

  Because his star, it had fallen

  By All-Ireland night!

  Offaly will win in ’82

  We’ll hammer John Egan’s

  Famed green and gold crew’.

  But The Bomber and Jacko and Sheehy said, No!

  ’Cos we’re keeping Sam

  For our five-in-a-row!

  CHORUS TWICE

  They talked about getting Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh to add a commentary to the track, but the music and the chorus were enough of a hook. Galleon were in business. To relieve their consciences of any concerns about loading pressure on to the players before they even played the game, Lynch ran the idea past a few players. ‘To be quite honest we didn’t lose much sleep over it,’ says Lynch. ‘We couldn’t see Kerry being beaten.’

  No one objected. One player even sold copies of the single. ‘Five in a Row’ was ready to released to the world.

  For the month of September it dominated Galleon’s set list. Before they played the song, Lynch would put a Kerry jersey on and pull out a green and gold hat and scarf. The crowd loved it. Later that month, Galleon headed to a recording studio in Ballyvourney and recorded the track. They ploughed IR£5000 into launching the single, and the song was stitched into every playlist across the country. It was a hit.

  The players were happy, the public were delirious. If sales kept rising, Galleon could become the boys’ fulltime occupation. One more All-Ireland title for Kerry, and a new life could begin on Monday.

  Back in Kerry other people were working the angles. With five-in-a-row as part of every conversation in the county, there was money hiding behind the phenomenon. Down in Lacca Cross near Ardfert, a man had an idea about some T-shirts. Although Dublin had generated support draped in colour during the seventies, and Cork crowds were always splashed with red, Kerry hats and flags were a rarity in the crowd when they played. The era of the replica jersey was still twenty years away. The market was wide open. Printing a five-in-a-row logo wouldn’t cost a fortune, and there was a population certain of victory and ready to buy them.

  He sold them outside Fitzgerald Stadium. They were available before matches. A newspaper advertisement appeared one weekend in the Kerryman. Tom’s T-Shirts were available by mail order, emblazoned with the logo ‘Kerry 1982 5 In a Row Year’. T-shirts were IR£5. Sweatshirts IR£7.50. Commemorative plates and mugs followed. At a county board meeting, the concept behind the T-shirts was embraced as a proud show of local pride. Football had seen nothing like this before.

  ‘It was seen that the five-in-a-row T-shirt was a great thing,’ says then Kerry County Board vice-chairman Sean Kelly. ‘People said, okay, it’s a bit presumptuous, but it was a fitting memento for something that was going to happen.’

  There was something in five-in-a-row for everyone. Down in Tralee, the GAA clubs were getting restless. Football has always been at Tralee’s heart, helping pump the blood that makes the town live and breathe. In time, the streets were named after great football men – John Joe Sheehy Road, Dan Spring Road. Strand Road was where Kerin’s O’Rahilly’s were based. Rock Street was home to Austin Stack’s. Boherbee housed the John Mitchel’s club. Great players tumbled from their histories and stitched the rich fabric of Kerry football together. Now, on the cusp of Kerry’s greatest footballing achievement, Tralee wanted a piece of the action.

  The talk had already begun a month after the world tour in 1981. At the December county board meeting, the Tralee delegates were keen to discuss the plans for t
he next All-Ireland homecoming. The routine had been set in stone for years. On Monday night the train from Dublin arrived in Killarney first. The following evening the cavalcade always moved on to Tralee and a welcoming procession through the town, but now Tralee were feeling left out. The clubs wondered why Killarney should always get Monday night with the team. With five-in-a-row on their minds, it was a good time to buck the trend.

  That evening’s meeting sparked with annoyance. ‘We feel they should come to Tralee on the Monday night,’ said Ted Fitzgerald of the John Mitchel’s club in Tralee. ‘Once every two years at any rate.’

  ‘Monday night is the night,’ said another Tralee delegate. ‘Let it alternate between Tralee and Killarney.’

  The mood at the top table was unsettled. As vice-chairman of the Kerry County Board, Sean Kelly was quietly climbing his way through the administrative structure. He was interested in hurling, but when the footballers were training in Killarney he often joined in. Other nights he might be asked to referee a practice game. He knew that the players’ attitude contained nothing of the hubris he could sense among the delegates before him. It made him uneasy.

  ‘It was seen as a bad omen,’ says Kelly. ‘Even discussing it wasn’t a good idea. That was part of the over-confidence there. We were going to win, so we’ve to make sure we’re in for the glory.’

  The argument quietly rumbled on into the summer and gradually seeped through to the players. One afternoon, Tom Spillane was driving when a radio discussion turned to the homecoming. ‘Some woman rang in and says: “I think the cup should stay in Tralee because it’s much better fun.” We hadn’t even won the cup yet, and to be talking like this! I hoped no one else heard that comment.’

  If the players didn’t hear on the radio or read about the impending feud in the newspapers, there were plenty in the streets to let them know.

  ‘That annoyed me,’ says Charlie Nelligan. ‘That brought me back down to earth fairly fast. I was thinking: what the hell are they doing? We’ve nothing won yet.’

  The hype was starting to swirl around them. Hawkers were selling T-shirts and mugs and commemorative plates around Fitzgerald Stadium and across the county. ‘Five in a Row’ was steadily climbing the charts.

  ‘Any time you were out in the street, people had you as roaring hot favourites,’ says Ger O’Keeffe. ‘“Ah, you’ll make the five-in-a-row now. You’ll make history.” Nobody in the county could see defeat. I was on a wave of complete belief. Eventually some of that is bound to stick.’

  The Saturday morning before the All-Ireland final, the members of Galleon gathered in a record-pressing factory in Dublin as their single was pressed and sleeved. A huge raft of employees had been brought in to work the weekend, as demand was expected to soar following a Kerry victory. The Dubs slagged the Kerry boys about ruining their weekend even when Dublin weren’t in the final, and all seemed right with the world.

  Behind the gates down in Fitzgerald Stadium, the players remained unperturbed. Galleon’s old songs had always been wafting around in the background. After every All-Ireland a portion of the local newspapers’ letters pages had to be devoted to a collection of poems proclaiming the team as the greatest. O’Dwyer sheltered the players as best he could, but the wave of hype and colour was becoming too much. The gravity of the day was starting to weigh on them all.

  ‘You try and hide yourself away from it,’ says Tom Spillane, ‘but it’s always there.’

  The final couldn’t come soon enough.

  13 COUNTING DOWN

  A few weeks before the All-Ireland final, Eugene McGee took a phone call from David Walsh of the Irish Press. He was looking for a new angle on the jaded old topic of a team on All-Ireland week, and he had an idea he wanted to run by him. Walsh wondered if he could train with the Offaly team for a night. McGee respected Walsh and liked his suggestion. They settled on Monday night, six days before the final.

  Walsh arrived in Ballycommon early, jittery with nerves. All week he had fretted over the smallest details. He worried about the dress code. He didn’t want to look too formal in a pristine new jersey, or too scruffy in a battered old training top. He called Liam Lyons, an old friend who had won an All-Ireland minor medal with Mayo. He had kept his jersey as a memento, but agreed to lend it to Walsh for the night. An old county jersey would look worn enough, and carried some street cred. As Walsh jogged out on to the pitch, McGee looked at the jersey and frowned.

  ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ he asked. ‘Get that off.’

  He rummaged in a bag and pulled out an old Offaly jersey. With that he turned to the players. ‘This man is from the Irish Press,’ said McGee. ‘He has come to train with us. He won’t interfere with you and I’m sure you won’t interfere with him.’

  Then, without warning, McGee named the team for the All-Ireland final: Martin Furlong, Michael Lowry, Liam O’Connor, Mick Fitzgerald, Pat Fitzgerald, Sean Lowry, Liam Currams, Tomás O’Connor, Padraic Dunne, John Guinan, Richie Connor, Gerry Carroll, Brendan Lowry, Matt Connor, Johnny Mooney.

  There was silence. Between the lines was contained the story of Offaly’s summer and the breadth of McGee’s thinking. Mick Fitzgerald and Michael Lowry had been swapped to allow Fitzgerald follow Mikey Sheehy. Matt Connor was switched from wing-forward to full-forward to give John O’Keeffe something to chew on. Richie Connor stayed at centre-forward, and Sean Lowry at centre-back. Having used John Guinan’s heft at full-forward against Galway, he was now released to the wing where he could physically match Tommy Doyle.

  Gerry Carroll had moved to wing-forward during the Galway game and was retained there. From the team that had lined out against Louth in their first game in the Leinster championship, three players had been dropped and only five held the same positions all summer. It was a team that had transformed itself throughout the championship, though the hand of its creator was constantly evident.

  The players arranged themselves in a circle and Tom Donoghue eased them through their stretching exercises. ‘You know, lads, we’ve been very lucky with injuries this year,’ he said. ‘It’d be a pity if things went wrong now. So stretch those hamstrings.’

  Offaly were on a high. Two days earlier, on Saturday night, they had crushed Down in a challenge game that left the Down officials certain Offaly could win. Now they played a match that concentrated on the handpass at blinding pace. In the middle of the field, marked by Tom Donoghue, Walsh tried to keep track. ‘The game was one with a purpose,’ he wrote. ‘All passes had to be fisted, and preferably of the short and safe variety. McGee argued that long and loose punched passes wouldn’t do against Kerry and they wouldn’t do now. The Offaly team coach also insisted on the absolute need to have the man in possession supported. The Kerry style has won friends and influenced people.’

  There were a few hits, but nothing severe. A few balls were even popped in Walsh’s direction. He was their guest, and the players were gracious hosts. Then, the last ten minutes were played in utter silence. On All-Ireland day, said McGee, the noise means you won’t be able to hear even the person beside you. They needed to learn how to get a pass when they couldn’t call for it.

  The following night the rest of the assembled press travelled to Ballycommon and filled their notebooks with tales of the quaint little pitch by the humpback bridge and the gutsy little team it was hosting. All the work had been done, but the mood was tense among the players. A shipment of football boots had arrived from Adidas with instructions that all players were to be seen wearing them. Gerry Carroll never cared for Adidas boots. His feet were wide, and these sponsored boots pinched his feet. He’d stick with his own.

  When he told McGee, McGee’s face turned to thunder. ‘Why aren’t you wearing them?’

  ‘Because they don’t have my size,’ replied Carroll.

  McGee walked over to a pile of shoeboxes filled with boots and found some in his size.

  ‘There.’ He threw a box of boots at Carroll. ‘Now fucking wear them,’ said McGee and head
ed for the dressing-room door.

  Carroll snapped. He caught the boots, flung them at McGee and watched them fly past his ear before landing at the feet of RTÉ reporter Mick Dunne. McGee kept walking.

  Sean Lowry sensed mutiny. He stood up, slammed the dressing-room door closed, and turned to Carroll.

  ‘Gerry, you have to apologise to him. Otherwise we’re at nothing. You can wear what you like the day of the All-Ireland, I don’t give a shite. But let on you’re wearing them anyway, and apologise to him.’

  Deep down, Carroll knew he must. The team wasn’t playing just for McGee. They had bonded together like family. Endangering that bond was the most treacherous thing he could do.

  The players assembled in a circle before training. McGee was almost purple with rage. Some reckoned Carroll was about to be sent home. Just as McGee was about to speak, Sean Lowry made an announcement.

  ‘I think Gerry Carroll has something he’d like to say.’

  Carroll apologised to McGee and his teammates. The tension evaporated, and the players trained. Afterwards, the press descended. As Pat Fitzgerald chatted to one journalist, he sensed a tone behind his questions. Finally, the journalist got round to the point: ‘Pat, ye can’t be serious about beating these fellas. Sure, they’re going to hammer ye!’ Fitzgerald bristled, and left the conversation at that. If that was the feeling in the outside world, he thought, they’re in for some fright.

  That night McGee flicked on the radio as he drove home. The late-night sports news carried Kerry’s starting line-up. Although his own team were looking good, he had one concern. Ogie Moran.

  He knew Ogie from UCD. His mobility was one of Kerry’s greatest weapons. His passing was exceptional and his relationship with the forwards around him, particularly Eoin Liston, was intuitive. In reshaping his team to beat Cork, O’Dwyer had nudged Ogie out to the wing. It was never something that bothered Ogie, but Ogie preferred the centre and Kerry always moved more fluidly with him there. He had played at wing-forward in the 1976 All-Ireland when Dublin defeated them. When Dublin beat them again in 1977, Ogie had again been shunted out to the wing to handle David Hickey. Ogie at centre-forward had always been a good omen for Kerry, and it seemed to make sense against Offaly. Pitting Ogie’s pace and cleverness against Sean Lowry could severely stretch the Offaly defence, while Tom Spillane’s strength against Pat Fitzgerald might be too much to handle. In contrast, Fitzgerald had the pace for Ogie, while Lowry had the cuteness and the power to handle Spillane.