Even though they have begun to gain a deeper understanding of my complex personality, the Ballybore players still don’t know quite what to make of me.

"The way it is Noel," said one of them a fortnight ago, momentarily sitting in the dug-out with concussion, "is one minute we think you’re the most old-fashioned, self-important, routine-driven man to ever wear out shoe leather – and then, other times, we’re not sure.

Temporarily unfettered by convention as he was, he added: "You surprise us at times, like the night you got Singing Bernie Walshe* in to talk to us"

I was still smiling to myself as he went back on for the final 15 minutes. Nancy, too, saw his unguarded comments for what they were: a heartfelt tribute that would have remained unpaid had his discombobulated state not jettisoned the normal parameters of the manager-player relationship.

Though not in so many words.

In the dressing room afterwards, as he came around, he apologised for what he had said, whatever it was, because he couldn’t recall anything since going into the bookies the previous day. I said he had nothing to make amends for – before adding, with a jocose flourish that generated great mirth, "I hope the horse went better than yourself."

Players like to try the manager. The same way they like to feel out a referee. They will push you to the limit to see how you react. Ultimately, you must establish the ground rules.

Indeed, management is like refereeing. I remain the only man in history to play in a county minor final – and then referee the senior final straight afterwards. If it wasn’t for an objection at divisional board level, I would have repeated this historic act the next season, the famous year of 1953, but there are no winners when an objection under the Parish Rules drags on for three years.

So, you could say I’ve seen it all over the years. Players like to depict you as a forbidding Primary School Principal type and, so great is their craving for your attention they will even mis-behave to get notice, either approving or disapproving.

So it was with wry detachment that I watched as the entire panel filed in to last Sunday’s fifth league match, every last man of them wearing his hair combed over the top of his head, left to right.

I sensed Nancy bristling, but motioned her to stay calm. All of them also wore tank-tops, of all hues, including Michael Hughes our tigerish young corner-back. Each man had the top button closed and a thin tie running down his front.

I, of course, remained implacable.

I knew there was only way to handle this affront to my authority – up front, and with a strong sense of self-confidence.

"Ah gentlemen," I said, my words hanging in the air for an eternity, and must have been the equivalent of an eternity of eternities for them, "I see your appreciation of style and fashion has improved dramatically."

They laughed, nervously. I paused for a full five minutes, the silence broken only by the repeated blowing of the referee’s whistle, and the shrill blast coming close to our dressing room with every passing second.

"But," I added, "there’s only one man in this town who won eleven county finals with a combover," pausing again, before adding, "and that’s Seamus ‘Cocker’ Byrne. He’s one ahead of me – I had a full head of hair the first year."

I went on in that vein for quite some time. How I didn’t care if they wanted to play in Long Johns (as I said this, a few of them slipped something bulky back into their bags) as long as they played with the spirit that has always characterised Ballybore. I told them how their forefathers had played in their bare feet, until the famous outbreak of Lockjaw cost the club the county title of ’69.

I told them about togging at the side of the road. I told them about helping a farmer with hay through the night to get the field ready for a match. I told them a lot. Mainly home truths.

It was powerful stuff, if I do say so myself. Many fell into a deep, meditative state, from which they emerged to exit the dressing room with a great, violent roar. "You handled that well, Noel," said Nancy, as she carried the tripod and camera out onto the field.

As it happens, they played their worst game of the season to date. It led to our first win.

* I had wanted Swinging Bernie Dunne but Nancy got it wrong. As it happened, Singing Bernie proved an able motivator, and the exercise was deemed a great success. "She’d point wet fiftys, that one," was one of the many generous compliments I heard the lads pay her in the days afterwards.

Noel always did it with style. Visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or shout him on Twitter (KnowledgeNoel.) Twitter is reviewing its username policy when there wasn’t room to fit KnowledgeableNoel. Nancy wrote them a stinging tweet.

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