Nancy stormed into the front room the other night with a scowl on her like Pad Joe after finding Gary Hanniffy belting out The Green Fields Around Ferbane at half-twelve in Brian’s place, his eyes fully closed, head tilted skywards, and the rest of the lads raising their glasses in the night-time air – three nights before a pitch opening.

With my trademark playfulness, I told her of the image her vexed visage had just conjured up in my head. She was angry and didn’t see the humour in it – there was bite in her sniping rejoinder that "if PadJoe found the lads like that, he’d take at them with sally rods – they’d all would want a loan of young Mullins’ long trousers for the Shamrocks match."

She pressed on: "Noel, Mickey Harte’s out in the hallway, and Stephen O’Neill with him, and they’re very agitated. You better come out. Quickly."

She stood there, anxiously, as I fell into deep contemplation. Once there, I realised this was no time for deep contemplation.

However, I equally felt it would be worryingly indecisive of me to hastily abandon my entranced state, and so I remained there for a full 40 minutes – and then ambled out.

"Gentlemen," I said, "what can I do for you? You’re a long way from home tonight."

Harte had O’Neill by the ear. "Noel," he said, his face contorted into a clear expression of disgust, "take one look at this fellow, Noel. The next time you’ll see him in a Tyrone jersey it will be in the waxworks museum – alongside yourself and Nancy, Noel."

I moved immediately to calm things down. "Go on, Mickey, tell me more. Don’t tell me he’s letting you down now and all you’ve done for him. Not to mind all the work I did on him too in August. And the soft medal he’s after getting."

Mickey: "He wants to retire again. Says he’s had enough. Burn-out. Did you ever hear the like, Noel? That kind of talk must make good GAA men like you sick, Noel and Nancy."

Nancy moved as if to physically confront O’Neill, now cowering beneath the Coat of Arms the club gave us on our wedding day. Again, I intervened before matters had advanced too far.

"Stephen," I said, "look me in the eye. Man up. Stop the whimpering. Is what Mickey says true?"

There followed a prolonged bout of snivelling, before he finally mumbled an incoherent "that’s it Noel, I’m outta there – I’m a wantaway full-forward. I’ve got all the All-Ireland medals I’d want, Noel. There’s no reason to stay."

Mickey gritted the teeth and grabbed O’Neill by the thin hair on his lock in a style any schoolteacher would be proud of. Stephen shrieked. Nancy had the county umbrella and wanted to escalate things.

Everyone, including myself, looked to me to bring a modicum of commonsense. I remembered the night Ned Quinn brought DJ down, and he threatening to retire.

I can still recall DJ’s frightened muttering he’d had enough. Neither have I never forgotten the tactic I employed on that famous occasion. It has remained a complete secret ever since – and, once again, I opted for the same approach here.

"Mickey," I said, "I’m surprised at an allegedly intellegent man like you. You mean to tell me, you came all the way down here tonight, on bad roads, through floods and ice, cross-country for the last 100 miles, just to tell me that Stephen O’Neill is retiring again?

"Well, stop the presses. Break into the 9o’c News. Summon the cabinet home from Cape Canaveral and the Dail to sit in emergency session."

My withering tone shocked all.

"But," began Mickey, "but, I can’t let the wee cub go now that he’s back. He’s the best mon we have. We can win another All-Ireland if he stays."

I turned my back and walked away with a theatrical flourish perfected through countless appearances with the Ballybore Players. Harte was stunned into silence.

"Noel, Noel," he implored me, "I need your backing now more than ever. This is my hour of need. I’m here to get you to convince Stephen to play. I’ve always looked up to you Noel.

"You’re the kind of man who could get Stephen Ireland to play, for God’s sake, let alone Stephen O’Neill. Don’t let me down now."

I retired to my study, closed the door, and waited there for five minutes whey they shuffled away.

That night, I summoned a still shocked Nancy. "Noel," she said, "what have you done? I can’t believe you let them off like that.

"Stephen O’Neill is a rare talent. The game needs him. You let him go there as if he were just a sub. who wouldn’t win a break in a kickaround."

But, then, she saw my beguiling, mischievous smile. "Oh, Noel," she continued, "you’ve something up your sleeve."

I had. "Take a note, Nancy" I said, exaggeratedly, and drafted a letter to said Mickey Harte that concluded with the following observation: "It is my considered opinion that the worst thing you could do is give Stephen O’Neill a medal for his efforts this year."

Two days later, it came as no surprise to see events take a certain turn. Mickey Harte was on the phone Thursday. "Genius, Noel," he said, "Stephen is chomping at the bit for 2009. Wants to get back training now.

"Says he will play on for years now. That was a masterstroke by you. You’re as good as Miss Flanagan ever was."

I said nothing. I sensed he regrets ever doubting me.

Noel never started from A. Or finished at B. Email him at This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it ; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or track him down on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)

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