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T uesday morning, reclining in the hotel room’s easy chair, I sensed the steel had drained from Nancy’s eyes.
She was so distracted she forgot to put sugar in my tea. Out of pure concern for her wellbeing, I suggested she take a lie-down after ironing the clothes and fetching a half-dozen Lamington cakes from Dandenong Farmers’ Market.
She can drive herself too hard at times. “Noel,” she blurted out, finally, “The Aussies have shown scant regard for it all with that goalkeeper. He must have won his place on vouchers.
“If they had done a Laz Molloy on it itself…when I played Sevens, we often went with a fly goalie – and felt safer than the Aussies Friday.
“It’s getting me down.” She thought she had troubles. “Nancy,” I replied, “there’s something I have to tell you. You’re as well off to hear it from me as anyone else. I have always been straight with you Nancy and I’m not going to change now.”
There was fresh alarm in her face. “Noel, what is it? What’s wrong? Please tell me, Noel.” I paused for a suitable period of time, before answering in a formal, clipped tone: “Cork Examiner have a private jet on standby in the airport here. Hurlers gone from the wire again. “Chaos looming. No-one to sort it out.
“Paraic Duffy’s out here. Kieran Mulvey won’t touch it with a forty-foot pole. Mark Landers has met himself coming back.
“Tomas Mulcahy is all questions, no answers. The Bird has thrown his hat at it.
“Christy Cooney can’t get involved. They want me on that plane.”
I paused again.
“In two hours.”
Her face dropped. For a full minute, she said nothing. But when she spoke, the old fire was back. “Right,” she said, almost militarily, “Vests and inside trousers. An Treoir Oifigiuil to read. Pillow for your head.
“Deep Vein Thrombosis socks are washed. You’ll get another wear out of the provincial council blazer.
“Ring straightaway to get the engines running – to quote your motto, Noel, you never know the hour or the minute, but you must answer the call. I’ll text Boylan.” I hadn’t seen her so resolute since I lost my Central Council seat, albeit temporarily.
But, just this once, I had to dictate the approach. “Nancy,” I said, “Have I ever shirked a challenge? I wasn’t intimidated on the field, and no-one ever got to the end of me in the boardroom either.”
She replied: “You weren’t predisposed to conflict, Noel, you were predisposed to resolution. On your own terms, of course.”
I told her there was no way I was going home. “Let them scrimp and scratch at it themselves until they’re all up in a heap,” I said, “and then when they’ve hammered enough out of each other, they will be grand and subdued when I finally answer the call. “I wasted three days of our holiday in Ardfert after Duffy and Mulvey were sent packing. This time, it’ll be one hour, not one minute more.
“Let them decide when that hour is. I’m in no hurry.
“But it won’t be before I fly home out of here on Sunday, and that’s for sure. And if John from the Echo rings – John Horgan, John Arnold, John McHale or any John they can find – you can tell them that yourself.
“I’ll be playing this one on my terms. They’ll have manners when I get as far as them.” Nancy’s face beamed with pride. “You’re dead right, Noel,” she said, “you spoiled them before.”
And with that, she packed a lunch and we took ourselves off out to Ballarat for the afternoon.
Nancy played the slots while I wrote up the Ballybore notes for the paper back home, and faxed them from the front office at Eureka Stockade, where the girls know me well. Graham Canty was texting me to meet up, but he’ll have to wait like the rest of them.
Noel is his own motivational guru. Email him at
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; visit www.knowledgeablenoel.com; or track him down on Facebook (Knowledgeable Noel.)
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