This old fox is hoping Sunday will bring real happiness to all
John Arnold in 1980, when he had foxy-coloured hair.
Don’t get me wrong now, I know this world can well and truly be described as a ‘vale of tears’. At the present time, when we look at the situation in Ukraine, in Gaza, the rise of Putin, with democracy under threat in the home of the free and the brave, famine, disease and climate change, it’s easy to be downbeat, sullen, and not in the mood for laughter.
Yet the truth is that in these circumstances, having the ability to laugh, make others laugh and most importantly laugh at ourselves, was never more important.
Around four decades ago, when I was first doing a bit of ‘stage work’ in plays and GAA Scor sketches and the like, a veteran from the golden era of amateur drama gave me some great advice.
Bill Gubbins was involved in drama and dramatic productions years before I was born. Post-war Ireland was poor in terms of finance but rich in regards people helping themselves.
Bill was ‘on stage’ often when there was actually no stage - no hall even, just the local school, Woods’ shed or a fit-up in a barn somewhere!
Bill’s words of wisdom were summed up beautifully in Ken Dodd’s hit song: ‘ .’
People tell me I’m self-deprecating, wow! When first I heard that term, I wasn’t sure if twas a compliment or an insult, and to tell the truth it didn’t much bother me either!
Anyhow, it seems to mean that one doesn’t take oneself too seriously and if the cap fits, I’ll certainly wear it.
While I possess a very old, non-smart mobile phone - a small little black one that sends texts and can be used to actually talk to people - I am also ‘online’ with an email address. I sent this contact to a friend on Monday, and when he saw I included the prefix ‘foxyjohnarnold’ in my email address, he instantly replied, ‘It’s a while since you were foxy’, to which I responded ‘The Neolithic era, I suppose!’ - so my lack of what was once a fine thatch of foxy, curly, desirable, adorable hair is no cause of embarrassment. As I often say, ‘Grass never grows on a busy road’!
A few years back, I was thrilled and honoured to be invited as a guest speaker to a Tipperary GAA function in the Dome in Thurles, to honour great Gaels from the Premier County. I was introduced as a GAA historian - fair enough and reasonably accurate ... and also as a former outstanding hurler and footballer with my club Bride Rovers!
Oops, someone’s research must have confused me with Lynch, Murphy, Ring, Daly or Barry, as my playing career was neither lengthy nor noteworthy.
I had to explain to the audience that I ever only played a handful of games in either code at adult level and just three of those - all in the last century - remain ingrained in my memory.
After all these years, I now contritely apologise to Willie, Paudie and Richie - they were all paying with me on my team so ye can understand no malice or bitter inter-club rivalry caused the injuries - just my absolute lack of skill.
I can laugh about it now, but ’twas no laughing matter all those years ago - in fairness to the lads, no legal case against me was ever proceeded with!
Ken Dodd’s song Happiness brings to mind what’s important in life, and Johnny Logan’s Eurovision winner What’s Another Year reminds me of a story I was told concerning hurling back in the 1930s.
In the 1920s, the different grades for club hurling in Cork included Senior, Seconds and Minor- top grade, second grade and third grade. Then, the minor grade was confined to players under the age of 18.
It took a few years for this to be fully accepted, the attitude of ‘what’s another year’ seemed to prevail, and ’twas no bother to have a not so young lad of 19 or 20 still lining out with a minor under 18 team!
One such player who’d got ‘the key of the door’ was playing in a Minor Final in East Cork - he was from a nearby county and was drafted in to augment the team’s prospects.
Playing under an ‘assumed ‘ name, this individual was given vital personal information in case he’d be questioned by the referee about his ‘vital statistics’. His reputed date of birth and his mother’s maiden name were drilled into him before the match. In addition, these vitally important details were written on his hurley!
Well, he had a mighty first half, like the Bould Thady Quill showing ‘hurling and skill’, and scoring ten points! At half-time the referee was asked by the opposition about the legality, legitimacy and age of the boy-wonder. He came over and asked, ‘What’s your date of birth and your mother’s maiden name?’
Necessity, they say, is the mother of invention and the guilty player replied, ‘Oh, I got a woeful bang of a hurley on top of me head and my memory is gone completely’!
Today, he’d be taken off for the Concussion Protocol but not back then! I never heard who won that game.
I’m not sure when we first got a television, black and white naturally, maybe around 1965 - not certain of that, but I can remember people in our house listening to Micheal O’Hehir on the wireless covering big games.
Anyhow, a house not far from us got a TV set in the summer of 1969. Kilkenny beat Cork in the Hurling Final that year. An old man in the house was watching the game - first time he ever saw one on the new set.
Later that Sunday night, highlights of the game were on again, he remarked, ‘Leave me alone, wasn’t it bad enough to have they bate us today and now they’re doing it again’!
Who’ll win on Sunday? Well, I heard the old people say ‘There was only ever eight ounces of sense in Bartlemy, and one particular family got six of them’! I can tell ye, ‘twasn’t us got three-quarters of the sense!
I was there to hear that famous ‘Clare Shout’ in 1995 in Croke Park when Clare made the breakthrough, and again in ’97. I was at the drawn final in 2013 but missed the replay.
Hopefully, Sunday will be the culmination of happy, fun-filled days for us all. And come here, if ye meet me and greet me with ‘Howaya, foxyjohn’ sure that’s grand altogether!
And yes, of course Bill Gubbins loved the hurling too,
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