ONE of the downsides of the job is that, while usually among the first to arrive, you’re often the very last to leave.
Five minutes folks, comes the wearied war-cry, then the lights are going off. The odd time it might not be just so polite – but I get it. Those hardy souls locking up grounds have homes to go to as well, y’know, they don’t need the likes of me, or anybody, hanging about until all hours.
And so, like a rain dog in search of a scent, it is back out onto some street or other, pounding empty pavements that earlier reverberated to the rhythm of matchday traffic.
Saturday was later than most; the combination of a 7.30pm throw-in, then Jim McGuinness and Dessie Farrell foregoing the traditional pitchside huddle in place of a hastily co-ordinated top table affair upstairs in the clubroom of Ballybofey’s MacCumhaill Park.
It felt a bit formal for the first day of February, at the start of the National League, but whatever floats your boat. Later, though, events would take an unexpected - and unwelcome - twist.
Evacuated from the press box, the cold comfort of the car’s crumb-infested passenger seat resumes its traditional role as makeshift office – notepad delicately poised on the arm rest, programme propped up by the gearstick (no idea what automatic drivers do), phone torch shining down from the dash, laptop on the… lap.
Parking, even a few hours before throw-in, was problematic; it often is when the Dubs come to town. So we’re up past Lidl on the way out of the town centre, then down a side street, then another.
It’s approaching 10.30pm now and, as I batter away at the keyboard, there is little life about – until a group of four or five teenagers appear in the distance, hoods pulled up to protect against the elements.
Chatting, hopping off each other, they’re just kids raking about after dark, happy out – until, as they neared, all went quiet. A few seconds passed before a barely audible titter was followed by a loud, impossibly elongated – dare I say, sensual? - groan. You know the kind.
Then came another. Then another. Eventually, a cacophony of animalistic noises had engulfed all sides until, satisfied with their night’s work, they went on their merry way.
It was probably 10 seconds in total, it seemed like 10 hours. I felt violated. The middle-aged dad in me wanted to get out and show them freshly typed quotes from McGuinness calling for the introduction of a sixth sub, before threatening to tell their parents; the hip young dude - the one who doesn’t hang around darkened, desolate stretches of road - appreciated their moxy.
All of a sudden the blue light - only the light was blue, honest - cascading from my screen, the torch’s slightly muffled glare, had cast an entirely innocent situation (stop me if you feel I am protesting too much) into something salacious from the outside in.
As well all know, though, things are not always as they seem.
Which brings me – albeit up past Lidl, down one side street, then another - to one of the interesting sub-plots in the propaganda war that has engulfed the GAA in recent weeks.
Jim Gavin started it, of course. There was a time when the man who masterminded Dublin’s All-Ireland domination would keep his cards glued to his chest. Even when he did say something, he said nothing.
Yet for the last six months you can’t move for Jim Gavin. He pops up on Twitter more than Trump. The Dublin baseball cap has been dispensed with, a funky new pair of glasses framing the man charged with regenerating football’s fortunes.
There have been wee videos, tactics boards, podcasts, talk nights, information sessions. Sandbox became an integral part of the lexicon. Gavin has put in the graft.
At October’s inter-provincial series in Croke Park – when the wraps were first taken off the proposed new rule enhancements – punters were invited to “come and enjoy the future of football”.
The Football Review Committee campaign has been built on positive messaging and understanding. If it doesn’t work, we’ll have another look. Nothing is set in stone here lads, don’t worry.
But people are often suspicious of something they feel has been oversold. Meld that with a huge slab of self-interest among the coaching fraternity, and you have a problem in waiting.
Because for every “welcome back Gaelic football, we missed you terribly” tweet from Joe Brolly comes concern from another quarter. Speaking after his side’s thrilling victory over neighbours Tyrone, Armagh boss Kieran McGeeney gave voice to those not yet ready to pat Gavin on the back and light his cigar.
“You’re not allowed to have a bad opinion on the new rules, by the looks of it…”
Former Derry captain Chrissy McKaigue, speaking to Declan Bogue of the 42.ie, criticised the narrative around the new rules.
“There is a perception out there at the minute that if you are not jumping on to the angle of thought that they are unbelievable, they are perfect and everything is positive, that you are almost seen as anti-football.”
The lust for instant gratification feels short-sighted two games into the National League; the rules have huge potential, we’ve seen that. But, right now, that’s all it is because, as managers continue to tinker and tweak, the more the lines will become blurred.
In squally conditions, Donegal reverted to type, with just one ball kicked into the forward line on Saturday night. Tyrone, too, are struggling to free themselves from the shackles of Gaelic football past.
“You’re trying to wash out a lifetime of habit,” said Red Hand stalwart Mattie Donnelly.
Away from the bright lights, men like Jim McGuinness, Malachy O’Rourke and Paddy Tally will be concocting cunning plans to best utilise the new rules when it matters most.
More than perhaps any other year in recent memory, League results are bordering on irrelevant. This spring is the only testing ground they have towards bigger things - and full hands will not be laid on the table until they really have to.
