THIS MAY be a lousy time to be an international broker but it remains the Golden Age of the GAA Manager.
It is standard practice for any successful intercounty GAA manager, when asked about the joys of the job, to stare dreamily out across the open field from under the peak of his (indiscreetly-sponsored and frequently terribly ill-fitting) cap as if reliving the most action-packed highlights of his sporting career before sighing and issuing the stock and modest declaration: 'Nothing beats playing, lads.' At a fundamentally nostalgic level, this is probably true but it is about time managers 'fessed up to the truth that being the Big Cheese in the Bainisteoir's jacket can be a thrill and a half as well, particularly if you get to bring your team to the Holy of Holies, Croke Park.
Hauling off the star midfielder or tantalising the crowd by warming up the pin-up forward - still recovering from that unfortunate incident in the tanning salon - is, after all, closer than most people will get to experiencing the power of a big-time film director or to touch upon the insane sense of omnipotence that must have flowed through the veins of a classic war general like Robert E Lee, standing on the brow of the hill on Bessie, his steed, playing his troops like figures on a chess board and making sure never to bring in six substitutes.
It is time to face facts: GAA managers have become stars in their own right. This is particularly so in recent years, when the cult of the GAA manager has reached the point where it has surely become only a matter of time before they start fielding phone-calls from Tom Cruise about joining the Scientology movement or popping up at exotic European festivals in the company of George Clooney and other members of that international brat pack. True, we scold if our managers appear on the telly too often but - like Jack said in A Few Good Men - we also want them on that wall, we need them on that wall.
Many of us have begun to suffer from what might be described as manager-dependency syndrome, where hearing the familiar voices and words of wisdom from the nation's best known managers can bring comfort and a sense of security in these dark and troubling times. It is all very well listening to experts in the field but I, for one, will not be happy that the turmoil on Wall Street and other stock exchanges is over until "Banty" McEnaney tells me it is.
It has rightly been observed - most frequently by managers themselves - that in today's cut-throat and heartless society, GAA managers are judged mainly by results. That does not mean they have to win everything or, in many cases, anything at all, but they risk immediate termination of employment if they squander games against (A) immediate border rivals (B) county teams perceived to be more interested in boozing and carousing than playing ball or (C) London.
Over the past season or two, it has become voguish for county boards to fire managers with the impatience of Italians getting rid of their governments. Managers are generally sanguine about this and their demise is often reported in classic Western-style language: managers are rarely sacked; instead, they bite bullets, dust or something equally unpalatable.
But more often than not, they soon pop up elsewhere. Different peaked hat and new county colours but the same shining intensity in the eyes, the same promises of honesty and total commitment and the same magic touch that transforms a hitherto fairly limited or even hopeless group of players into the surprise package of the lower league divisions or dark horses for provincial championships. And there are only about 12 or 14 men capable of this. They are like the wise Native Indian leaders - except Sitting Bull rarely claimed mileage - and are so caught on the carousel of counties constantly looking for a manager to suit their dreams and ambitions.
These exceptional managers were rarely leading lights in their playing days. The stud midfielders or silken corner forwards rarely go on to enjoy an afterlife as inspirational leaders of the next generation. No, great managers tend to have grafted as noble and earnest defensive servants or utility men of no great consequence or guys whose promising careers ended with torn cartilage suffered while trying to perform Michael Jackson's moonwalk after a county relegation play-off celebration in the winter of '83: the men, in other words, who sat in the background and watched, learned and listened.
One of the Kerry players was the other day bemoaning the growing intrusion of media sorts into what was termed the "private lives" of the heroes who do battle on the field. If this is true, then it is shocking and wrong, although this column pleads innocence in so far that it can scarcely be persuaded to take an interest in the private lives of dearest friends, let alone the goings-on of intercounty football stars with whom it has never even spoken.
The usual complaint of GAA stars is they have no lives at all, let alone "private lives" - a somewhat unfortunate term that conjures images of Noel Coward and that scandalous luvvie set of yesteryear. "Personal lives" would have been better. But the point is there are hundreds of big-shot players and once they are not wearing a number on their back, it is almost impossible to tell one from the next. The vast majority of intercounty stars look like second-year Garda recruits at Templemore. The managers are different, though. Everybody knows the county managers. These are men who have lived a little, men who will nod in empathy when they hear Shane MacGowan sing of the "sounds of long ago from the old canal." It is possible to believe "the media", admittedly never slow when it comes to stooping to conquer, might develop an unhealthy fixation with the men who lead the big teams to All-Ireland glory each year. But the players are safe enough.
When we see the Sam Maguire on the front cover of Hello, perched on the mahogany table in the Caribbean hide-out of the newly crowned manager we will know that all has been changed, as the poet said, changed utterly.
Tomorrow, Mickey Harte and Pat O'Shea will engage in the psychological battle on the sideline. Neither man is a shouter. Neither man struts or thumps his fist or does anything much besides watch the game and make quiet and sometimes devastatingly effective decisions. The days have long passed since you could sling the old joke about the GAA manager who shook his head when asked about tactics, saying that he preferred Polos. Nowadays, a typical GAA dressingroom can resemble the Cabinet War Rooms circa 1944, with mind boggling designs and sheets strewn everywhere. Harte and O'Shea are master tacticians and that is what gives tomorrow's All-Ireland final such an intriguing subplot.
Sometimes you watch big games and wonder if we shouldn't hand the Government over to the best of the GAA coaches, have them run the country and be done with it. But maybe that is stretching it. Maybe it has reached the stage where we ought to worry that the cult of the manager has gone out of control. The way things are going, they are soon going to start picking the man in the cap as the man of the match.
