Niall Finnegan is reflecting on 10 summers of life on fast-forward. Words flow from the Galway man, he is concise and funny and, sitting here now, he seems to have all the time in the world. But you listen to him and conclude that he must have bungee-jumped his way through an entire decade just to arrive at this point.

Whoosh . . . night lights and legal documents . . . 100 sit-ups . . . "I'm in your hands, your honour," . . . winter poker sessions in the UCG canteen . . . evening law . . . five million sit-ups . . . a winter honeymoon . . . "over the bar, Finnegan," . . . 7.30 a.m. Saturday alarm calls . . . "move to strike, your honour," . . . evening law classes and days touring for Guinness . . . five million push-ups . . . first day with Branigan and Cosgrove . . . last in the parade on All-Ireland final day 1998 . . . Dublin 130 kilometres . . . "And that's all from Today FM, news again at midnight" . . . "this is the last year, I swear" . . . "how's a goin John, Wednesday night, yeah, I'll be there," . . . Galway 130 kilometres . . . 10 million sprints . . . "I suppose," he says after considering, "it's all about organisation of time."

John O'Mahony gleefully calls him the "elder statesman" of the Galway forward line, but on this sizzling mid-day in the capital, he just looks the most dapper.

Niall Finnegan is wearing a dark suit that might appear sombre were it not for the extravagant quiffed haircut he favours. Morrissey in pinstripe. It is not a typical GAA haircut. He is sunny-faced and warm-eyed and now, in mid August, his face bears the pinched, taut look that sets all serious athletes apart.

He is, he admits, a little surprised to be here still, part of the infernal loop, wearing number 15 for Galway, readying himself for another day in Croke Park, again bleached with the white frenzy of Kildare. All-Ireland 1998 revisited. What he remembers most about that silvery September day of two years ago is the noise.

"It was really quite phenomenal. It brings on a tremendous sense of isolation. Like, Padraig Joyce was the nearest man to me, just across in front of goal, and we couldn't hear a word we tried to say to one another. So there was loneliness about it. We'd all played in big games but this was a step into the unknown. Gets you focused, you know, just concentrate on getting through the thing."

That day was a galaxy away from his early experiences with Galway. Finnegan journeyed up to Carrick-on-Shannon in 1994 for the first of a humbling series of games for the county. Leitrim, passion-fired and balanced that summer, forced a draw and went on to win the Connacht championship. But what struck Finnegan was the crowd. He could have counted the visiting supporters.

"There was about 300 or so. It was a fairly lean time for Galway football, even though the club scene was fairly strong and St Jarlath's were doing well. But even that year it was obvious that there was the nucleus of a strong side there and it was clear that there was a lot of latent support that would return in time. "Bosco McDermott and Val Daly laid the building blocks for what happened in 1998 and aren't really given the credit for that. I mean, in 1995, we won Connacht and ought to have beaten Tyrone in the All-Ireland semi-final, who in turn ought to have beaten Dublin. So we realised we weren't so far away."

Finnegan is a city kid, Salthill bred. Hung out with Neville Maxwell (the rower) and a big, carefree gang in the locality. Life patterns were uncomplicated then. Morning football with Liam Sammon down in the stadium. Afternoon heresy on a soccer field.

"It suited the mothers perfectly; there was no energy left to burn when we got home."

By the time he'd reached his teens, Finnegan realised he could burn most of his peers on a Gaelic field. It also dawned on him that Salthill, with its myriad seductions, was a teenager's Eden. Naturally curious of mind, he set about exploring them with enthusiasm. So his folks did the only thing possible. They set about getting him a boarding place in Gormanston.

"Let's just say it wasn't my idea," he laughs now. "It worked out well - it gave me a lot of independence and was ideal for me because I was sports-inclined and the facilities there are tremendous. I don't know if I'd send my own kids to boarding school, that said. But I think it's fair to say it brought my football on."

A place in UCG brought him back across the Shannon, and the by early 1990s he had been drafted into the senior squad.

These days he finds himself sighing for the throwaway hours blissfully squandered during college terms. Oh, to have stored a handful for now!

By 1994, he was in the concluding stages of a law degree, working on the road for Guinness and training with Galway. And even so, he had time on his hands.

Then, in early 1995, he was offered a position with the law firm Branigan and Cosgrove and moved to Dublin. That is when the reel started turning faster and he began to juggle hours, minutes, seconds. Without articulating it, he felt his Galway career would simply fade out, defeated by the distance alone. But he always found time to journey cross country, to make the training.

Late in 1997, Carmel and he went on honeymoon and it was only in the latter stages of the league did he encounter John O'Mahony.

"I would always have seen Niall as someone who was indispensable," says the Galway manager now.

"He hit a winning point against Leitrim when I was there and I have been slagging him about it since. Niall comes across as a light-hearted type of guy, great to have around. But the effort he puts into this is incredible.

"Okay, other lads were based in Dublin for college or whatever, but I think he's the only one working and living there for so long. To make it for the Saturday morning sessions we have is no joke. But he is a tremendous footballer, level-headed and dedicated, a very important member of the squad."

For how long more? After the cataclysmic collapse in the 1999 Connacht final against Mayo, Finnegan found himself surprised at the overwhelming relief that set in. Normality was restored for a time. Of course the hunger pangs had returned by the time he sat down to watch that year's semi-final, but it gave him time to pause and contemplate the days when someone else would wear the number 15.

"At this time of year, I really can't think of anything beyond work and football. I think I'll take up acting and Spanish literature when I retire," he laughs. "I mean, I have already told my close friends and connected parties that this is my final year, but I've cried wolf so often they probably don't believe me. I'm not about to make any rash decisions now either. But deep down, I know that this is a young man's game. It's an abnormal life in a way. You have to be obsessive about training, watch your diet, all that. It's a monastic lifestyle especially at this time of year. No Friday nights out, no pubs, no nightclubs. It's a huge sacrifice for Carmel too. You have to be selfish in a way."

Tonight, on the eve of their biggest match since 1998, the elder statesman, number 15, will room with Derek Savage. "We'll feed off each other's confidence," he says.

These last nine footballing years have perhaps given Niall Finnegan as much as he's put in. When it ends, it's the laughs that he will hear clearest.

"Winning an All-Ireland," he says, "you know, it's a mythical thing before you win it. Afterwards you realise that it's another medal won. Doesn't change your life. You don't get out of bed thinking, Wow. Life moves on."

And onwards, towards Niall Finnegan's last trick in maroon, his adieu. Chances are he'll leave as happily as he arrived and won't wait around to hear the fanfare.