Sean Boylan is one of the GAA's mysteries. The image of the Meath manager sitting on a football by the sideline on festival days at Croke Park is, by now, iconographic.

Yet, although he is possessed of a natural courtesy which seems almost old-fashioned when compared with some of his contemporaries, Boylan remains, to some extent, unknowable.

There is a basic incongruity about this twinkling man with the soft words who is also the godfather of one of the most uncompromising and bruising, if brilliant, dynasties of modern football.

But a cursory trace through the last 17 winters identifies him as the common thread through a succession of fine teams who thrived on skill, stoicism and a willingness to absorb anything. That he is around nearly two decades after his first session surprises few who have run under his guidance.

"He loves it, it's as simple as that," summed up one former player who wished to retain anonymity.

"I dunno if he even claims expenses. He certainly didn't in my day. His whole drive was all about love of the job."

We last rained garlands on Boylan in 1996, when his fledgling team, laced with a few hoary linchpins, swept the board with a dash which seemed impudent. They beat a Mayo team by a single point that September, vanquishing a side full of good stories and symbolic of the re-awakening of a province.

A Meath win simply wasn't fashionable and the explosion of fists in the opening minutes of the All-Ireland final replay apparently had the nation reaching for the rosary beads and decrying the victors as bullies.

In the immediate aftermath, though, Boylan had seemed close to tears, and he allowed that the day had been the most emotional of his life. He made his team circle round him in an embrace and silenced them with concise, reflective words.

"Remember the lads in that other dressing-room. That could have been us. One point. It could have been us."

The atmosphere fell hush with a solemnity that was scarcely creditable for a winning dressing-room. When he said he felt heartbreaking empathy for the shattered Mayo boys, you believed him, and when he looked straight at his questioners it was impossible to see anything but truthfulness in his eyes.

Yet Meath were castigated in the following weeks for the nature of that All-Ireland final and some observers said their style of play profited from the grey area left open by the definition of the rules. However fair the criticism, what was obvious was that that Meath team, like its predecessors, didn't flinch and, if required, could combine crushing physical confrontation with outstanding football.

It all highlighted the heart of the mystery. How could such a benign, likable old charmer of a man produce teams of such a driven nature, athletes who shared an unbending singularity of purpose?

"I think a lot of it stemmed back to the training pitch," recalls Robbie O'Malley of his celebrated playing days.

"We were going to the limit three nights a week, and I think that because he had such respect, lads really pushed themselves. I know I did and I hated training. You just had to do it."

A lot of legends now shudder at the thought of what they endured on those darkening nights when they just kept running because the guy beside them was. They all agree that, when they broke up for games, Boylan encouraged them not to hold back. Mick Lyons contends that some of the finest individual performances by Meath players were on lonely evenings when they'd play 'til moonlight for the sheer hell of it.

"Hard but fair, that was Sean's way," says Bernie Flynn. "There were nights anything could happen - and did. Sean liked it tough but he had his guidelines.

"I remember one night, it's a well-known story, a fight started between me and this other player. Sean stopped it and, as a punishment, he set us off doing laps. We made it to the top of the field and then we went at it again. I'll never forget Sean racing up to break it up, and then pushing both of us in the chest, shouting at us that if we thought we were so tough, he'd take us both on."

When Boylan assumed control of Meath in the autumn of 1982, it caused scarcely a ripple across wider GAA circles. Meath were a mediocre, flickering force at best, an afterthought on the Leinster calendar.

"No one wanted it, no one would touch Meath at the time," says Lyons. "Sean had been treating the lads at the time (he is a herbalist) and there were a few eyebrows raised when he was picked. But it took a brave man to try it then."

It took five years for Boylan to utterly transform the team, to make them the most respected, polished unit in the country. Although all agree that Boylan was responsible, they are at a loss to explain his sorcery.

"We had a few drinks together after we went out in 1983 and Sean went around talking to a few lads quietly. I think something changed in him as a manager then, that he decided upon a certain approach and followed it," says Flynn.

Meath won the Centenary Cup against Monaghan the following year, a celebrated win that is widely regarded as having sparked their momentum. Then came a golden era: three consecutive Leinster titles (198688), two All-Irelands (1987/1998) and three National League titles. They lost consecutive All-Ireland finals, in 1990 to Cork in '91 a fizzing Down side which presaged the swing towards Ulster.

"The end of the road for us," remembers O'Malley with a flatness of tone that seems poignant. The old guard unlaced the boots that day knowing they'd seen their last of banner days. When it came to call time, Sean Boylan was never a sentimentalist.

"I went after 1992 when we were beaten in Navan by Laois," says Lyons. "The time had come and I didn't think twice about it. Wasn't a hard thing for me," says Lyons.

"When you're time was up, it was up," shrugs Bernie Flynn. "Some lads knew when that was, others didn't, some left gracefully, others didn't." For Robbie O'Malley, that dusky hour arrived in 1995. "We had been beaten in the Leinster final the previous year. I came back to train in the autumn and it took me about two weeks to realise it was gone. It's hard to give up after 12 years, must be like coming off drugs. But I knew. Sean was understanding, though he'd seen it before. Players come and go."

And always, Boylan is there in the backroom. Speak to any of the players from that era and certain things become apparent. Some have remained close friends with Boylan, others not so much. Nothing unusual in that. But they all speak with reverential respect for what he means to Meath football and all attest to the fact that the serene nature, the gentleness, remained a constant once the dressing-room door was slammed shut.

"He simply is a genuinely affable guy," says O'Malley. "I don't think he yelled and ranted at guys because he wouldn't feel comfortable doing it. The guy just has this way about him. God, those teams had great times together, you'd knock good crack out of Sean. But as a manager, he stood alone."

And so it will be tomorrow. Although Meath football still generates feverish talk in the heartland, the game is secondary to many of its former stars now.

"It's a common thing. Family, work, even just burnout from the time spent playing it," says Flynn.

Yet when they are asked to reminisce, they talk fondly. Fine, storied days which were maybe taken too lightly then. White-hot games which shaped characters in ways that went beyond football. The clear ring of laughter which followed the weekly rites of mischief. All nostalgia now.

And meantime, Sean Boylan continues to govern in his inimitable way. There is a marvellous story to this man, one which may never be told. Chances are that he will depart the scene with the same quiet modesty as marked that dimly-remembered arrival. But he will leave an unquenchable afterglow which will sustain future Meath footballers over many starless nights.