Mick Fleming is a club and county grandee.

He was a heroic figure during his 1970s’ playing heyday, winning a couple of county titles, and, while the county team was in the doldrums at the time, he was a shining light, soaring like an eagle despite being surrounded by turkeys.

I’m not going to break the habit of a lifetime for that clown

However, it was during his stint in charge of our seniors in the mid-1990s that he briefly dropped the media-savvy guard, vexed after a narrow county semi-final defeat to our neighbours, Glanduff. The same day, we had been denied some very obvious frees, while myself and Ginger Farrell found it a lot more difficult to get away with our usual “robust” methods.

Local radio

The local radio station, 93FM, was still in its infancy and it was a huge thing for us to have a game broadcast live – the whole parish was at the match but nearly everyone brought a Walkman or a transistor radio with them, just to hear what they were seeing.

So it was on the drive home that we listened as the commentator, Harry Hickey, sought Mick’s views on the match and, in particular, the officiating. “I’ve never commented on a referee,” he said, “and I’m not going to break the habit of a lifetime for that clown.”

At the time, the county board didn’t have any specific rule to deal with media outbursts, but Mick got a rap on the knuckles for the catch-all “bringing the association into disrepute”. Future contributions became more considered and that’s no bad thing when Harry Hickey can get so excitable in the press box – “The pressure was on him but he didn’t batter an eyelid,” or “I can’t see what I’m believing!” were typical samples of his penchant for malapropism. Sometimes, he could skirt the line between humour and insult, like in the closing stages of one county final: “The ball is Kevin Calnan, who has been awesome today, and he gives it to Danny Driscoll, who’s awesome most days. Now it’s with Ronan O’Neill and, well, he just thinks he’s awesome.”

Master of hindsight

Another regular co-commentator is George O’Mullane. Years if not decades back, he was a selector on a team that won the minor All-Ireland, but while the players on that team were now retired, George still considered it recent enough to use as a regular touchstone.

Around half of the questions put to him would involve an answer along the lines of, “Well, when I won the All-Ireland, what we did was…” while he was also a master of hindsight. “Your man should have put the ball over the bar,” was the verdict after a goal attempt was saved, but, if a player in a similar scenario took the easy point, he would lament the lack of endeavour. “That’s what’s wrong with things in our county right now,” was the plaintive cry.

True legend

In terms of newspapers, we have the weekly Navigator – the joke is that it’ll never put you right – but once upon a time there was a daily paper, the Bugle (full of hot air). The Bugle’s GAA man was a true legend in his own time, Dick Ellis, a wordsmith of the highest order.

He never drove a car but covered games the length and breadth of the county as well as the regular trips to Croke Park, while he was no stranger to the many GAA hostelries dotted around the place.

Unfortunately, the latter sometimes got the better of the former and the advent of 93FM sometimes afforded him the opportunity to report on games by listening to the radio at a pub near a ground rather than venturing there himself.

Prior to that, though, he sometimes had to use his own smarts, like the 1992 provincial junior football final, held in nearby Dromfrackin – I can remember the year as it was the only one where I was on the panel.

We won the match and retired to the popular Toss Buckley’s over the road for a few celebratory pints. A few of us were congregated near the payphone and, when it rang at around 9.30pm that night, I took it upon myself to answer.

“Were you at the match?” a voice asked, and, high on the victory, I provided a longish synopsis that gave the main facts but possibly over-exaggerated my own role at wing-back, without mentioning who I was. Perhaps I should have twigged something when the person at the other end of the line looked to clarify spellings, but the beers softened the curiosity. “God bless you, boy,” he signed off.

I thought little of it until I saw the Bugle – and Dick Ellis’s report – the following morning.

“Denny Fitz’s rampaging surges up and down the flank were key to a dazzling victory at a sun-splashed – and beautifully appointed – Dromfrackin venue last night.”