As the Club Championships progress through the winter, a cast of inspirational, rock solid and at times hoary old club characters emerge from the shadows to don their bib and do their club duty. As the saying goes, everyone has a part to play, no matter how big or how small.
Bainisteoir
He’s the man, wearing that Bainisteoir bib carries a weight all of its own. Got the world upon the shoulders or the unbearable lightness of being successful. Bestriding the touchline like a colossus as the saying goes. There’s different species of bainisteoir, the Davy Fitzgerald living every moment with the lads out on the pitch, heart on sleeve, pucking and kicking every ball. Or the more inscrutable like a Cody or Mickey Harte, hands thrust deep in pockets or gripping his chin in brow furrowed contemplation. In the club championship you never know who you’d see on TG4 on a Sunday doing the rounds. Some of them even have the Gilet, with the famous inscription on the back. Bainisteoir.
Maor Foirne
The No2. The runner, the Maor Foirne. Sometimes it’s even the no1 masquerading as the no.2. A not so subtle trick among the County managers fraternity to dress up the manager as the second in command. But sure we’re not mugs, we know who the brains of the operation are. The no 2 is the one that’s allowed on the pitch to issue a word here and there. The good cop to the Bainisteoir’s bad cop. He’s the hand on the shoulder guy, the pat on the back man, the midnight telephone caller, the occasional ass kicker. If he resorts to that you know you’re in trouble. One day Maor Foirne, all of this could be yours.
Physio
The one good thing about being the physio is they get to wear that special physio bum bag with all their stuff in it. Nothing worse than running out across the field with all your kinesiotape hanging out for all the world to see. The other good thing about the physio bib wearer is the ice bag. Those big dopey round bags with the screw top lid. You know them before matches, lumbering along with their big treatment bed. Like a snail bringing the home with them the physio is prepared for a snooze if necessary. The bed will travel. You’re not a real physio unless you have the bum bag, bib, ice bag and bed you know. And the kinesio tape. The ice bag comes in handy the morning after a big championship win too, along with the obligatory photo on Facebook of pain and suffering.
Maor Uisce
Key role. The Waterboy. Perhaps they may even do an Irish language remake of The Waterboy set in NUIG. They’d hardly bother with a movie called Maor Foirne, or Bainisteoir would they? They’d never beat the Waterboy with his carefully filled Gaagle Waterbottles at just the right temperature. There’s a knack there in getting water on at the right time, and the wrong linesman or ref can play it strict enough. But when the going gets tough, and the hydration’s low, the players only want to see one person. The Maor Uisce.
Maor Caman
Talking of movies, will we ever see the day TG4 and Bord Scannán na hÉireann team up to make a real Oscar winner called Maor Caman about the life and times of the man who looks after the team’s hurleys. Now you can translate Maor Uisce and Waterboy back and forth all you want, but Maor Caman is a term that has no English equivalent. None that captures the way the true Maor Caman lovingly gathers up the players’ sticks, forwards here, backs there. Keeper looking after his own, they're rare boys anyway. He usually has a marker or two sequestered about his persons so he can ink a name on the shaft if required. Sometimes the Maor Caman will just drift off, into a reverie gazing at the grain on the Bás of a fine caman. Bliss. Until the roar comes from the pitch. Then, he earns his corn.
An Runai
Wizened, gnarled, veteran of many’s the battle with the mental scars to prove it. The Runai isn’t a man to be crossed. Maybe the clue is in his name, Runai, read the runes and the rules so many times; knows the Treoraí Oifigiúil like the back of the hand. Instinct tells when there’s likely to be an infraction and the need to stay a step ahead of the unfolding situation. The Runai.
An Cisteoir
New sliotars? A decent bus? Post match meal. The golden rule is whoever has the gold makes the rules. The treasurer is the guy. Every month the immaculate sets of accounts are produced but its come championship time when an emergency set of balls are needed or a jersey gets ripped and the communion money needs to be produced. Who you gonna call? An Cisteoir.
An Cathaoirleach
And finally, the Chairman. Often there isn’t a bib to encircle the belly of this figure of perfect rotundity. He enjoys a county dinner or two and chairing meetings especially with a casting vote. There he’ll be at the championship smiling benignly at all before him. Nothing beats being there when it’s a great day for the parish.
New bibs please.