My Kingdom for one county medal

Billy Keane

Maurice Stack, aged 89 and the big half, opened the door and welcomed us with a smile as broad as the estuary. It was nearly 3.0 in the morning and, as you might expect, he was in his blue pyjamas with the clover pattern.

Thirty or 40 of us piled in to the bedroom and the singing started. The bed was invaded. All-Ireland star son Stephen produced strong drink and Rich Tea biscuits.

We were aged 19 to nearly 90 but there wasn't a year between us. Maurice sang one of his greatest hits, 'The Bard of Armagh'. My favourite line is "merry hearted boys make the best of old men." And Maurice is still a boy at heart.

Hours earlier. Fifteen minutes left in the 2007 Kerry Final. South against North. There's nothing in it. Tough stuff. It's coursing without muzzles.

Jerome Stack, our new trainer, sits on the edge of the bed. Maurice embraces him. Tears. Stack meets Stack. We'd never have won but for Jerome. He's our soul. Fiery as his red head. I used to coach him. He was a handful as a minor but only because his heart was busting with pride in the geansai.

Jerome fought every battle when he played but he never started a row. He knows the game by heart. The players love him and his honesty.

Five minutes left. Guiney takes aim at a South forward. He goes at him, a torpedo wrapped in barbed wire.

The ball spills. Whelan squeezes it so tight the hiss of the escaping air cools his fire.

Johnny Mulvihill, a serious football brain, is urging on his troops. "Glory, glory Rangers." And he holds up three fingers. Nearly there. It's 27 years since we last won. We spent most of that time fighting amongst ourselves. Oh no. A free for the South. Equaliser. Damn.

Will we ever win it again?

Kieran Quirke is the find of the year. He asks Maurice if he can sit on the bed. Kieran is worn out. The bed creaks. Declan Griffin, another future Kerry player, joins him.

Someone asks if Maurice Fitz should retire. You owe us nothing. It's up you Fitzy. And he wasn't targeted. Aonghus Fitzgerald says it would be a crime against humanity.

'Ride On' rocks the cradle like a naomhoig in Ballinaskelligs Bay. The bed boards break with a snap. The song goes on.

Scanlan's goal was a peach. Worn, he was substituted. And he looks away as Fitzmaurice surges. He fifty out. The ball takes a twist and a turn in mid air. We're too far away. The white flag goes up... The easel is kicked out from underneath the southern school of footballing geniuses. It's a game of snap. Enda Galvin wins a ninety-ten. Keane takes on all comers. Bodies are tossed into Thermopylae.

Blow it up ref. "Ref will you... huff and puff" shouts a small girl near us. Ref O' Sullivan must have heard her above the din. The sweet shrill note of the longest whistle finishes the frenetic symphony.

If France had won the match you wouldn't see as many kisses. Noel Kennelly ,back from honeymoon, gets the best wedding present of all. Like Dad, Tim he now has the set. League, All Ireland, North Kerry, County Championship and a lovely wife.

Newly wed Eamon Fitzmaurice goes up for the cup. Jimmy Deenihan promises to organise a trip to New York. Wing back Mr Guiney promises his pupils they will have lessons off tomorrow. The rest of us call the whole day off.

Monday is spent analysing. Shane Quinn boarded up the goal. Our backs, Mulvihill, Corridan, Quirke, Guiney, Fitzmaurice, Griffin and Keane would stop a stampede of artics on the old Red Cow with no more than a wave of a sally or a cross look.

Big men Whelan, Corridan and Maher went up that high Ryanair charged them 99 cent. Paul Galvin of all the medals, Kennelly, Scanlon, Derek, Enda and Conor Galvin, McCarthy and O' Connell showed we have classy forwards too in the north.

The mighty men of the South won the last three championships. They gave it their all but our boys would plough the Rocks of Bawn with one of those plastic forks they give out in chip shops.

It's five-ish in the morning and the cot is listing badly. 'Wonderwall' cuts the legs out from under the bed. The mattress hits the floor. Time to go. Maurice asks us "what's your hurry?"

A song is sung in the graveyard on the way home. One young lad is spooked and sits on the low headstone near the gate. He doses off. We're all gone home. Rip wakes up. For a minute he thinks he's on the other side.

And he says to himself "It could be a lot worse. At least I died with a county medal".