After the first couple of rounds in the league, managers are now obtaining a firm grasp of their team’s mindset and potential capabilities for the coming season. A couple of wins will have instilled a belief that perhaps this is their year for lifting a bit of silverware. Two defeats and the wolves are at the door, especially if you’re a relatively new manager with no pedigree. They’re the pros and cons of a high profile job these days within the GAA. Inter-county managers have to deal with the enormous pressure of having his county’s hopes resting on their every decision. The other side of the coin is that they get a rash of frees meals as guest speakers at club functions. It’s not just managers who avail of the perks of being a high profile GAA figure. I think I read a stat recently which stated that Joe Brolly has not paid for a meal or drink since 2003, even when he’s not performing. Them’s the breaks.

Yet, every time I hear of ‘pressure mounting’ on managers I allow myself a wise smirk. Those lads don’t know the meaning of real pressure; the type of responsibility no mortal human should endure. In 1957 I finally answered the greatest call of all. For three months I had received a daily visit from a monk who was staying up in Portglenone. He was attempting to encourage me to buy into the idea that a team of Trappist monks could compete in the Antrim division two that year. Each day I rejected the invitation. Although I recognised its novel nature and the opportunity to become a nationwide hero in the role of manager of a group of monks, I was also acutely aware of the brutal nature of Antrim football at that time. Despite my protestations about the likelihood of a physical hammering every week from teams like Cargin or Dunloy, monk Benedict persisted with such grace and mostly silence I finally agreed to take them on for a year.

If you’re not familiar with Trappist monks, they’re a strict bunch of men. They don’t partake in the usual changing room banter. If a woman walks past they throw their glances to the floor. Laughing is seen as an evil so if a monk happened to slip on a bit of soap in a comical fashion, the men would bang their heads off the wall or slap each other full on the jaw to prevent any form of mirth. The vow of silence was the hardest aspect of their lifestyle for me to manage. I was completely oblivious as to whether they understood my instructions or not. They’d just nod and then reflect for about twenty minutes. On the field during initial challenge games there were no shouts for the ball, criticism or encouragement. Just the opponents’ voices could be heard. Even in the stands, our followers were other Trappist monks and Trappist nuns, all observing the vow of silence.

Before the first league game I received a wonderful boost from the Vatican. A short note wished me well for the forthcoming season and the chance to be absolved from all sins if we managed to stay up. I had been messing about for a few years with women and illegal distilling so complete and total absolution was a Godsend. He also said he’d be reading the results every Monday in the paper and added that this was a great opportunity for all religious orders to reach out to the common man and secure their lofted position in Ireland for future generations. Now, that’s the pressure I’m talking about. Not your ‘losing to Cavan and Wicklow in succession’ pressure. This is the Holy See depending on your capabilities to shore a team of monks into a respectable division two outfit.

I don’t think I need to explain how things panned out. The first game away to Aghagallon was a massacre. That Sunday morning the priest up there had been giving off about the young lads in the parish for their sense of dress and attitude to women and drink. The appearance of the Portglenone monks lining up to play them in their frocks was a red flag to a bull. The South Antrim men obliterated my charges with and without the ball. Skull caps, tassels and sandals were soaring through the spring air as my men remained silent and quite accepting of their 34-point hammering. We managed to play another two games in the league that year with similar outcomes. To their eternal credit, my lads never complained about the brutality and spent the aftermath of each game in the changing rooms praying for the other side.

I never heard from the Vatican again nor have I ventured anywhere near Portglenone since. I’m led to believe the Trappists moved down to Kildare a week after the venture folded. Looking back, I’m glad I took on the job as nothing has ever compared to the size of the task since. International managers think they have the weight of their nation on their shoulders. Try nations and the heavenly Gods for size. Baker Bradley thinks he has his woes as manager of Antrim in their division two this year. Just take a short drive down to St Mary’s Aghagallon, Baker, and retrace my footsteps that horrible day. Try to imagine the turmoil.