The ten commandments of a GAA journalist

Thou shall take the Lord’s name in vain

Last year, Martin Scorsese’s Wolf of Wall Street, with 506 expletives, broke the record for the most profanities in a movie. Scorsese’s Casino (422 swear words) previously held the title. Terraces would similarly trump the stands for curse words. Dressing rooms would also be no place for the easily offended, but there are simply no prisoners in press boxes away from microphones where the f-bomb is dropped in most creative ways. Thankfully, keyboards and producers are good filters.

Honour thy football and thy hurling

Rest assured, journalists are not supporters of the game to the degree that they are apologists. An off-the-record phone-call to Croke Park’s communications department would corroborate that to be a fact. Usually, the more a GAA journalist’s career develops the less his opinion is coloured by his or her county allegiances. Yet one thing remains: a genuine love for the sport. It’s not something to be overlooked when, next to players and officials, journalists would at times probably have more reason to fall out with it but that grá remains.

Thou shall not overegg the pudding

By this, we mean less of the flowery stuff. Rugby writing’s lexicon has expanded to ridiculous levels in recent years, so much so that new phrases are being accepted with each season’s passing. The framing of Gaelic games is considerably more conservative. Sure, words such as “plays” and “arm wrestle” are being seen more in match reports, but the tradition is to keep things simpler. By all means, throw in a fiery simile or thundery metaphor here and there if the subject matter is hurling. If it’s football, the compulsion to exaggerate is less. A line has to be drawn somewhere.

Thou shall steal an uttered line

We’re not talking plagiarism here but merely a curious ear. Some of the most succinct lines about a game are later written having been said in the press box or its vicinity of one during or following a match. Often a wag in the crowd will come up with a dinger. Then there are those altruistic/boastful among the fourth estate who are only happy to broadcast to their colleagues a keen observation or juicy stat. To turn down such generosity would be the height of ungratefulness.

Thou shall bear false witness against your neighbour’s opinion

Journalist A: “That was a free?”

Journalist B: “What game are you watching?”

A: “Are you blind, man? It was a free.”

B: “It’s a man’s game.”

A: “There’s a rulebook.”

B: “There’s also common sense.”

A: “Where’s that mentioned in the rulebook?”

B: “I see no rulebook out there.”

A: “F**k you!”

Thou shall covet your neighbour’s stationery

Diarmuid O’Flynn, formerly of this parish, produced the sharpest match-sheet known to a GAA press box. Where most of us favour using the programme as a ruler to draw three columns – one for time and the others for the score-line, Diarmuid preferred slicker, printed pages that would make Microsoft Excel proud. That was an exception, though. Most of the stationery envy in a GAA press box amounts to a working pen, a sheet of paper or a couple of triple-A batteries.

Thou shall covet your neighbour’s work load

Journalist A again (after earlier tensions have died down): “Have to do much?”

Journalist B: “Eight hundred words and a quote piece. I’ll be out the gap by 6, hopefully. Yourself?”

A: “A thousand-word match report, website report, two quote pieces and something for the back (page). You’ve the life.”

B: “Cry me a river. I have to ghost a column too.”

A: “Sure, I have to write my own!”

Thou shall covet your neighbour’s typing dexterity/parking space/lunch/warm clothing

Whoever is sitting beside you, it’s almost certain he or she has something you want. The speed with which they are able to deliver their copy. The two-minute walk they have back to the car in contrast to your vehicle parked in a field outside the town. That cosy North Face jacket they’re wearing. The chicken pesto lunch they just happened to throw together at home.

Thou shall worship false idols

With most major games falling on Sundays, the Sabbath isn’t exactly kept holy, and in men like Shefflin, O’Shea and Barry-Murphy, journalists have turned bards preaching of their great deeds. The proliferation of live TV games has meant it’s no longer a case of having faith in men like the aforementioned; seeing is believing.

Thou shall keep time and scores right

“F**k, I forgot to start the clock. What minute was that?” A common refrain of despair in a GAA press box. Better to rely on a colleague’s time-keeping than a stadium clock which can suffer the odd malfunction. Following full-time, colleagues gather to compare scores and scorers to ensure each of their records of the game tally. If the figures are wrong, at least everyone is wrong. Safety in numbers and all that!