This will come down to granules of composure

The day of a big championship game, a fair few of the Clare lads used to think I was on another planet, that I didn’t know what nerves were, that I was so relaxed I was nearly horizontal.

I loved the big-day experience, but the perception the players had of me, the outward image I may have projected, wasn’t always accurate. Saturday was always torture, the fishing rod would be dusted off or three riveting frames of snooker played. I often struggled to sleep well that night.

Around the house the following morning, I’d be broken up with nerves and anxiety. I couldn’t wait to feel the holy water being thrown over me and the comforting last parting words of my mother: ‘don’t show the white feather’.