The year of living dangerously

WHEN THEY lay down their armour, you’ll find Paul Galvin and Seamus Moynihan in company.

The latter smiles benignly at the spikiness of his fiery compatriot; Galvin is buzzed by the death-white intensity of the now-retired legend.

“I’d look across the dressing room in the minutes before we’d go out, and you’d look for Seamo, the eyes glazed over. He’s already imagining it outside. His face is pale, gaunt. You say to yourself, ‘we’re gonna be alright today.’”