Farewell madness, hello helmet

Damien Irwin laments the passing of an era when bloodied, bandaged hurlers staggered across the landscape – and a player became synonymous with a gap in his teeth or a shock of red curls

IT’S nearly over, won’t be around the hurling saloons a whole pile longer. The badge of honour, lads with blood streaming down their faces, heads split open, roundy lumps on the sides of their crowns. Evidence of stitches on a cheek, lips or forehead in a form of pink, serrated lines, worn as war wounds in real GAA company and occasionally a help at the local disco.

The warrant has been signed. Where authorities once focussed on how to end faction fighting at the fairs of rural Ireland, so now they have trained their sights on ending once and for all a remnant of the Faction Fight – the freedom of a man to enter the hurling arena without a shred of cover on his face or head. The warrior who goes to war without the helmet. The end is nigh.

Civilisation is coming to a hurling field near you in the form of an official hurling helmet, mandatory from next season. So in the dying embers of this season take a look at the remaining lads who do not wear the helmet who are still playing.

Sean Óg O hAilpín, John Mullane, Ken McGrath, Mark Foley, Michael Kavanagh and dozens of goalkeepers and thousands of club players.

Of course, logically, it had to come didn’t it? Three foot lethal timber weapons with metal banding, flashing past heads at knots and a small hard ball flying through the air at over 100mph called out for some form of mandatory headgear. An American footballers taking to the field without a helmet or an ice-hockey goalie at the mercy of the puck? Safe to assume that any hurler going into battle without protection is a case for a padded van. Right?

And that’s the point really. We always believed that you needed a bit of madness to play hurling in the first place. Or to play it properly at any rate. And much like the dawn of the Celtic Tiger made us less than what we were, so too the mandatory wearing of the helmet may cause us to lose a few things too.

Mostly we just won’t know what the players look like anymore. We will know them by their styles and techniques, by their movement but not, sadly, by their expressions, so important in the past. Would Anthony Daly have been such a popular and charismatic leader if we could not have seen up close and personal the crabby expressions and wily ways written all over those Clarecastle features. Would John Mullane be such a one-off if we could not see that red-faced all encompassing pained, haunted and bytimes, euphoric and joyful intensity that only he can bring to the Waterford cause. Or Ken McGrath and Dan Shanahan with the big gaps in their front teeth. Wonder how that happened?

Helmets (without visors) came on to the hurling landscape in the early 1970s. A peculiarity at first, the odd player donned one with each county seemingly having a style and design of their own. The Cork three-in-a-row team of the mid-1970’s had, at that stage, several helmet wearers. The two St. Finbarr’s players, Charlie and Gerald McCarthy, had a bright blue helmet, Ray Cummins a black one which was the most popular colour and design around then. Jimmy Barry Murphy didn’t bother with any at all and if John Horgan wore one (which he didn’t) it would have precluded Micheal O Hehir from referring to him as ‘blond-haired John Horgan’ which he so often did.

In Kilkenny substance, not style, was king. Consequently some players had a dodgy looking gold coloured helmet. The Hendersons, John and Ger, wore something that looked like two off-colour, misshapen frisbees welded together but you can safely bet that no-one was ever brave enough to say that to the two lads. In Galway, Conor Hayes risked ridicule by sporting the same model.

As the eighties dawned, some of the toughest hurlers elected to wear them: Frank Cummins, holder of eight All Ireland medals, and definitely the strongest man who ever caught a hurley, wore one as he went about his destructive ways.

In the early 90s, the sight of helmets with visors became more commonplace. One design looked like an inverted flowerpot; unsurprisingly it invited ridicule. Like the Lada of the same period, it had a very short shelf-life. Apart from the safety element, the hurling helmet performed one other vital function, from Junior B to inter-county. You’ve no doubt observed the following ritual at one time or another. Match ongoing, a player wearing a helmet hasn’t touched the ball for the first 20 minutes. A murmur in the crowd – ‘What’s wrong with him today?’ Then excitedly, “he’s throwing off the helmet. Now we’ll see a bit of action, a bit a timber.”

Off the helmet comes and now unencumbered, recast and free he wins the next ball and the crowd lifts to proclaim him – the cause of his poor form ‘outed’. He goes on to play a blinder. It is an excuse not open to any other field sport. Even the great Tommy Walsh is adept at this excuse, often seen flinging off the helmet if he loses a few balls and finishing the game with red face, puffy cheeks and blond hair blowing in the breeze as he picks up another ‘man of the match’ accolade.

Farewell to that ritual and to the hurlers who were willing to take to the field as they did without a helmet at all. Your living on the edge was stunning in its reality. So goodbye Sean Óg, John, Dan, Ken, Mick and all the others – the next time we see you it will be behind bars.