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Paudie O’ Shea: The Heartbeat Of Kerry Football
By Owen McCrohan

"And into these headlands out-thrusting above the seas foam
Into each lime-white cottage amid the crags we call home
I served to breathe a spirit that lies on each broken hill
For the pulse of my heart is Kerry and I love her still"

Nobody writes poetry that lays bare the soul of the Kingdom better than Bryan McMahon of Listowel and, by the same token, it is doubtful if any one man epitomises the sheer power of Kerry football in all it’s rugged grandeur more forcefully than West Kerry’s Paudie O’ Shea. Born near the village of Ventry, that cluster of houses that stands at the harbour’s mouth as you gaze across the vast expanse of sea that extends westward to join in foaming torrent the mountain fastnesses of Iveragh and into the dim horizon beyond where Skellig sands sentinel, Paudie comes from a country that is steeped in the traditions of our race. It was here in Corca Duibhne, legend has it, that Finn MacCumhail pursued Diarmuid after his elopement with Grainne and it was here too that the same monarch fought for a year and a day before, if we are to believe sone and story, “he sank the foreign legion in the tide at Dingle Bay”. All along this peninsula from Brandon Creek to Coomeenole, fugitives of the Spanish Armada were washed ashore in 1588 after Philip of Spain’s ill-fated expedition foundered off the Kerry coast. And if there is Spanish blood in Kerrymen - and some say there is - then it must be here in that setting of unsurpassed scenic splendour that stretches westward between Dingle and the sea.

 

But, most of all, this is football country because no single place in Ireland’s ground produced footballers in more profusion or of greater talent. There are still old-timers in Kerry who will tell you that the Dingle team of the late 30’s which boasted 8 All-Ireland medallists would go close to winning national honours today, the hand-pass and all that goes with it notwithstanding. But speculation is idle. What is for sure is that Paddy Bawn and Timineen, Gega and Casey, Dillon and Long, Cronesbery and Flaherty, Brosnan and Kennedy will be remembered and revered in West Kerry while grass grows and rivers run.

 

And into this great tradition, worthy scion of a great football heritage, steps Paudie O’ Shea. Not a big man in the accepted sense, he stands a mere fraction over 5 feet 9 inches but into that compact frame, as tightly knit as if it had been pounded with a mallet, there are 175 lbs of whipcord and guts. When he takes off his shirt to pull a green and gold jersey over his head, you will observe the small rippling muscles drawn like cords of steel across his spare body. The deep chest and broad shoulders are those of a man who exudes enormous physical strength and it is a measure of this built-in power that nobody can ever recall seeing him knocked off his feet, no matter how fierce or unyielding the exchanges. His great fitness keeps him relatively free of injury which is not surprising because hill will pursue the goal of physical perfection with almost fanatical zeal. After training, Paudie will reach the dressing-room in a state of utter collapse, the sweat which has matted his short hair and dripped into his eyes, flowing in rivulets from every pore in his body. In preparation for the combat, as in the game itself, he has given his all.

 

Kerry supporters glory in his headlong dashes out of defence, the ball clutched to his chest before he will bounce it high off the sod with his left hand to gather momentum before the charge that will take him into the open spaces in front of Sheehy and Power. In the big games, he will curb his overriding passion to join in the chase and leave his post unguarded and on such occasions it is noted that only rarely will he cross the halfway line. For one thing, accurate shooting is scarcely one of his greatest attributes, but, much more relevant, he will stay at the back to help maintain that tight defensive screen with Kennelley and Lynch which has become a rampart in all of Kerry’s victories. A great competitor, Paudie O’ Shea will contest every inch of ground with single-minded determination. It is this insatiable thirst for victory that drives him into the tackle with all the ferocity of a wounded tiger, often incurring the displeasure of referees who see him as an extremely physical player. But while he is tough and robust, Paudie is never mean or unsporting. He makes no apologies for the way he plays - it is the only way he knows. Rocklike as the granite in Brandon, fearless as the Irish chiefs of long ago, he loves the turmoil of the fight and when Kerry supporters look for deeds of valour and daring - more than any other man - he has warmed the cockles of their hearts.

 

Although the tension of the big occasion gets to Paudie in a way that sees him change physically 24 hours before a game, he is a born humorist whose great wit will always enliven the dark hours of waiting before an All-Ireland final. The upper room of the Grand Hotel in Malahide has often been the setting for those priceless tales which will have the place in an uproar, and when the mirth has subsided, Paudie himself will laugh heartily in the sheer joy of telling the story. But, between times, the quietness that envelopes him, the deep sighs he will emit, the fears he will express, betray an anxiety, profound and almost tribal, for the impending fray. He wonders if he is fit at all, whether his legs are as string as last year, the possibilities of a broken ball on the wet grass giving Hickey or Keavney or O’ Toole the chance to shake the raindrops off the back of the net and set the hill aflame. For a man who has secretly confided his avowed willingness and capacity of breaching a stone wall to thrash these Dubs, this is a line of thought, the implications of which are almost too terrible to contemplate. Half an hour before the throw-in, he sits alone in the dressing-room, his face gaunt and haggard, his body seemingly drained of every last ounce of energy and emotion. But when the jersies are being given out, hurling the ball fiercely at Liston or Deenihan or Egan before taking the return safely in the secure tentacles of that lobster-grip.

 

Two weeks before last year’s final, a friend, concerned about his well-being - because it was freely conceded that he was not having one of his better seasons - enquired how the training was going. Paudie’s reply was brief and to the point. “I’ll be ready”, he said, “whether they pick me or not”. It was a statement that needed no embellishment. But when the opinion came across that his berth might be in serious jeopardy, although he must have known it himself, the West Kerryman turned away, a hurt look seared across his honest face. Time passed, and when the champions ran out onto the big field in Killarney on the Friday night before the game, a Tyroneman who knows his football, Sean Faloon from Donaghmore, pronounced Paudie to be the fittest man on the team. The way he played in the following Sunday - that is, while he was allowed to play - more than fully vindicated the truth of that assertion. Early in the first half after he had taken down a great ball under the shadow of the Cusack Stand, spectators close to the action watched in stunned disbelief. Incredibly, Paudie was smiling broadly as he burst his way out through a tangle of blue jersies, something which Brian Mullins remembered on the following day when both teams sat down to table in Jury’s Hotel. But if Paudie’s joy was unconfined, it was entirely understandable. When it counted most, he was playing like a man inspired.

 

At a time when the rules of the game and the quality of play which has evolved often leaves one with the unmistakable feeling that there is something missing, the man from Ventry stands out, stark and bold, like a beacon on a black night of storm. Rugged as the soil of West Kerry to an extent that he could have been quarried out of it, he is a throwback to another era; a lion in the fray, oblivious of personal safety, impervious to all physical punishment, an extension of Barrett, Walsh, Russell, Sheehy, Brosnan and Stack, the reincarnation of everything the purist holds dear. In the heat of battle, there os no braver spirit and in victory or defeat he will demonstrate that heroic brand of fibre and resilience that sets him apart and makes him the very heartbeat of Kerry football. To those who him well, he is a good companion, a great person, a loyal friend. His shining honesty and sincerity comes through in all his words and deeds and in an era where “all that glisters” most assuredly is not gold, he is, very definitely, the genuine article.