IN choosing a topic for my first blog I glanced back at a few notes I compiled over the weekend.

All the usual stuff… What would relegation mean for Cork and hurling in general….How would the four NFL semi-finalists would have coped if a black card system had been in place on Sunday last? …Then a vague notion to check in with London hurling captain, John Walsh, to see how they managed to beat a lively Meath side and secure promotion to Division 2A next year.

Then he came into my head. I remembered that I hadn’t seen him in a press box this year. And it really hit me that those days are over.

Johnny Murphy was a friend of mine. Nothing special in that – he was a friend of most everyone that knew him.

But when I’d head off for a match on a Sunday morning and head over to Thurles, Limerick, Cork, Waterford, Dungarvan, wherever, I’d think of Johnny en route. And I’d look forward to hearing the latest yarn or story he’d have for me.

We first met in 1998. I was just out of college from NUI, Galway and working with the Evening Echo. Cork, like Galway, was a serious spot and I loved it. Not long into my role as a news and political reporter I was invited to a function for Johnny. He had clocked in 25 years service - or something in that region - as an Examiner journalist. So a function was arranged at the Garda Club and after a flow of orations I remember the formalities ended on this particular note from the editor of the paper at the time, Brian Looney.

“John A Murphy is a legend,” Looney said.

Cue much applause.

About four hours later I was heading for the gents and who did I see a few steps down the stairs from me only Johnny. He was mumbling away to himself. It was only as I got closer that I could properly make out what he was saying.

“They’re dead fecking right,” he said cheerily to no-one, his mouth slanting to one side.

“I am a fecking legend.”

On another occasion a Dungarvan sleuth and friend of mine recalled a publican hearing a catalogue of knocks and thumps on the front door of his premises many years back. It was past 2am and the owner still had a few locals inside, sipping away and chatting. He opened the door only to find the polis outside.

“I’m f***d here,” he thought to himself as he opened up only for two officers to march past him. They went straight to the scrum of locals. Johnny was flanking the group, always ready for a turnover.

“Will you come on, Johnny, for f**k sake?” one Garda shouted. “We’re waiting for bloody ages outside.”

They weren’t there to take names. They were there to give Johnny a lift home. Sure he knew everyone.

The stories go on. These are just two of my favourites.

Johnny was a right good reporter. He got some great scoops, including the kidnapping of Lord and Lady Donoughmore in Clonmel, the arrest of the Claudia gun running ship off the Waterford coast, and he broke the infamous ‘Angel of Death’ story, otherwise known as the Dungarvan Aids scare.

He was also the first man you’d ring for a number or a bit of advice. Last year the Gaelic Writers Association honoured him for his lifetime achievements and I’m so glad we did for it meant a lot to him.

It’s heading towards the start of the 2013 championship now and all our attention will focus on games, results, controversies, suspensions, Hawkeye, cynicism … you know yourself.

Slowly, there is less and less room for characters in Gaelic Games, and equally in the reporting world of Gaelic Games. It’s an era of mass media production and consumption. Everything comes in an instant and it has to. Nothing holds.

But Johnny took life at his own pace and it did him no harm at all. He bowed out surrounded by a loving family, content that he had an illustrious career behind him and he closed his eyes content in the knowledge that he managed to get on famously with most everyone. There’s a lot to be said for that.