Through my coaching work with the county board, I probably had as many dealings with Vince away from the Kerry dressing rooms as I had inside in them. A while back, the board purchased a big white van for Vince to transport the gear to and from match venues, and each summer for the past number of years, I had to use the same van to deliver Cúl camp gear to thousands of kids around the county.

The day would always start the same way. I’d tell him I’d be in early to take the van and show up before 8am, depending on where my route was going to take me that day. At that time in the morning, he was like a head green keeper manicuring his “Augusta”. He’d be on top of his tractor flying around, doing his best to perfect the surface. He’d stop the tractor when he’d see me coming and turn off the engine.

“What time do you call this?” he’d bark.

“Early,” I’d tell him.

He’d only look at me, grunt, and start shaking his head in disbelief that anyone would think 7.45am was early.

You could only start laughing, grab the keys and walk away — half embarrassed at the energy of the man who was nearly 80.

There was no doubt, that he enjoyed having something to give out to you about, but he never took it seriously. It was all just fun.

That was just his way. You had to play his game.

I remember the first time I saw him in action inside a Kerry dressing room, and Vince handed me my first ever Kerry jersey.

When I say handed, I’m doing him a disservice…

He presented the jersey like a midwife delicately passing over a newborn to a first-time parent.

You immediately got the sense from him, this was no ordinary day, and it was much more than just another jersey. It was something precious, something to be protected.

From that point until I finished playing football with Kerry, despite changes of management teams or county officials, Vince was an ever-present anchor in every dressing room. While in there, he developed chameleon-like abilities to be able to blend into the background and remain completely unobtrusive, until needed, while sharing in some of our very best and worst moments.

No more than my story about the keys to the van, he loved to make guys work for their supper in the dressing room too. I can recall guys like Marc Ó Sé and Aidan O’Mahony used to break him up looking for shorts. They might have had 10 pairs in their bags, but they had to get a new set off Vince before every game. It was part superstition but mostly to just get a reaction out of him. He knew well what they were at, but he played along in character. He’d grumble and give out under his breath, before breaking a smile and eventually handing them a pair.

A couple of summers ago, I was dropping summer camp gear off at Fitzgerald Stadium in Killarney, and on the way out, I reversed into a large metal dumpster. I put a good two-foot-long dent on the back door of his precious van. I was sick at the thought of having to tell Vince, picturing his poor head exploding in rage. In fairness, he took it better than I expected. We brought it to a panel beater the next day and it was all sorted.

About two weeks later, I was loading up the van again of an evening when I noticed a smaller but similar dent in the back door. Vince came to me and said ‘”ou did it again, you big eejit!” I knew I didn’t hit anything, but couldn’t be certain that something hadn’t hit the van while it was parked up. Vince kept it going for weeks. Badgering me about getting it repaired and so on and about being more careful. Eventually, after about a month or so he told me that a hurler leaving Austin Stack Park in a fit of temper after losing a championship game had drawn a smack with the hurley across the back door of the van, and done the damage.

He burst out laughing and walked off delighted with himself that he had me going for so long.

He could be as mischievous as a 10-year-old when it was appropriate, but it was his quiet, respectful demeanour inside the sacred walls of the match-day dressing room that made him a huge favourite of the players.

Whether it was a pair of boots, or runners or anything else, no matter what he’d have to do, Vince would make sure that every player was properly looked after. He took great pride in his role as provider and we appreciated the effort he put into it.

Neither Austin Stack Park, nor future Kerry dressing rooms will ever be the same again. The man who intertwined every team for the past three decades is no longer there.

Although he never kicked a ball for Kerry, he cared as deeply about it as anybody who ever climbed the steps of the Hogan Stand.

For years, we relied on Vince to look after us, and in all that time, he never disappointed. Like a good squire, he always had our coat of green and gold armour ready before entering the battlefield and was there waiting to wash off the blood upon our return. He did all he could, and will forever be remembered by the players as a being part of the success Kerry achieved during his time.

Rest easy.