This is the Cavanacross team of 1935. The fella holding the football we can presume to be the captain, my grandfather Eddie O'Connor.
It hung in a frame in my grandparents' bungalow, a short dander from either McMulkin's, Cox's or Gavin's Field, the rare patches of flat ground in the townland that were occasionally transformed into sporting arenas.
Into his 70s and 80s, Eddie would sit underneath it, his left arm resting on the kitchen table while he kept a plug of tobacco burning in his pipe. One ear cocked for the yarns coming from his wife Eileen and their children in the tiny living room.
There is little evidence to suggest this team were world-beaters with scant reference to them in the 'With The Gaels' GAA column in The Fermanagh Herald newspaper at the time, despite the snazziness of their jersey by contemporary standards.
Cavanacross is a particularly rural part of Fermanagh. It's steeped in a Pagan sensibility, evidenced in a series of wedge tombs, stone circle and stone alignments from 4,000 years ago around the fields.
Various activities flourish in the area including the Cavanacarragh Pipe Band, the Topped Mountain Historical Society, a strong amateur dramatic tradition, all based around Cavanacarragh Hall. Just above it are the home grounds of Lisbellaw St Patrick's, the only hurling club in the county.
With such a strong local identity, little wonder that despite few numbers, there was a constant effort in the area to field a team of their own.
The usual questions would be asked concerning those missing. "He's at the grass" was greeted with nodding heads. No more questions would be asked.
And there's history in that team picture of a grander and more local scale. The man in the dark jersey to Eddie's left was Johnny McCaffrey, who ended up marrying Eddie's sister. The man squatting extreme left in the front row is Seamus Kelly, beside his brother Owenie. Seamus was the Fermanagh county board secretary from 1939. His son, Dr Greg Kelly, is the current county Chairman.
What mattered was that they played at all. The realities of their lives wasn't simple. There's a lot of talk of resilience nowadays but much of it is hollow.
Eddie O'Connor was sold into labour as a young man. He slept where he could, many years later recalling in a local history book that he made a hay loft his bed on many occasions.
Most families did not permit their sons and daughter to play sport, it being seen as a distraction from labour-intensive farming before the introduction of machinery.
So when they played, it was a mini holiday. To get to an away game might involve a 40-mile round trip on a bicycle. Dressing rooms were a whin bush. An argument might break out for an hour prior to throw-in concerning the eligibility of some players and reports of games from this time would readily attest to competitors returning to their communities with a black eye or worse.
And for most club players, that's the way it was for decades, really.
A conversation with Slaughtneil chairman Sean McGuigan this week delved into this area. He said his footballing career consisted of little else than kicking in and out of the goals on a Thursday night and a game on a Sunday. But when there was turf up on the bog - or 'The Moss' as they called it in Slaughtneil - then there was no question where they were needed most.
"At a south Derry board meeting one night, they were picking fixtures for a Sean Larkin Cup and they picked out a game," he told me.
"There was a Slaughtneil man at the meeting and he apparently said 'We can't play that match that night, all our men will be in The Moss'."
When I started training as a teenager, the usual questions would be asked concerning the whereabouts of those missing.
"He's at the grass" was greeted with nodding heads.
No more questions would be asked.
There was life and work and commitments outside the club bubble.
One night, I was alongside one of the old stagers of the team as we were completing the end of session sprints. He already had a hard week as a plasterer, and warned that I should give him a bit of room as he had stopped off in the van for a few pints that evening and was in imminent danger of seeing them again.
Sport was only a sliver of the person and it made a more colourful scene.
You can't blame the modern player for what the GAA has evolved into, nor would anyone want to be seduced by the heady nostalgia of a sepia-tinged photograph.
But it's hard to escape the thought that, somewhere along the way, we started treating this whole thing far too seriously, with self-pitying talk of the 'sacrifices' and the 'demands.'
As soon as restrictions are lifted, what's sustaining players everywhere is the promise of fun.
Nothing more. Just like our forefathers.