48
Vocational School
A few weeks later, in September, I began my first day at the vocational school in Tullamore. I had cycled the eleven miles from Daingean with a couple of other boys, including my cousin Paddy. It was a strenuous journey of fifty minutes, and with little knowledge of the road I was unable to anticipate the many small hills and turns that might give us a hint of distances or what part of the journey we were at. In school we were introduced to the various classrooms where we would begin our studies of Irish, English, science, electricity and magnetism, mechanical drawing, woodwork, and metalwork. We were also introduced to various teachers, whose attitudes appealed to me, that is until I got to know some of them. The dreary task of cycling home after school was a formidable one and would take a lot of getting used to. But somehow I persevered and continued with the other boys who also cycled long distances. As time moved along we banded into small groups of cyclists and settled into a routine that was accepted without complaint.
The replay between Offaly and Down was scheduled to be played in two weeks. My father travelled to Croke Park with Jimmy Mac and a couple of other men. He said it was a game he didn’t want to miss. I suppose he saw it as a historic occasion, and added to his interest was the fact that Daingean’s Peter Carey was scheduled to play at full forward. I would remain at home and listen again to Mícheál Ó hEithir’s commentary. Radio batteries were once more charged in Joe Byrne’s garage in Daingean. I picked them up on Saturday evening, and the following day Mícheál’s voice came on at three o’clock. As usual he announced his sincere welcome to everyone throughout the Gaelic sports world.
Following the Artane Boys’ Band and the national anthem, Mícheál told us the referee was tossing the coin to decide who would play left to right. Down won the toss. The referee threw in the ball and the game was on. Once again the match began at a dazzling pace with Mícheál yelling, ‘. . . there’s a ding dong battle in the middle of the field . . . Seán Foran is surrounded by three Down men . . . he passes the ball back to Mick Brady . . . Brady delivers a long, relieving kick way down field . . . It’s caught by Donie Hanlon, and now Offaly are on the attack!’
It proved to be another sizzling game and was rated afterwards by commentators as one of the greatest spectacles in Irish sport. Mícheál was in tremendous form with his rapid assessments and depictions of the players as the ball was kicked, punched, passed and soloed by Offaly’s Johnny Egan or Down’s Paddy Doherty. It can rightly be said that Offaly’s half back line were a prized lot of courageous footballers – men like Tullamore’s Phil O’Reilly, Mick Brady of Edenderry, and the ever-vigilant Seán Brereton. As the match progressed there were points for Down and more points for Offaly, each answering the other.
With my father at the game my mother was more talkative. Many times as we listened she repeated, ‘They’ll never do it, they’ll never do it.’ It wasn’t something I wanted to hear and it peeved me to the point that when half-time came I was ready for a respite, perhaps as much as the footballers in Croke Park.
After five minutes of reviewing the first half Mícheál rested his voice. This allowed his listeners an opportunity to hear the Artane Boys’ Band as they played the melody ‘The Star of County Down’, followed by a march as a tribute to the Faithful County of Offaly. I was to learn later that the tune was ‘The Hurling Boys’, a melody widely played in Offaly as a long dance during the 1860s.
My sisters had very little interest in any of the Gaelic football matches and instead were outside playing or strolling along the road, picking blackberries from the hedges. My mother had brewed a pot of tea and was pouring some into a mug when into the kitchen came the girls full of zest from adventure and fresh air. They were talking two at a time and the second half of the broadcast was about to begin. My problem was immediate. How could I get rid of them? Mícheál was already saying how the referee had ushered the captains of each team to the centre of the field for a goodwill shake of hands before throwing in the ball. I turned up the volume on the wireless. My mother saw my concern and came to my aid. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘why don’t you all go outside and play some more, or maybe pick some flowers?’ Moira asked why my mother wanted flowers and was told they were to be put beside the little lamp that was lit under the Child of Prague. ‘Now, go on with ye,’ ordered my mother. ‘Paddy wants to hear Mícheál Ó hEithir.’ I breathed a long sigh when the four of them were finally out the door. A narrow escape was what I was thinking when suddenly Mícheál lifted his voice and screamed, ‘It’s Peter Carey with the ball, he’s thirty-five yards out, now he’s twenty, he still has the ball, he’s fourteen yards. Ooh – there’s a terrific shemozzle in the parallelogram and in the middle of it all is Peter Carey! He’s brought down! He’s on the ground and the referee has blown the whistle. It’s a fourteen-yard free for Offaly.’ Mícheál was as excited as myself. ‘It’s Har Donnelly to take the free,’ he continued. ‘He steps up and is walking backwards, and now he walks gently up and taps the ball over the bar. And now Offaly are three points in the lead!’
After twenty more minutes Down’s midfield were gaining control. This produced a series of passing movements intended to get the ball to James McCartan who was prowling around near the edge of the square. I couldn’t help but be amazed at how Mícheál could keep up with such rapid movement of play and also keep his listeners informed so well about the circumstances that created so many opportunities for each team. Suddenly he raised his voice again. ‘Jim McCartan has the ball. He’s bursting his way through and pushes Greg Hughes. Johnny Egan is there . . . Paddy McCormack is blocking him . . . McCartan tries to break free . . . he’s on the ground . . . he’s on the ground . . . surrounded by Offaly players . . . the referee blows the whistle, it’s a penalty, it’s a penalty! The Offaly backs are protesting and the referee is shaking his head. Oh my, oh my,’ Michael was saying. ‘Oh dear!’ He spoke with a clear, fervent tone as he continued, ‘The Offaly supporters are booing the referee. I can see Willy Nolan pacing back and forth in the goalmouth. The ball is placed on the fourteen-yard line and Willy is left to face the great Paddy Doherty! Up he comes. He kicks. It’s a goal! It’s a goal! He sent Willy Nolan the wrong way! To my mind,’ said Mícheál, ‘it appeared that Jim McCartan over-carried the ball, but in the end ‘twas the referee’s decision.’
I was sick with disappointment when I heard what Mícheál said because he rarely said anything controversial on the radio. We were then two points in arrears with ten minutes left. Both teams scored a few more points, but the final score was Down 1-7, Offaly 1-5. The result came as a shock and I was in a state of despair for the rest of the evening. When my father came home he spoke of the game being a great one, but he was certain that the referee was no more than a blind donkey and that he might have to go into hiding for a couple of weeks.
Cycling to school was the best way to heal our emotions, which is what we did on our way to Tullamore the following morning. Nobody had suggested it, but somehow we all set a faster pace than usual with the help of the McEvoy brothers who were cycling two abreast and led the way. Directly behind them were Pat Pilkington and myself. There were twelve of us all told, pedalling as though we were possessed. We arrived at O’Connor Square in Tullamore in just under forty minutes, breaking our record of exactly forty minutes. My buttocks were sore as I climbed off my bicycle and it would be an hour before I’d cool off. Throughout the day my mind was racing back and forth and I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. I suppose I was a discontented sports follower who couldn’t understand how a referee could be so stupid when his decision meant so much to the outcome of such an important match. Later in the afternoon, when we were seated in English class, our teacher, Mr Kenny, had questions for us about the game. Several lads were anxious to voice their opinions and when I was asked what I thought I said that Offaly would have won the All-Ireland if they had won yesterday. ‘How could they win it, Pat,’ Mr Kenny asked, ‘when i
t hasn’t been played yet?’ Before I could answer I was interrupted by laughter from some smart-alecks, including my first cousin. Not knowing what to say I became irritated by the sniggering and mystified by Mr Kenny’s remark. Then it occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t my day for predicting the future and so I didn’t say any more.
My time at the technical school – vocational school – was a mixture of likes and dislikes. An example was our woodwork class. It appealed to me because I liked working with wood and I liked our teacher, Mr Kelly, who was from Derry in the North of Ireland. As we came to know him, his relaxed and laid-back personality helped us to respond to him. His was a gentle approach that inspired our interest and belief in what he wanted us to do. He had broad consideration for the fact that he was a fully developed adult who could guide us pupils who were trying to overcome shyness, self-doubts or a lack of self-confidence. Soon we were learning how to hold a hand saw and keep it straight while we sawed through pieces of softwood timber. Mr Kelly would walk among us checking to see how we were doing, stopping by and watching each of us and offering advice. In the coming months he introduced us to several small projects that had us working from plans and elevations that were neatly drawn on white paper. Our task was to read the measurements and apply them to blocks of wood that were to be planed or chiselled into shape. I found myself very much at ease with these projects and enjoyed the social benefit of getting to know the other woodworking boys. I was making friends with a few lads who sympathised with my disappointment over how Offaly had lost to Down. One lad was Danny Molloy from Rahan, who in a droll sort of way told me, ‘We’ll get them next year.’ Danny looked like he knew what he was talking about and I think he may have instilled in me the belief that Offaly would in fact win their way back to Croke Park once the championship began again the following May.
Cycling to and from Tullamore continued to be a test of willpower, especially on windy days or when a night of black frost left a glossy shine on the surface of the road. A major concern were the dogs who dashed onto the road, running out through hedges or from under farmyard gates. There were at least three houses from where these animals were certain to bark their way onto the road. I always felt a small bit safer when accompanied by other lads from school, but on occasions when I cycled alone I was at the mercy of these vicious upstarts. These were supposedly house dogs that were intent on biting our legs or ankles as they snapped and barked uncontrollably. When seven or eight of us were together I would keep to the centre of the road and let the bigger boys take the brunt of the attacks. A few of them had boasted about what they had in store for the dogs and talked of well-directed kicks that would ‘sort them out’. However, things didn’t always happen as intended. One evening, when we were passing by a gateway, a contingent of five dogs, led by a big black Labrador, came charging onto the road. They apparently knew the sound of our bikes and it was as though they were waiting for us. The big dog was first and ran at the two front cyclists, almost knocking Ollie McEvoy over before he recovered and steadied himself. This caused Ollie to slow down and suddenly two terriers with their teeth peeled came at him and were snapping and biting at his left leg. One of the dogs managed somehow to grab the leg of Ollie’s trousers and was tugging at it when his bigger brother slowed his bicycle alongside him and succeeded in booting both of the terriers away. Meanwhile the boys behind us were trying to ward off the big Labrador, whose tail was standing up, giving him the appearance of confidence and leadership. We had encountered this particular villain before and so it was obvious to us that he was indeed the leader of the pack. During these attacks the dogs would bark furiously, to the point of intimidating many of us, and so we began returning barks of our own as a way to ease our nerves. This helped us to release our frustration and heightened our lust for revenge. Many of us were cursing, others were shouting, and I saw Pat Pilkington landing a kick on the ribs of a snarling collie who backed away whimpering like a domestic lamb. Almost every evening we were ambushed by the usual assortment of barking hostiles, many of which were grey- or brown-haired terriers. Others were black and white sheepdogs or collies, and the black Labrador in the thick of it all, playing his role of chief mischief-maker.
After some weeks of being persecuted I hit upon a plan of my own, which was to cut a stout ashplant from one of the trees that grew near our house. As a matter of fact I cut three of them with my father’s bush saw. Armed with the three ashplants I wasn’t unduly concerned when I cycled alone to school the following morning. As I passed the gateway of the first house I was surprised by the stillness in the air, with no sight or sound of a dog. When I was well past the gate I dismounted and hid one of the ashplants under a hedge. I would pick it up in the evening on my way home and hopefully exact revenge on the black Labrador. I hid another ashplant the same way a few miles later and hid the third one about two miles from Tullamore.
That evening I was cycling home with my cousin Pat and when I told him about the ashplants he said I was overly cautious – until one of the dogs came out of nowhere and almost bit him as we passed the last house on our way into Daingean. The next day I had my chance with the ashplant when two of them rushed out of a hole in a fence. I swung and missed the lead dog but then tried again with a hard poking jab and caught one dog behind his right ear. It was a moment of triumph! I didn’t wait to see the result of my action but did hear the terrier yelping and whimpering as though his paw had been trod upon. It was the sound of defeat and it gave me a deep sense of justice and a feeling of satisfaction that energised me during the rest of the journey home.
The following evening we were cycling home again and as we approached the same gate we spotted a stout-looking woman standing on the side of the road. She was holding a tall blackthorn stick in an upright position which reminded me of an old painting of Moses. There was little doubt in my mind; she was waiting for us! We didn’t hear any sound from the dogs and as we cycled closer we saw the woman’s face. It was red and flushed with anger. She began thumping the stick on the surface of the road. ‘You crowd of rats,’ she yelled, ‘which one of you hurt my little dog? Stop, ye cowardly rats! Tell me, who hit my little dog Weeshie?’
We slowed down a little and someone said, ‘We didn’t do anything to yer dog.’
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she said as she made a swipe with her stick and almost hit me. ‘You sly louse, you,’ she said to Johnny Dempsey as she swung the stick again, and this time she hit him on the small of his back. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘a little taste of yer own medicine!’ We didn’t delay any further, pedalling furiously until we were out of her reach. She had succeeded in frightening us with the long stick, and some of the names she called us bordered on poetry and religious fervour. ‘You little fiend,’ she shouted at Éamon Hickey, ‘you miserable result of a happy moment!’
We never had any further dealings with her and were relieved when she kept her dogs locked up and out of sight as we passed by during the following months. We cycled the twenty-two-mile round trip to school five days a week for two years. I missed a day from time to time because of very rainy or windy weather and on one occasion cycled against a heavy gale-force wind and ended up an hour and a half late. It was an excruciating experience and when I finally arrived in school I saw that at least half of our class had stayed home. The next day some of the older boys began gloating and teasing those who were deterred by the storm, accusing them of being sissies, weaklings or old women. ‘Isn’t it great that those loud-mouth maggots have nothin’ to badger us with?’ my friend Danny Molloy confided in me. I was in total agreement.
49
The Meeting
Another Christmas came and I was glad of the rest from cycling to school. The holidays lasted for one and a half weeks and I was looking forward to spending more time practising the accordion. The demands of school had limited my time with the music. However, my single-row accordion continued to be a problem because of its limitations, which by this time we
re painfully obvious. I had no knowledge of keys or what key I played in except having heard Bob Lynch mention something about playing a tune in ‘D’ or ‘G’. Bob seemed to understand how to recognise the keys he played in but was unable to explain where to find them on my single-row. In the meantime a branch of Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann was scheduled to be formed at the courthouse in Daingean. Bob stopped by our house with news that the opening night would be the third Monday of January. He urged me to accompany him and also asked my father and mother to come along. In the end my mother stayed home, saying that my father and I should go on the condition that I get home no later than 10.30 p.m. because I would be cycling to school the next day.
When the time came Bob arrived early enough for a mug of tea, after which the three of us set off for the CCÉ meeting. Once inside the building we could hear a man speaking in Irish and as we walked into the hall he switched to English. Bob enquired of someone who the speaker was and a woman whispered, ‘It’s Paddy Duffy from Birr.’ Paddy had a very fervent expression on his face as he continued talking of Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann, its goals and its purpose. When he finished he said the rest of the evening was for playing a bit of music and that we should appoint someone to take charge of the session. It turned out later that when the music began in earnest a half dozen emcees got involved, each wanting to hear a singer or individual musician. In every sense of the word the whole affair was extraordinarily funny. Feet were tapping and girls were swaying their heads and someone was playing the spoons. Then tea was made, and sandwich trays passed around. A song was called for and a young woman obliged with ‘The Banks of the Lee’. As soon as she finished, a box player began, with a banjo player joining him. Then a man from Geashill pulled out a tin whistle from his inside pocket. He looked a little unsure and seemed to hit and miss his notes, which were out of rhythm with the tune. Nevertheless nobody complained; it was the novelty of the occasion that mattered and besides everyone was having such a good time. After another song a woman asked for Ellen to play a tune.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 25