Front Row: Eamon Sullivan, John Russell, Jimmy Behan, Robert Stevens, Patrick Burke, Declann McCann, Eddie Mullen, John Finnegan.

2nd Row: Tony Gaffney, Jackie Keogh, Paul Saunders, Anthony Gavin, Michael Hawkins, John Healy, Paddy Murphy, Joe Doyle, Gerard Cleary, Gerard Crilly, John Lawlor, Vincent Whelan, Willie and Dessie Mooney, Paul Rowe, Norman Kennedy, Peter Downey, John Cassidy, Davey Langan, Mattie Walsh, Coleman O’Neill, Gerry O’Reilly.

3rd Row: ????? Kiernan, Maurice Hennessy, Dominic Nangle, Larry Cleary, Richie Boland.
4th Row: Noel Boland, Jimmy Nelson, Al McKenna, John Kelly, George Humphries, Eamonn Murdock, Brian O’Reilly, Con Moore, Brian Mooney, Henry McDonald, Philip Murphy, Donal Bracken, Noel Brazil, Gerard Flynn.

Also in the photo are: Paul Kelch, Charlie Murphy, Brian Lattimore, Paul Kenny, Michael Carroll.

“Well Done Son!” Yesterday I went for the very first time to see my ten year-old son playing Gaelic football. Both pride and nostalgia were the order of the morning as I watched him step onto the turf wearing his Clanna Gael colours that I myself had donned for over twenty years

And what a scoreful they were! From an early age I had been badly bitten by the bug for both Gaelic football and hurling. They were the games of my clan. It was only natural that I should step onto its conveyor belt and become an offspring of its blissful union.

I can clearly remember my own father’s first attendance at a hurling match that I played in. It almost crippled me with fear at the prospect of his post-match analysis.

However, as the match progressed my eagerness to impress soon started to outweigh this handicap. As I walked off the pitch at the finish he patted my head saying, “Well done son”.
This was said with some reticence. That was soon to disappear as our after-match discussions would become very detailed, often keeping us up into the early hours of the morning.

As the years progressed, the social scene I shared with my team-mates became a huge part of my life. In my later teens, I, like the other lads, never dared to shower in case I would wash my battle scars away.

And after the match we would gather in our Gaelic castle somewhere up in our Gaelic town and down pints to beat the band, sharing our delusions of stardom with each other.

Nobody escaped Cuchullans company. Friends, who never saw a Gaelic match in their lives were A-level students on its art by the time I had finished with them. That was, of course, if they ever listened to me in the first place.

My next victim was my wife, who became a hurling widow. The hours I spent in bed at night replaying matches over and over again until she nodded off and I myself fell asleep, still talking.
It never released its jealous hold on me and often times gatecrashed my inner thoughts. While for others their desires climaxed in ‘Pink Elephants’ and such like, mine were leaping into the clouds and catching a slithor among a skyful of hurleys.

There were times indeed, the good Lord surely forgave, when, at that magical moment when heaven meets earth and earth meets heaven that the words “My God, My God” were replaced with, “my ball, my ball!”

It was this passion, this tradition, this morphine of emotion that brought me to Ringsend Park the other day. I followed my son over every green blade, kicked his every kick, jumped his every jump and caught his every catch.

And when the final whistle blew I patted his head saying, “Well done son”. Smiling, he enquired “I did all right, Da didn’t I?” “You were great son” I replied proudly.

As I said this I noticed the whiteness of his teeth as his smile grew even bigger. I now realised just how my father must have felt all those years ago. Thank God the blissful union is still alive and kicking.