The search for the Silver Ponger

Column

Shane Connaughton

We left Kingscourt, moved to Redhills, went to school in Clones, moved to Duleek in Co Meath, went to school in Drogheda, went to England...came back to Finglas in 1980, bought a house in Cavan because that's where the journey first began. That's where I made the only wish that's never come true. Yet.

My brother and me...hunkered close to the wireless in 1953 listening to the League Final between Dublin and Cavan. Holding the wires tight to the fading Leclanche battery so the reception was audible. Kevin Heffernan, Ollie Freeney - strange names - never heard of them. Apparently when he took a free kick, Freeney sunk to his left knee as he hit the ball. We presumed it was a genuflection to the Man above. A sound tactic. He rarely missed. Cavan were beaten by nine points.

We went outside and hung across the wires dividing the barracks from the creamery. We could hardly speak. If only John Joe Reilly hadn't...

My father, from Galway, worried, he always worried, tried to console us. "What's the matter with ye? Aren't ye All-Ireland Champions? Sure Dublin will never win again, not if they were playing a hundred years."

I was with him in Croke Park the previous year when we drew with Meath the first day and beat them the second. Without John Joe... The first day was the wettest I can ever remember. And that includes a tornado in Los Angeles. It was so wet the minor match was cancelled. A miserable encounter with an extraordinary equalising point from Edwin Carolan.

On the journey home Jimmy Brady, a well known Border importer-exporter, my father the Garda Sergeant, Guard Burns from Cork, Dinny O'Brien a Border businessman, Seamus Kelly - a Publican, myself - a kid, somehow squeezed into Jimmy's car. The space was tighter because they stopped at a pub in Castleknock, a pub in Kells, Con Smith's in Butlersbridge. The more they drank the more they spread. My mother, from Mayo, worried, sat up, waiting for us, until four o'clock in the morning.

Was drinking and driving illegal in the fifties?

Whatever, those days - it was a man's world. Before a final a Bishop threw in the ball after the opposing captains had knealt before him and kissed his ring.

I had a job for the summer of 1958 in Skerries - Red Island Holiday Camp. Working class girls cleaned the rooms. Middle class boys and girls were waiters and waitresses. Fergal Quinn was in charge of one shift, John O'Halloran the other. We got thirty shillings a week, our food and we slept in ex-army billets. We got tips as well. Happy days.

Most of the boys were from Dublin. One of them when he was unpacking his suitcase took out a hurley stick. I was amazed. It was a sign that Dublin were an ever-expanding force in the GAA. He and I were the only ones who played Gaelic. And he had it over me the fact Dublin had beaten us in '53.

"Ah now, we trounced the mighty Breifne. And we'll carry on trouncing you."

The intervening years, alas, have proved him right. 2. A few years ago when we toured my play - The Pitch - round the GAA clubs in Dublin, on a Saturday morning we'd be there early to prepare.

Every club we went to teemed with young people of all ages. Dropped off by their parents, already togged out for action. It was clear Dublin had the population, the money, the structure, the resulting success. I bet in a few years they'll win an All-Ireland Hurling Final.

It didn't happen overnight. In the beginning they were the same as us. Struggling against contempt.

I came across an elderly man from Finglas some time ago down our fields. Willie Mooney. He was catching gold finches. To sell in Smithfield. He had a net contraption set up on canes under which was a gold finch tied by the leg. When this bird attracted other finches down from the hedges, he pulled a string and collapsed the nets so they were trapped.

He started talking about Erin's Isle. He went back before I was born. He mentioned a man called Jem Maloney. They journeyed on their bikes all over North Dublin trying to interest people in the GAA and Erin's Isle. In what he said was hostile territory. But they believed in Ireland and its people. Word spread. Another club grew - St. Margaret's.

The pitch was at the back of Jimmy Connor's house. We often talk about bursting the back of the net. But I've only ever seen it done once. Margaret's were playing Fingallians. Paddy Reilly(I wonder where that name came from?) who played for Dublin, took a shot from fourteen yards and burst the net just under the crossbar.

The same day a middle-aged woman arrived pitch-side after the game had started. She had a big handbag and straightaway laced into the Fingallians without the slightest provocation.

At half-time, I strolled onto the pitch and listened to the Manager giving a team talk. It was the most blood-curdling speech, I'd ever heard. Laden with spit and curse. I'd certainly never heard the like in Killafana.

No wonder the City clubs hated coming out to play St. Margaret's. Posh City teams versus agricultural Margaret's. Incidentally, the man who helped organise The Pitch, had played for Vincent's. Joey's he called them. Kevin Heffernan wanted him to play for Dublin. "Give up the drink and play for us. It's up to you."

He did neither.

Richie was his name. He always referred to himself in the third person. "Richie's happy - the Dubs won yesterday."

A Finglas woman - Dolly Love, helped my mother when she was no longer able to look after herself. Dolly lived in the Watery Lanes. The legs of the beds in her house were on twelve inch blocks of wood. So when the river rose beneath the house they escaped a soaking. This was the 1980's. She called the clock on the wall - a "Wall Wagger". She was full of piquant sayings. "There's always something to scald you." "It's only the pills keeping me together." Mixed metaphors never bothered her.

"When he heard the noise me dog flew over the gate like a bird." "Up the Dubs." "I'm from Cavan, Dolly." 3. "Don't I know well! Up the Dubs!"

A local fellow, not the full shilling, came into her house one day. There was a bunch of bananas on the table. When Dolly wasn't looking he ate them - skins and all.

Nowadays, every morning, I go round to Hollystown to get the newspaper. Already they have the Dublin flags up. And when I go in, Pauline from behind the counter shouts - "Ah-hah! Up the Dubs".

For all that, she's terrified of us winning. "Bejay but Cavan is a good team but." I was in Woodie's in Cavan last week. Getting a tin of wood stain. No, not for my coffin. The man at the till told me he was desperate to get home to watch the Toy Show on RTE.

Jokingly I asked him what Santa Claus was bringing him for Christmas.

"The Silver Ponger. He won't be going to Dublin anyway. Last year he was robbed in Finglas."

"Not true," I said. "The Dubs are great supporters. Just the same as us." My brother, Brian Og and I will watch the match together. We want revenge for '53. If we win I know we'll cry like babies.

He's the only Cavan man ever to win the Ras Tailteann. The heart of a hound. The strength of a horse. Cute as a fox. Never give in. Real Cavan.

Anyway, hope we have a decent ref. Not like the one in Port Laoise when we played Dublin in the All-Ireland Under 21. And were diddled right at the end. But I better not go on about referees. I don't want to be called in again by Liam McCabe.

The Silver Ponger. The Sam Maguire. The only vaccine I'm interested in. The hungriest team wins. And we're starving.

*Shane Connaughton is an award-winning author and playwright and a staunch Cavan supporter.