All quiet in ‘the office’

All was quiet in Con’s office yesterday, bar the sport on the television and the images flickering behind the eyes of Peter Roche, stationed at the counter of Mulligans of Poolbeg St.

This pub was where Con Houlihan’s monthly cheques were lodged behind the bar by owner Tommy Cusack, where many of his articles began and, yesterday, where his absence was most keenly felt.

Peter, a silver-haired former station master at nearby Tara St, who is in his late 60s and lives in Finglas, said he could not recall the exact moment he met the legendary sportswriter, but that he would never forget him.

Nattily dressed in shirt, tie and pea-green jacket complete with lapel badge of the American flag, he rattled off stories about Con’s generosity, his kinship, his way with words. As each story reached a crescendo, the words became choked and the tears gathered in his eyes.

“Con, to me, was a genius,” he said. “He was my great friend. He was a gentle giant, and he had a heart of gold.”

In imitating Con’s muffled diction, Peter placed his hand in front of his mouth and swung into a mid-Kerry melody.

“His favourite song was Stardust,” Peter explained, bursting into some la la la’s. “And he never put his hand in front of his mouth when he was singing it.

“He was a most eccentric man. His wine had to be put in a mug. He drank it out of the mug.” A wistful shake of the head.

More stories: Of Con’s creativity and powers of observation, of his collection of paintings, of his hip, broken in a fall at Cheltenham, and of the countless hours spent in Mulligans, from early morning to late at night, including “a snooze over in the corner” — a different time, a different place.

“He had the constitution of an ox,” Peter recalled. “He had hands like shovels.

“He sold the Evening Press, Monday, Wednesday, Friday, with his article on the back page. I’d hear people in Tara St saying they had to buy it to read him.”

The television showed the minute’s silence in memory of Con at Croker, a hush followed by a spontaneous burst of applause.

“There he is, the old maggot,” Peter said, choking, as Con’s image bore out from the screen. “Ah, we will never, ever see the likes.” And there was Con on screen, an image to match the photo of him on the wall of the pub, and his ghost seemed to be everywhere.