Non-Covid highlights of Irish Examiner 2020 coverage, part 2

Family members form a guard of honour as the coffin of John Hume is taken into St Eugene's Cathedral in Derry ahead of his funeral on August 5. Picture: PA

On Monday we reproduced some of the best writing published in the Irish Examiner, in print and online, this year. Here's more.

Fergus Finlay – August 4: The remarkable legacy of John Hume

It is perhaps an impertinence to suggest the two words that should be carved largest on John Hume’s headstone, but I’ll do it anyway. John Hume wasn’t just a peacemaker. He was the peacemaker.

He wasn’t just a patriot. He was the embodiment of patriotism. For as long as Irish history is written, they are the words that belong under his name. The patriot. The peacemaker.

Others have claimed credit for the work he started, work that without his courage and sacrifice wouldn’t have happened. And he never denied them their share. Indeed, I don’t remember that he ever claimed credit for himself anyway. But someone said to me recently that it wasn’t enough for some to climb on Hume’s bandwagon, they wanted to try and push him off so they could own it for themselves. That was never going to be possible.

Because Hume’s contribution to Irish peace, and to Ireland, was unique and unmeasurable. He didn’t want to die for Ireland, he wanted to work for Ireland. He didn’t want to see anyone else die for Ireland, and he often said so. But much much more than that, he didn’t want to see anyone kill for Ireland.

Throughout his life, Hume was, to a greater extent than any other living Irish person, the architect of non-violence. We forget now how fashionable violence was in Ireland back then. Our terrorists were international celebrities. Phrases such as “armed struggle” and “the ballot box in one hand and the ArmaLite in another” were common currency.

Millions of pounds and dollars were raised and spent on weapons of destruction. The slaughter of innocents was always justified in some fashion because back then we didn’t do “the politics of condemnation”.

So John Hume, despite being the leader of the largest nationalist party in Ireland, was unfashionable. When he first went to the US to seek to develop persuaders for a different approach, part of his task as he saw it was to wean American politics and business away from unthinking support for guns and bombs. In those early years, he succeeded in winning key US leaders to a different way because of his conviction and his doggedness.

John Hume’s contribution to Irish peace, and to Ireland, was unique and unmeasurable. Picture: Marc O'Sullivan/Collins Agency

But he ploughed a lonely furrow for a long time in the process. He had the support of a staunch partner in Seamus Mallon, and throughout those early years, he had the backing of successive Irish governments and a host of diplomats. But the mountain he climbed then, in the late 1970s and early 1980s, would not have been scalable without his persistence.

There were many mountains, and many times when his work involved despair, although he seldom showed it. Years later, when the peace process he had initiated had taken root, and intense negotiations were taking place between the two governments about what would become the Downing Street Declaration, the IRA set off a bomb in Frizell’s chip shop on the Shankill Road. Ten people were killed, including the bomber Thomas Begley, whose coffin was subsequently carried by Gerry Adams.

A week later, and in retaliation, three UDA gunmen in balaclavas walked into the Rising Sun bar in the little town of Greysteel, about 14km from Hume’s home in Derry. It was the night before Halloween, and one of the gunmen shouted “trick or treat” as he opened fire. A few minutes later, seven people lay dead in the bloody carnage that had been created, and more were to die of their wounds. Although some were Protestant, the majority were Catholic. They were all Hume’s constituents.

This was, by any definition, the lowest point of the peace process, the darkest hour before the dawn. A sequence of events over a matter of days – the brutal Shankill massacre, the Begley funeral, the terrible murders in Greysteel – had rendered all the work of peace seemingly pointless.

More even than that, there were those who thought that Hume had pandered to a terrorist organisation that was simply never going to stop.

Hume was alone in those days. Because the victims of Greysteel were his constituents, of course he attended their funerals, as he had attended hundreds of others. He stood at the back, his head bowed. When he looked up, it was to see the daughter of one of the Greysteel victims confronting him.

Except she had anything but confrontation in mind. Instead she pleaded with him not to give up, not to walk away from the process, as many were urging him to do.

“We’re praying for you to keep going, Mr Hume,” she pleaded. “Don’t let any other family suffer the way mine has.”

It was, I think, the only time the public had ever seen John Hume cry. It was the nature of the man that he had prepared himself to withstand criticism. But he couldn’t stay stoic in the face of solidarity from someone who was suffering so grievously herself.

Six weeks after that moment of desolation in a graveyard near his home, the Downing Street Declaration was signed in London. It contained all the key phrases from a long and tortuous dialogue Hume had initiated. The declaration led, as he had persuaded everyone it would, to an IRA ceasefire.

On the road to that breakthrough, there were moments when John Hume had to provide cover for timid overtures by Charles Haughey. Moments when he had to stay silent when Albert Reynolds had to disavow him, when news of the “Hume-Adams” process broke prematurely. Moments when he had to swallow hard when John Major said he couldn’t touch a John Hume document because it also had Gerry Adams’ fingerprints on it. Moments of political humiliation endured for the sake of progress.

John Hume in front of the Stormont Building near Belfast.

But there was nothing new about any of that. The peace process that led to the IRA ultimately putting down their guns happened a quarter of a century into John Hume’s career. It was a career that started in peaceful protest, centred on civil rights for nationalists. He became the undisputed leader of constitutional nationalism in Ireland, and watched in frustration as the divisions forged by violence drove the two communities of Northern Ireland further and further apart.

In an article he wrote a couple of years ago, the late Seamus Mallon said the foundation of all John Hume’s work for peace was in the core objective of an SDLP document entitled ‘Towards a New Ireland’. As Mallon put it, that objective was “to bring about a solution where Irish people of different traditions can build institutions of government to provide for lasting peace and stability on this island, and for new harmonious relations with Britain itself”.

Simple, said Mallon, about that document that was written in 1972, but also, he added, the beginning of a lifetime’s work. If you want to see the consistency of Hume’s politics and approach over that time, read what he had to say the day the Good Friday Agreement was signed, a quarter of a century later.

“Only on the basis of equality, fairness, and respect for our differences could we begin to heal the deep divisions between our people. This historic agreement enables us, at last, to start the healing process.”

The man who might have been a priest or a teacher ended up, more by force of circumstances than anything else, becoming the greatest advocate for peace based on mutual respect this country had ever known. No other political leader in history has ever been honoured with the Nobel Peace Prize, the Martin Luther King Jr Nonviolent Peace Prize, and the Ghandi Peace Prize. That unique distinction alone surely marks him out.

Of course there were contradictions. Even the greatest of men have their frailties. I can remember him in Leinster House, scruffy from days of travel and overwork, attaching himself to anyone who had cigarettes to spare (back in the day when politics was full of smoke-filled rooms), and quickly moving on when the cigarettes ran out. I can remember his closest party colleagues almost weeping with frustration at his failure, again and again, to put the organisation of his own party ahead of other needs.

He could be charming one minute, rude the next, the life and soul of the party when he chose, and other times a picture of the deepest melancholy.

None of that mattered in the end, because Hume was a man who stood against injustice and oppression all of his adult life. But he also stood for things. His first campaign was for third-level education in Derry, His last campaign, after retirement,
was about poverty in the developing world.

When he needed to stand alone, he stood alone. No baton charge could shake him in his early days, no political or media attack (remember Eoghan Harris’s clarion call to “cut the cord to John Hume”) could deter him. From start to finish, Hume’s outstanding characteristic was his constancy.

The last few years had been difficult for him and for his remarkable wife Pat, another true leader. Now that he has died, it seems impossible to sum him up. In the same article I quoted earlier, Mallon used Hume’s own words to capture the essence of Hume’s political philosophy: “Ireland is not a romantic dream; it is not a flag; it is 4.5m people divided into two powerful traditions. The solution will be found not on the basis of victory for either, but on the basis of agreement and a partnership between both. The real division of Ireland is not a line drawn on the map but in the minds and hearts of its people.”

No one has done more to heal that division than John Hume. He believed passionately and single-mindedly in what Ireland could become, and spent his entire life trying to bring that about. Irish hearts and minds can today be united about one thing at least: We have lost the greatest of our citizens.

Erica Cody –  June 5:  Racism in Ireland

Introduction by Louise O'Neill: I know regular readers might have turned to this page and expected to see my face on the masthead. However, when I sat down to write my column this week, there was only one issue I could think about – the murder of George Floyd and the Black Lives Matters protests.

What is happening in the States right now is shocking for many of us, although our shock is, in and of itself,
a privilege too. Black people have never had the luxury of being shocked by racism as it’s been their lived experience since the day they were born.

Between 1,000-1,500 people gathered on Grand Parade in Cork on June 8 under the Black Lives Matter banner to protest against the killing of the unarmed black man in America, George Floyd. The protesters held an 8 minute and 46 second protest – the length of time the police officer had his knee on George Floyd's neck. Picture: Andy Gibson

However, it would be a mistake for us in Ireland to condemn what’s happening in America without taking a good, hard look at ourselves. A study undertaken by the European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights in 2018 showed that Ireland ranked as the second worst in the EU for racial violence against black people, with 51% of black people here saying they have been harassed in the form of verbal, physical, or online threats.

Direct provision, a system put in place over 20 years ago as a short-term solution to housing asylum seekers, is a human rights’ violation, cramming traumatised and vulnerable people into overcrowded conditions and ensuring they remain isolated from the communities in which they live by refusing to allow proper integration in the way of employment. 

In recent years, we have wondered how Irish people could have allowed the Magdalene Laundries and the Mother and Baby homes to exist, how they looked the other way as such atrocities occurred. Take one look at us today, eating brunch
in bougie restaurants owned by the same corporation responsible for the operation of direct provision centres, and you will have found your answer.

In reality, I shouldn’t be writing this column. I’m a white, Irish woman, working in a disproportionally white industry. I’ve never experienced racism, I’ve never been unfairly treated because of the colour of my skin. This is not my story to tell.

Luckily, Erica Cody, a singer, songwriter, and artist, has agreed to tell her story instead...

— LOUISE O’NEILL

My heart is heavy, my brain is as coily as my hair right now. There is no denying the struggles we face accompanied by the colour of our skin.

What is going on in America right now is sparking outrage over there, but it’s also happening around the world, especially on our shores. It’s easy for people to say, “ah sure we’re in Ireland, that’s not our problem”. It’s easy to say, “But I can’t be racist, I have a black friend!”, to excuse casually racist behaviour. It’s easy to say, “this is not the right time to protest, we’re in the middle of a pandemic”, when you have never had to endure the racism we have. Enough is enough.

Don’t wait on a black person who is already exhausted from the day-to-day struggle of dealing with prejudice
to educate you on white privilege and racism. The information is there, many just aren’t looking or willing. It’s easy to spew so much hate towards a black-led anti-racism protest, but to stay silent at the photos of packed beaches all over Instagram… What double standards!

Erica Cody: 'Much of my existence was based on my ‘Irish-ness’ being diminished because there’s ‘no waaaaaay’ you can be black and Irish at the same time.' Picture: Andres Poveda

There is more than one pandemic happening right now. All it takes is the modern-day lynching of George Floyd, his life stolen from him under the knee of a cop, for the seriousness of racism to be recognised.

Born and raised in Dublin to a white Irish mother and a black American father from South Carolina, much of my existence was based on my ‘Irish-ness’ being diminished because there’s ‘no waaaaaay’ you can be black and Irish at the same time. 

It’s been an identity crisis for me most of my life, being told to “go back to my own country” when Ireland is all I have ever known.

I often found it difficult to understand my father’s frustration towards racist behaviour and I realise now that it’s not that I didn’t want to know, but I had just become completely desensitised to the way I was being racially targeted in my own life. People grabbing my hair as they passed me on a bike, pulling me back as if I’m some sort of petting zoo.

The years I have endured of racial slurs, staying quiet to the casual racism so I don’t come across like the ‘problematic’ one in the group, when in reality, I’m just the minority. The monkey noises being shouted at me across streets. Being pushed into walls in the primary school yard, losing my two front teeth as a result and not knowing if they’ll every grow back again.

I robbed my mom’s razor and attempted to shave my face of my dark facial hair at the tender age of seven, just so I won’t get called a gorilla in school the next day. The constant questioning – “Where are you from?”, followed by, “No but where are you REALLY from?” when I say I’m from Dublin. I am left questioning my own identity when I was already very sure.

I have to ask the question: why are black and people of colour always the ones left to educate the ignorant on racism? You ask me how I am, how we are. This is all I have to say. We are TIRED.

Susan O'Shea – October 27: The shameful secrets of Bessborough

In our house, Bessborough is a dirty word. It stands for lies and deception and attempts to bury the truth, keep it hidden as if it were some sort of “shameful” little secret.

My mother spent the first six-and-a-half years of her life within the walls of that mother and baby home.

Her earliest memories are of cold-hearted nuns, and rows and rows of cots filled with crying babies.

There was no ill-treatment, but neither was there any love or kindness.

Birthdays and Christmas went uncelebrated. Just before she turned seven, my mother was called into the parlour of Bessborough and told to meet her new “mammy and daddy” – a Cork couple in their 50s, with one grown-up son.

She was literally handed over by the nuns.

She was given their surname. Up until then, she had just been called Mary.

Any questions about her birth mother, where she was from, or why she had spent so long in Bessborough went unanswered.

Children's teddies and flowers outside the gates of former mother and baby home Bessborough. Picture: Provision

She was told a number of basic “facts” by the nuns and not to ask anything else: that her mother, also called Mary, was 19 when she came to the home to give birth, had left shortly after for England and then the United States to make a new life.

This was lie number one. Deliberately designed to stop my mother from seeking the truth.

The suggestion was why look for a woman who abandoned you without a backward glance?

My mother lived with the pain and sense of abandonment, but 16 years ago, when the Magdalene Laundries made headlines, she plucked up the courage to try and find out the truth.

She went back to Bessborough, accompanied by my father, and met with Sr Sarto.

“It’s a bit late at 69 years of age to go looking for your mummy... and sometimes people don’t like what they find out,” was the nun’s response.

My mother was told there was nothing in the records about her. No files. Not a scrap of paper. Lie number 2. Nearly seven years spent in a mother and baby home, of course there were records, but she wasn’t getting access to them.

“We will have another look”, were Sr Sarto’s parting words, “but are unlikely to find anything”.

And, of course, they didn’t.

She didn’t want to testify before the Mother and Baby Homes Commission but she always hungered to know the truth.

Was she really abandoned as callously as the nuns said, did her mother simply make a new life in the States? Why did she never attempt to trace her?

These questions plagued her.

As scandal after scandal about the various homes emerged, we concluded there must be some record of her time in Bessborough, it had just been buried very deeply.

So we contacted Tusla for help in the search. But there were many others also looking for answers. My mother was put on a waiting list – it seems there is one of them for everything in this country, especially if you are a woman – but given her advancing years she was eventually assigned a social worker.

And yes there were “records” … they only amounted to a single sheet of paper, the details of which were read out to her.

She couldn’t see the sheet herself because of “data protection”.

But that’s when the lies began to unravel.

Her mother was actually 32 giving birth, not 19. She did travel to England for a period, but then returned to Ireland where she worked on the family farm in the midlands.

She died in a nursing home at the age of 82.

My mother had been denied the chance to trace her birth mother because she was told no records existed.

This is what happens when you bury records, you bury people’s past and their right to discover who they are.

Childrens teddy's and toys along with flowers at the 'Little Angels' memorial plot in the grounds of Bessborough House in Blackrock, Cork. Picture: Laura Hutton/RollingNews.ie

Maybe her birth mother wouldn’t have wanted to be reunited, or maybe she would have welcomed my mother with open arms.

Most babies born in Bessborough were quickly “adopted” (given to couples, in other words, as adoption wasn’t legalised until the 1950s).

The fact my mother was there for nearly seven years is quite remarkable. A number of experts in this area believe someone was paying the nuns to keep my mother.

The most likely answer is her mother, but because of the scarcity of records, we will never know. An adoption order was raised in a UK court in the 1940s, but nothing came of it.

Again, because the records, apart from that single sheet of paper, were buried or lost, or caught fire, she will never know. The trail literally grows cold.

Her birth mother never married or had other children, but did have nieces and nephews. Contact was initiated by the social worker, and when they learned of my mother’s existence they were delighted to meet with her and are in touch since.

They were able to give my mother a picture of her birth mother, taken in the late ‘20s, and the physical resemblance between the two women is striking.

My mother got to learn something of what she was like as a person, how she was known as Mai to her friends and family, had worked as a nanny for a time in Belfast and loved children, how she liked to cook and knit.

My mother’s Bessborough record contained one other hugely important piece of information. The name of her father.

At 82 years of age, my mother had never heard her father’s name. She knew nothing about him.

Her birth cert lists her father as “unknown” but her mother had given his name to someone in Bessborough, and they recorded it.

The social worker couldn’t say his name until she checked to see if he had living relatives. We don’t know if he knew of my mother’s birth, but he went on to marry and have nine children, seven of whom are still alive.

They knew nothing about my mother’s existence until the social worker’s call came out of the blue. Their response was phenomenal. Yes, they were happy to meet her.

A DNA test had to be conducted, but it came back as a 99.99% match.

Imagine being 82 and discovering you have seven half-siblings, hearing your father’s name for the first time, getting to see his grave, the house where he lived, something of the kind of man he was, discovering you are part of this big, warm, welcoming family.

A Mother and Baby Home protest at Áras an Uachtaráin in October calling on President Michael D Higgins not to sign the controversial Mother and Baby Homes legislation. The president signed the bill that morning. Photograph: Sasko Lazarov/ RollingNews.ie

All of this could, and should, have happened 20, 30, 40 years ago.

My mother should have been granted access to her records when she sought it. She should never have been told such a wicked lie that her mother “disappeared off to the States”.

She should have had the chance to reunite with her birth mother if they both wanted it.

She should have had more time to get to know her siblings. But the State and religious orders’ insistence on burying the past prevented this.

My mother has never told her story publicly before. But she gave me permission to write this piece because she believes what the Government did last week was shameful.

She wants to add her voice to the thousands of other people shouting stop.

In her words: “We have spent too long in this country trying to keep things hidden and hurting people as a result.”

Whether it’s testimonies to the Mother or Baby Homes Commission, or any records or documents related to those who spent time in these institutions.

We, as a society, can’t right the wrongs done to these men and women, but we can treat them with respect from now on.

And a good starting point is openness and transparency. Don’t seal the records.

At age 82 my mother found seven half-siblings ... don’t seal the records.

Larry Ryan – May 22:  The extraordinary story of Cork hurler Eoin O'Sullivan

It might appear flippant to itemise Eoin O’Sullivan’s extraordinary story in the context of club hurling matches. But Eoin wouldn’t see it like that.

“It’s all linked with the hurling for me,” he says. “You can link every surgery, every treatment, every setback, to the game I got back for.”

Want to offend Eoin? Suggest that all he has been through must put sport in perspective; that he’s got bigger problems than a free drifting wide.

“I don’t think anything healthwise would impact on how I’d view a mistake, or anything like that. Because a game is still the biggest thing in the world to me.”

Call it obsession. Call it love.

It’s unfair that none of the matches that won Eoin his four Cork senior championship medals will feature here. Nor will any of his appearances for the Cork minors or the U21s.

But in the five years since the last of those triumphant seasons, through all he has dealt with, he has drawn strength from hurling and from his club.

It would be crass to tell his story in terms of winning and losing. Illness doesn’t work that way.
But Eoin’s sport has always given him a chance to feel like he’s winning. Given him one constant, driving focus: To get back on the field.

Aug 31, 2019: Cork SHC Round 3: Sarsfields 0-19 Douglas 0-15

Sars were two up, three minutes left, when Eoin O’Sullivan hunched over another. He’d already stuck over 10, but this was right on the sideline, just in front of the Douglas dugout.

“I knew I had this surgery the Tuesday after, in the Mercy.

“I was saying to myself, ‘you’re going to be lying down for how long after this? Make sure you can look back and be happy about these frees going over. Don’t miss them’. I shouldn’t have been thinking like that.”

Hurler Eoin O’Sullivan at Sarsfields Hurling Club training pitches near Glanmire, Co Cork. Picture: Larry Cummins

The Irish Examiner streamed it live. The ball hadn’t travelled 10 yards before Cork legend Ger Cunningham delivered his verdict in commentary: “He has it! The minute he struck the ball, the hand was up: He knew it was on its way.”

Afterwards, commentator Colm O’Connor was sharing his admiration for the Glanmire marksman. And somebody just mentioned, in passing, as if everybody knew: “Not bad for a fella with cancer.”

It’s not something O’Sullivan has ever tried to hide. Of course they all know locally.

“But it’s not like you’d be introducing yourself and saying it … it doesn’t really come up.

“I always kind of expected someone to ask me to talk about it. And I was always ready and willing.

“I think you’re better off being open about things like that. You need to talk about it. It helps when people understand it and it helps to tell people about it too.”

October 11, 2015: Cork SHC Final, Glen Rovers 2-17 Sarsfields 1-13

“It was around the quarter-final of the county that I had seen a mole on my foot, just a little black mole. My mom was saying, ‘would you get it checked out?’

“I said it to the doctor in the dressing room, ‘would you have a look at that?’ And he said he’d have to take it off and put in a couple of stitches. So, I put it off for six weeks, until after the final. I was innocent at the time. I was 24.

Eoin O'Sullivan, Sarsfields, in action against David Dooling, Glen Rovers, in October 2015. Picture: Eoin Noonan /Sportsfile

“After losing the final, you’re not yourself for a couple of weeks. I put it on the long finger again. And by that time it was actually bleeding. So if I had a white sock on, there would be a dot of blood. Looking back, it’s a bad sign. It means it’s ulcerated.”

The doctor took the mole off on Tuesday and Eoin took the call the next Monday. Come in.

“Signs of melanoma.”

In his instinctive reaction to stark words, perhaps there were clues about the depth of fortitude he would eventually show.

“It was pure innocence, naivety, maybe pure stupidity. I remember thinking, ‘this is a challenge. I’ll knock this out of the park straight away. It’ll come and go.’

“The word cancer — I knew there were people beating it every day.

“My girlfriend Alanna is a doctor so she was clued in. She saw the seriousness of it.”

So began his first hospital stay, as the medics started on the puzzle.

“For this exact bit of affected skin, there’s one lymph node in your groin that’s mainly responsible for draining it. So, they inject that part of your skin and follow it up into the lymph node responsible. And they took it out, with two others.

“If that main node has something positive in it, it’s a bad sign. Then, they’ll have to take out all the lymph nodes there.

“The results take about a month. I actually went skiing three weeks later. I couldn’t walk, but I was able to ski. And at the end of December, they said it showed up in the three nodes.

“So I was back at the start of January, and they took out all the lymph nodes in my leg. That’s why my left leg isn’t as efficient at draining up fluid as it should be.”

They’d patched up his foot with a graft from his thigh and now they stapled a 10-inch wound running down from his groin.

Until all this, the boy born with a hurley had never had a stitch.

May 22, 2016: Munster IHC Quarter-Final, Tipperary3-20 Cork 1-15

You need to know the kind of dreamer he was, that boy born with a hurley.

Cork superstar Joe Deane was his idol. And one year, Eoin’s devoted mother Mary dispatched a letter to the bank, in the name of her besotted son, addressed to Joe Deane.

One day the house phone rang and it was Joe, just ringing to have a chat. Eoin was 12 and his day, month, and life were made. He kept the number that showed up on the phone, and so, before every Cork championship game, from that day on, he’d text Joe.

“The morning of the game,” he laughs. “I was probably annoying him. But he used always text me back.”

Joe has his own experience with testicular cancer and he reached out again last year and the two hurlers shared a long lunch, which meant as much as that first phone call.

Back in 2016, it was the blood and bandage of Cork firing up Eoin for his first of many comebacks.

“I’d been going to Declan O’Sullivan, the physio with Cork, since I was 14. He was excellent, setting me up with rehab and a plan to return.

“It was slow enough; maybe around April I got back training.

“And I started with Cork intermediates against Tipp, in Thurles. We were hammered. But that was something I was really proud of. It sort of showed me how big sport was for me. It can make you feel like you’re winning.

“As far as I knew, there was no disease in my body. There was no evidence of anything.”

August 28, 2016: Cork SHC, Round 4: Sarsfields 1-15 Midleton 2-21

He badly wants them all to know how much he appreciates them.

His dad David, who’d drop everything, any time, and drive anywhere. Mom, who keeps track of every appointment; logs every twist in this road.

Nan Bridie, who just loves him.

Alanna, whose deeper understanding of everything Eoin is up against means she gets asked too many questions.

Sarsfield's Eoin O'Sullivan celebrates his goal against Midleton during the Cork SHC in August 2016. Picture: Eddie O'Hare

And Conor and Orla, the brother and sister. And everyone at the club. The friends who can talk about it and the ones who can’t.

“Everyone helps in their own way, according to their own personality.”

Then there’s his consultant Dr Derek Power and his clinical nurse specialist, Emma O’Riordan.

Dr Power found a medical trial in London. No disease was showing, but this was another layer of precaution.

“They give you a drug, see if it will keep melanoma away.”

By now he had finished a masters in education at UCC and was teaching in Christians. The school freed his timetable to allow him to travel to London on Wednesdays.

A new routine formed: Train Tuesday night; Cityjet Wednesday morning; fly home Wednesday evening; train Thursday.

“I never gave myself the out to miss training. I didn’t think I had an excuse. I was feeling fine.”

The only thing he’s ever asked of the club is that they treat him like any other player. The only thing he doesn’t want is minding.

He was in London getting treatment the Wednesday before they lost in the championship.

“We had a disaster against Midleton.”

He doesn’t mention that he scored the goal.

And then, a few weeks later, London rang.

“I’d get a scan every fourth time I went over and something showed up. So, I went back in for surgery in the CUH, to take out much deeper lymph nodes.”

Another wound. More staples.

Sept 4, 2017: Cork SHC quarter-final: UCC 0-18 Sarsfields 1-15

Along the way, Eoin started to study the teachings of performance guru Gary Keegan. And he began to hold one line of Keegan’s very close.

‘The obstacle is the way.’

“It was probably the way I’d been living anyway, to a degree. But it made me think about it even more.

“Instead of showing resistance to something, the way I interpreted it is, whatever obstacle you have, whatever adversity, it’s all about how great can you be against that challenge.”

So in 2017, when “something popped up again”, as he puts it, Eoin faced it head on.

“It was a mass in under a muscle. They went in again, same scar, just made it a bit bigger. Took out more lymph nodes.”

By now, Sars manager Brian Roche knew exactly where Eoin stood. If he was down in the field he was all in. He didn’t need protecting.

“I just made it back for UCC. I came on, maybe 20 minutes to go. And I had a big impact. That was huge for me. It felt like I had got over something.

“What sport offers you is massive. It’s something tangible. You can do your rehab, go to the gym, do your runs, tick all the boxes.

“The harder part is the intangibles. Your mindset and keeping on top of that. ‘What am I doing with negative thoughts? Am I managing them’?”

Starting to soar

The late Jim Stynes, the great Australian Rules footballer, is an inspiration.

“I watched the documentary Every Heart Beats True. He was an unbelievable man. He had melanoma and he started at stage 4. I started with stage 2 or 3 and I’m at stage 4 now.

“He said in the doc’, and I couldn’t understand it, that he needed melanoma to happen to him. His life was gone in a way that he needed it. I’d never say I needed it but I understand it now, in that it’s definitely changed me, changed my mindset.”

Australian Rules footballer Jim Stynes inspired Eoin O'Sullivan during his treatment and recovery. 

The Reach Foundation Stynes helped build is dedicated to inspiring young people to believe in themselves and get the most out of life.

Eoin was drawn to it, and its Irish counterpart, Soar, founded by former Clare hurler Tony Griffin, with Karl Swan.

“I just loved the messages they were giving.

“Tony is one of the best men I’ve ever met. When you’re talking to him, you have 100% his attention. He’s so present. It’s really special. It’s a gift.

“It opened up my world outside of sports, to be a better person. To try to find a profession I love and enjoy.

“Only for them, I wouldn’t be doing physiotherapy now.”

That’s what he always wanted to do. But the points were high and anyway he didn’t want to leave Cork. But with all the physio he was getting, it struck him that the people treating him shared his calling.

“So, I went back to do a masters in anatomy, because I had no science. And, eventually, I got accepted into physio in UCC.”

September 16, 2018: Cork SHC quarter-final: Sarsfields 1-14 UCC 0-20

“During that winter, I started getting this terrible back pain.”

More scans showed there was something left over and it wasn’t removable by surgery. “I missed the semi-final of the league against the Barr’s. I was too sore.

“The consultant had a new drug he offered me. An immunosuppressant. It targets the gene that makes melanoma spread. I took this medication and, two days later, the pain was gone. It literally deleted the disease. It was amazing.

“It has other effects. Your white blood cells would be a bit lower. Your immune system is affected. But nothing that made any difference to me.

“I had a scan a couple of weeks later: Everything was gone. Unbelievable.

“But the thing with these drugs, they are like antibiotics: They have a shelf life. The max, normally, is five years, though there are people on it five years and still going on. But you know there’s a timeline. It’ll stop working at some stage.

“But I was flying. I started taking them a week or two before the league final and I was able to play. Now I was shocking, I pulled a hamstring.

“But it felt unbelievable. I was able to have that winter, the whole next year, totally clear of anything.

“In the end, we lost to UCC in a quarter-final, but there was no problem for the whole year.”

He scored six points that day.

Sept 21, 2019: Cork SHC quarter-final, Imokilly 1-17 Sarsfields 0-10

He played against Kanturk in the first round. Did well. Then something showed up again.

“It had always been on the left side. This time it was in the mid-line of my aorta.”

The retro-peritoneum. Invasive surgery. Another six-inch scar.

Alanna had almost come to enjoy those first few minutes when he’d wake up from surgery; the nonsense out of him when he was still under the influence. She’d always remind him of it later.

“There was no craic after this one. The pain was so intense.

“On the physio course, the guy mentioned retro-peritoneal surgery and said the outcomes aren’t good for recovery. He wouldn’t have known about me.

“But I was probably back playing in two months. I was lucky. I had a baseline. You’re healthy and fit. But you do have it in your head that it could be your last game at any stage.”

There was more disappointment. It still wasn’t gone.

Hurler Eoin O’Sullivan at Sarsfields Hurling Club training pitches near Glanmire. Picture: Larry Cummins

“My consultant never wants to tell me over the phone if there’s anything bad, but I don’t care now. I don’t need to sit down to hear it either. I’m kind of used to it. Basically, he said you need to go and get this special type of radiotherapy.

“I’d had 30 rounds of radiotherapy before, but this was called stereotactic. It’s new, hi-tech.

“But then I started feeling queasy and sick. And I knew it wasn’t just anxiety. We played Blackrock in the league final and I was feeling terrible, but I played.

“And then I asked for a scan, which I had never done before, but I knew something was up.”

The scan showed something in the adrenal glands. So radiotherapy was cancelled and he’d need more surgery, after the Douglas game.

Nail those frees Saturday evening, into the Mercy Tuesday.

Three keyhole incisions and one medium-sized cut did it. Now for Imokilly, 18 days later.

“The surgeon was a new guy, Criostóir Ó Súilleabháin. He met me in the corridor the day after. And he’s a big man. Six foot something. I remember, he slapped me down on the shoulder as hard as he could and said, ‘how are you feeling?’
And you’d be half-shocked, but delighted, because it was him saying, ‘you’re not fragile’.

“Recovery was slow. After a week, I came down to watch training. I walked a few hundred yards and I was exhausted and sore.

“By the Tuesday, I was trying to puck a few balls, pulling with the arms rather than the abdomen. And I had small, tiny improvements.

“Maybe a week and a half out, I was able to hit a free from the opposite 60. The pain was intense enough.

“So, Declan advised me about this American company, who make this protective gear for baseball. You get this gel and mould it around your body to protect where my stitches were.

“I knew I was pushing the boat out. But it was Imokilly. We knew it was do or die. I said I’d chance it.”

“I came on when the game was half-over. I didn’t do anything. I scored a free. But I felt perfect playing.

“And I was delighted I did. It was something to be proud of.”

Staying in the moment

There has been more back pain, and a scan in April confirmed a dread: another lymph node.

“On the front of the vertebrae. For a month, I hardly slept. They were looking at surgery again. But, basically, if they remove it there’s a good chance my kidney could be taken out. And I have a perfectly healthy kidney, so they couldn’t advise it. It would be hero surgery.

Eoin O'Sullivan says his experience has changed him for the better in many ways. Picture: Larry Cummins

“So I’ve done four sessions of radiotherapy in the Bons, at the new centre there. The consultant Paul Kelly is excellent.

“I’m on quite strong pain relief. You feel like you’re after a few pints.”

The mass has reduced, but they won’t be able to judge success for six weeks. He won’t let his mind wander up that track. Not much.

“This has definitely changed me, for the better in a lot of ways. Before, you’d have a scan, and I’d be shitting it two weeks coming up. Get the scan, I’ve to wait a week, then worry, worry; thinking, thinking, thinking. Now, I walk in, get the scan, walk out, and I wouldn’t think about it until the day I’m finding out.

“Any book you read about mindset, it is all about being in the moment. And not worrying about the future.

“I definitely do worry about things. I worried about that back pain. I’d look at that as not being good enough. You’re not being fair to yourself thinking like that, or people around you.”

He’s grateful for so much. He made it to the States with Alanna before Christmas. Two Lakers games; Saw LeBron twice; Vegas, San Fran’, New York. And it was magic.

He is back meditating again.

And as we sit here, on a beautiful day, looking out on the Sars training pitches, there is social distance between us, but you know he is totally here, in the moment.

He has that gift too.