Wonder satisfied, 25 years after blow

INTERCOUNTY season over, and as the GAA club scene begins to take precedence, a club story.

It was the kind of incident that happens only on very rare occasions, thankfully. 1976, county junior hurling quarter-final, Ballyhea were playing Newmarket.

I was born in Newmarket but was now an almost 20-year resident of Ballyhea, totally immersed in the club. Full-back for Newmarket was one of those bloody big, tough, rangy, raw-boned kind of guys a relatively light full-forward hated to see, and we had quite a tussle.

About midway through the first half, the incident. High dropping ball, in around the square, all eyes upward, a sudden shattering blow flush in the mouth, the kind that leaves you instantly, head-ringingly nauseous.

One top front tooth gone, gum and all, clear from the root, the other hanging on literally by a thread. Pulled it clear, gave it to the umpire to mind ’til the end of the game, got on with it. “Pulling only on the ball,” the big full-back apologised profusely. Accidents DO happen in games, but I didn’t have the ball in my teeth, nor anywhere near it, so I was left to wonder whether it was a deliberate shot.

Because we were a disciplined unit, there was no real retaliation, some hard pulling perhaps, but I did look up the name of that full-back, just in case, and noted it at the back of the mind.

We went on to intermediate success, have stayed at senior level since, so didn’t get to meet Newmarket again. Fast-forward 26 years from that game. A few months ago, just before the general election, a Fianna Fail squad on the doorstep. Introducing candidate Michael Moynihan was a local dignitary (how’re ye, Moss), who began introducing the posse.

“Do you remember a game in 1976 inside in Charleville, against Newmarket?” enquired Mossie, simultaneously indicating a tall, well-built guy with a slightly lop-sided grin. “Con O’Callaghan,” I said, for it was he, the man himself. I knew straight off. We had a chat and a laugh. Though he looked lean and fit, Con was no longer playing, but had nevertheless given long and sterling service to Newmarket. The conversation never got too personal, however, because it wasn’t the time. Nor the place.

That time, that place, came a few weeks later. Hadn’t met the man for more than a quarter of a century, now bumped into him for the second time in a couple of months. Bridge Bar, Ballyhea. We had a couple of pints, and a chance to chat. After that conversation, I knew without a shadow of doubt, the blow that cost me my two front teeth had been accidental. This was one hell of a decent guy.

Listowel Races, just over a week ago. Con O’Callaghan slipped on steps, fell, hit his head, fought for his life, but died some days later. When I heard, days after he was buried, it was a bigger shock than the original blow. Tens of thousands had turned up to pay their respects, those who had seen his exploits on the GAA fields of Duhallow and Cork.

The GAA isn’t all big names, but there are heroes, too, among those who plough the parish fields for decades, ply their wares in the six-paragraph games on the inside pages. Here’s to you Con, wherever you are. Hopefully, we’ll meet one more time.