The Catch, the Belt, and the Kiss in Dundrum

Four hurling matches that became a seminal moment in my life.

Photo by Adrian Payne on Unsplash

Four Games That Made Me

Twenty-six years ago, Séan Twomey refereed four hurling matches between us and our local rivals. Four games. Same whistle. Same stakes.

I was sixteen years old.

The Catch

I encroached into Jason Maguire’s position in the full back line. The sliothar came down from the sky and I took it cleanly. The roar of the crowd in Dundrum was deafening.

Everyone stood still. Life moved in slow motion.

Then I heard my name to my left. Not a demand. Just “Aidan.” Ger Ryan Peáraig was in the better position. I laid it off. The ball went down the field.

The glory of the catch meant nothing if I held on too long.

The Belt

Shane Barry struck me in the ribs with a dirty belt. The air left my body. I heard the crowd go quiet, then my own breathing, then nothing.

I bent over, hands on knees. Straightened up. Did not leave the field. Soldiered on to the final whistle. When it ended, my father carried me off.

That night in Cashel Hospital: punctured kidney. Pissing blood. The doctor asked how I finished the game. I had no answer. When you’re in it, you’re in it.

Cian Creedon cut his finger that day. Stephen Quinn headbutted Dessie. Dessie got booked. Quinn split his head open. That’s how it was. Blood and madness and the ref’s whistle trying to hold it all together.

The Backline

Jason Maguire at full back. Gerard Beary in the other corner. Me between them. Noel Buckley coaching us from the line with Dan Ryan Peáraig. Alan O’Neill and Dessie holding the middle.

I was marking Raymond Barry. Rónán O’Brien was their best player. The kind of forward who could turn a game on one touch.

We were not the most talented group to wear the jersey. But we were tight.

After the final game, Séan Twomey found me. “Well done, Mac.”

Bridget Brehony was standing behind him. She looked at him. Looked at me. Then gave him a right clip on the back of the head with her umbrella.

“No thanks to you,” she said.

Dundrum

That night in the nightclub in Dundrum, Deirdre Ryan Tipper kissed me smack on the lips. She was the most beautiful girl in the room. I stood there like a fool, not believing it was happening.

I had pissed blood in Cashel Hospital and come out the other side.

Four games. One referee. A punctured kidney. A kiss in a nightclub.

Those four games did not make me an elite hurler. They made me something else.

Twenty-six years later, when life shakes me for six, I bend over. Hands on knees. Straighten up. Stay on the field.

Heal as a team or die as individuals.