Mícheál and the West Kerry way

The debate about Pat Spillane had kicked off good and proper and every journalist was having their say, except one.

Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh sat on a bar stool far from the madding crowd, sipping his soft drink and listening intently.

We were in Australia for the International Rules Series.

Back home, Pat Spillane had said something which had sparked another nationwide debate.

The discussion had crossed the globe to our hotel in Melbourne.

Most of us, myself included, were weighing in.

But Mícheál didn’t say anything.

That wasn’t his style.

He was the commentator who didn’t pass comment.

West Kerry and the wild Atlantic shore.

The heather on the coast.

He belonged to a different time, a different place.

He loved language.  He understood its power.

He also knew the value of silence.

When I sat beside him and tried to get him engaged, he batted me away, softly.

Instead, he told me a story.

“Let me to tell you about Pat Spillane,” started Mícheál in that celebrated and much loved lilt.

Mícheál told me that while Pat was Spillane by name, he was Lyne by nature.

His mother’s people, the Lynes, were a gifted family of footballers from Killarney. Six of the brothers played for Killarney Legion.

Mickey, Jackie, Denny and Teddy Lyne won All-Ireland medals with Kerry throughout the 1940s and 1950s.

They were ballers.

But, according to Mícheál, it wasn’t just the football which Pat inherited from his mother’s side.

This was the story he told me.

One day as Mickey Lyne was dandering up the street in Killarney he came across three Kerry men who naturally enough were talking football.

Mickey joined the conversation.

Not long into the chat, he dropped a grenade. 

In modern parlance, he triggered them.

What had been an amiable, friendly exchange suddenly exploded into a raging argument.

Having lit the fire, Mickey Lyne then quickly skipped away from the scene.

“As he was walking up the street with the shouts of the men ringing in his ears, he was smiling. That was Mickey Lyne,”

said Mícheál, letting me work the rest out for myself.

We were in Melbourne. But Mícheál was back in Kerry, thinking about Pat and his uncle Canon Mickey Lyne (he later served as chaplain for the Celtic football team).

Strangely, even before yesterday’s sad news, I had been thinking about that yarn.

In the aftermath of Derry’s defeats to Donegal, Armagh and Galway, a lot of opinions were expressed.

From a Derry perspective, it appeared to go beyond a post mortem.

It felt more like people were jumping on our grave.

In the true spirit of the Gael, the glee was evident.

The pros tried their best to disguise it.

The amateurs couldn’t.

The derision was intense and prolonged. It also came from all angles - both inside and outside the tent.

The lowest point came when Dick Clerkin chimed in too.

Monaghan?

I’ve always liked Monaghan. 

Tough, whole-hearted warriors who give everything they’ve got.

I thought the feelings were mutual.

Apparently not.

Dick put the boot in too.

Monaghan?

That was the closest I came to pulling out the laptop.

That’s when I thought about Mícheál

What was my tirade going to achieve?

Who would it benefit?

I’d only be putting more dung on the pile.

And God knows, there’s been enough dung shovelled in this year’s Championship.

When I thought about it, I decided:

You can be Mickey Lyne.

You can be one of the men he met on the street in Killarney.

Or, you can be like Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh. Sit back and tell a story.

So, for the week that’s in it, and with Derry meeting Kerry this weekend, it’s only fitting to honour the memory and legacy of the great man who has left us.

Dick can wait.