The Irish Independent worked the trick on the day

This week’s Mediahuis Irish regional newspapers’ column.

Michael Commane

It’s been a while since I managed to get out of Dublin. 

I spent the last week of August in West Kerry. It’s the place I call my home. But that’s another story. I’m tempted to say I’m never sure where home is these days.

I had planned to come to Kerry in mid-August but work commitments and some pressing matters made that impossible so more or less on a whim I decided to break loose the last week of August. 

And did I hit the jackpot. Every single day the sun shone and big time too. Most days I managed to get in two swims. The tides were such it meant a swim first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. It’s sad to see the days closing in but not much we can do about it.

I’ve been scratching my head and asking myself what’s better, village life or living in a town or city. I’m wondering are there any answers to anything.

Talking to a cousin of mine on the day that Tyrone beat Kerry I was reminded of a hilarious experience I had here in West Kerry in July 1974.

I was here on holidays with my parents two weeks after my priestly ordination. I enquired from a cousin what sort of a man the parish priest was as I intended asking him permission to say Mass in the local church. 

My cousin, who is a wily sort of fellow, and was then too, asked me if I knew anything about GAA. He went on to explain to me that the parish priest was a GAA fanatic and if I could let him know I was into the GAA it would be a great line of introduction. He also told me that the parish could be at times off-putting, maybe a little abrupt. 

So off I went armed with a certain amount of information. But the problem was that I knew zilch about the GAA and certainly did not know the name of one single player on the Kerry team of that year.

I arrived at the pp’s house on a Monday morning. The door was open but I think I knocked on it. He arrived at the door. 

I explained who I was and he invited me to step inside. I was nervous. We exchanged a few words. There on the hall table I saw the Irish Independent.  

Within seconds I had a brilliant introduction. I asked the parish priest if he had read John D Hickey’s report of the Sunday game. He smiled and said he had. I had no idea who had been playing. But what I did know was that John D Hickey had reported on the big game on Sunday for the Irish Independent. John D Hickey was my uncle, my mother’s brother. 

The parish priest launched forth on the Sunday game, getting into details about which I had not got a clue. I tried to look interested and knowledgeable. I was nervous he’d ask me a question. At the first opportunity I asked him would it be ok if I celebrated Mass in the church.

Whatever way he responded, I got the impression it would have been ok had I celebrated Mass standing on my head.

He continued talking about the game and my uncle’s analysis of it.

And all the time I kept up the pretence that I knew what he was talking about. Every time I pass that former presbytery I get an urge to call and tell the present occupants the story of me and the parish priest.