head at the boundless wonders of the world. ‘Boys,’ he said to Raphael, ‘but
that was a powerful game you played against St Bartholomew’s. As true as I’m standing here you could have put them from here back to Bartholomew’s all on your own.’ Three
priests floated by as Raphael smiled to himself and closed the book. In the trees the birds sang, a tram clanged along Drumcondra Road. ‘Once I knew where I was with the full-back, it was
plain sailing after that,’ said Raphael.
His name was Paschal O’Dowd and he was from Athlone. He had been on his way to Maynooth College to become a priest when he changed his mind at the last minute and headed for Drumcondra.
‘Raphael,’ he said as they walked the playing field together, ‘I think the Church of Rome can soldier on for another while yet without the likes of me.’
A good man on the football field too, the same Paschal, well able to rise into the air as gracefully as any man, plucking the ball from nowhere and sending it high and over the bar for yet
another point for St Patrick’s.
A devout man. Many times Raphael would quietly enter the college chapel, perhaps after tea or before study period, and find him there, deep in contemplation at the foot of the cross or beneath
the pale feet of the Blessed Virgin Mary to whom he too had a special devotion. For it was she, he said, who had helped him along the road to the decision he had made to serve as best he could the
children of Ireland. The first free generation of a country for centuries in chains. Free at last to take its place among the nations of the earth.
‘We are a proud and noble people,’ he remarked to Raphael on one occasion, ‘for too long kept upon our knees.’
But that all belonged to the pages of history now, there consigned because of the courage of men like Raphael’s father, brutally done to death by a cowardly commandant in a bloody field.
There were nights when his face, a mask of terror, would return to Raphael and he would call on her, the Mother of God and she would yet again come to his assistance as the calm once more descended
and sleep drifted down upon him as a gossamer veil from her very own brow.
‘We have been given so much, Raphael,’ Paschal said. ‘Much is expected of us.’
A sea of fresh and hopeful faces, of children whose names as yet they did not know, swept into the future before them. In the nights they saw themselves with chalk in hand, pacing polished
classrooms, league-stepping into infinity.
Both, happy men. In the afternoons they chased the football wildly with the enthusiasm of young colts, then afterwards a silent prayer in the incense-perfumed stillness of the chapel.
The musical evenings were held in the college assembly rooms, occasions rarely missed by either of the two men. When Paschal would excel himself with his rendition of ‘Macushla’,
with its sad tale of a husband’s yearning for his dear departed love who was now cold in the grave. He sang it with such feeling that it would wring tears from a stone. ‘Now who,’
Raphael was heard to remark on every single occasion it was sung, ‘could follow that?’ as he himself would shyly take the stage to begin his, as he described it himself, ‘humble
rendition’ of his father’s favourite song, the story of a young girl who died far away among strangers – ‘She Lived Beside the Anner’.
Visiting the Sick
Part of their work in the Legion of Mary which they had joined on the same day was to visit the sick. One of their charges was a distant relation of Paschal’s, Mrs Ellen
Molloy who had never recovered since her husband’s death. Raphael stood by the bedside and took the sick woman’s hand, looking into her eyes as Paschal intoned a decade of the rosary.
You could see she had once been a lovely girl, with happy smiling eyes and everything to live for. But that was all in the past. Now she could barely breathe and all the flesh had fallen off her.
The hand
that was a powerful game you played against St Bartholomew’s. As true as I’m standing here you could have put them from here back to Bartholomew’s all on your own.’ Three
priests floated by as Raphael smiled to himself and closed the book. In the trees the birds sang, a tram clanged along Drumcondra Road. ‘Once I knew where I was with the full-back, it was
plain sailing after that,’ said Raphael.
His name was Paschal O’Dowd and he was from Athlone. He had been on his way to Maynooth College to become a priest when he changed his mind at the last minute and headed for Drumcondra.
‘Raphael,’ he said as they walked the playing field together, ‘I think the Church of Rome can soldier on for another while yet without the likes of me.’
A good man on the football field too, the same Paschal, well able to rise into the air as gracefully as any man, plucking the ball from nowhere and sending it high and over the bar for yet
another point for St Patrick’s.
A devout man. Many times Raphael would quietly enter the college chapel, perhaps after tea or before study period, and find him there, deep in contemplation at the foot of the cross or beneath
the pale feet of the Blessed Virgin Mary to whom he too had a special devotion. For it was she, he said, who had helped him along the road to the decision he had made to serve as best he could the
children of Ireland. The first free generation of a country for centuries in chains. Free at last to take its place among the nations of the earth.
‘We are a proud and noble people,’ he remarked to Raphael on one occasion, ‘for too long kept upon our knees.’
But that all belonged to the pages of history now, there consigned because of the courage of men like Raphael’s father, brutally done to death by a cowardly commandant in a bloody field.
There were nights when his face, a mask of terror, would return to Raphael and he would call on her, the Mother of God and she would yet again come to his assistance as the calm once more descended
and sleep drifted down upon him as a gossamer veil from her very own brow.
‘We have been given so much, Raphael,’ Paschal said. ‘Much is expected of us.’
A sea of fresh and hopeful faces, of children whose names as yet they did not know, swept into the future before them. In the nights they saw themselves with chalk in hand, pacing polished
classrooms, league-stepping into infinity.
Both, happy men. In the afternoons they chased the football wildly with the enthusiasm of young colts, then afterwards a silent prayer in the incense-perfumed stillness of the chapel.
The musical evenings were held in the college assembly rooms, occasions rarely missed by either of the two men. When Paschal would excel himself with his rendition of ‘Macushla’,
with its sad tale of a husband’s yearning for his dear departed love who was now cold in the grave. He sang it with such feeling that it would wring tears from a stone. ‘Now who,’
Raphael was heard to remark on every single occasion it was sung, ‘could follow that?’ as he himself would shyly take the stage to begin his, as he described it himself, ‘humble
rendition’ of his father’s favourite song, the story of a young girl who died far away among strangers – ‘She Lived Beside the Anner’.
Visiting the Sick
Part of their work in the Legion of Mary which they had joined on the same day was to visit the sick. One of their charges was a distant relation of Paschal’s, Mrs Ellen
Molloy who had never recovered since her husband’s death. Raphael stood by the bedside and took the sick woman’s hand, looking into her eyes as Paschal intoned a decade of the rosary.
You could see she had once been a lovely girl, with happy smiling eyes and everything to live for. But that was all in the past. Now she could barely breathe and all the flesh had fallen off her.
The hand
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