FURTHERMORE
By Gerry Moran
The Olympics always remind me of the Waterbarrack where I got my first taste of competitive running and jumping. It was in the Waterbarrack that I got my first serious rush of adrenaline when, as a youngster of nine or 10, I lined up, taut and tense, to run the 100 yards dash. I can see us all clearly to this day – a bunch of scrawny chaps in plain white singlets and long, baggy togs, hand-me-downs from our older brothers. No Nike or Adidas runners. We ran in our stockinged feet.
Fr McGrath organised the sports and from the far corners of St Canice’s parish we came to run and jump and test our stamina and speed. The 100 yards dash and the 220, as it was known, were my forte and I won all round me for a few summers until a tall, lanky fellow by the name of Matt (and rest in peace, Matt) came along. Matt had one almighty long stride and no matter how quick my legs were pumping I couldn’t keep up.
My sprinting ‘reign’ had come to an end. But not quite. Matt was that bit older than me and, consequently, we didn’t always find ourselves in the same age group. Soon I was back in the prize-stakes again – prizes, however, that never included medals. Medals were a rare commodity. As for cups, they were the equivalent of Olympic gold.
After Canice’s Sports Day my best friend, and cousin, Bobby McDonald would work the circuit. Circuit! We’d never heard of the word. During our summer holidays we’d mooch around town looking out for sports days. In the Fair Green one summer afternoon we came upon the Friary Altar Boys sports day in full swing. We sat on the wall looking balefully on until good old Fr Rioch, with the long, red beard, let us participate. He was a sorry man that he did. We cleaned up. Sprints, long jumps, high jumps, we made a right killing and came home with an assortment of bric-a-brac donated by local shopkeepers. But no medals.
We cleaned up because Bobby’s father took a great interest in athletics. He had us sprinting out on Daly’s Hill (right behind our houses). He created a long-jump pit and had us doing the Fosbury Flop and Western Roll (which no one had ever heard of) over a high-jump he’d set up. The Friary Altar boys hadn’t a chance. We were being coached for Godsake; coaching that eventually led to me becoming the Kilkenny Secondary Schools Junior Long Jump Champion and the Kilkenny Schools 100 Yards Sprint Shampion some years later. Jimmy McDonald, belated, very belated, thanks.
My first ‘Olympics’, for want of a better word, was beyond in Nowlan Park in 1963. Our school, the CBS, hosted an inter primary schools sports, and Drill Display, to celebrate the 10th anniversary of its founding (I think). Several of us from the various schools in the city lined up for the hundred yards sprint. The boy beside me talked about medals. He had four for running, how many had I? I wanted to tell him that I had ashtrays (yes, ashtrays!) and torches to beat the band but the only medal I had was the Miraculous Medal my mother had pinned to my singlet.
I was about to confess to my paucity of silverware when the starter called: “On your marks, get set.” And that was the last I saw of my man with the four medals. The Miraculous Medal brought me home in first place and my first hope of a piece of silverware. It wasn’t to be. A clock, a fine china one with a footballer on top, was my reward. I didn’t appreciate it much back then but that clock adorned our mantle piece for years and came with me when I married. Although I’ve long stopped running – with a vigorous wind that clock will still run to this day. As for a medal – that would have to wait for another day.
PS: My son sent me a video last week of my grandson (aged five) running the 50 yards dash in his school’s sports day (in Wales) He came second, beaten by a tall, lanky lad with a longer stride.
Let’s hope he’s that bit older than our Ollie.
