A half-century on, the legacy of Heffo’s boys of summer still inspires
GROUP OF TITANS LIFTED THE CAPITAL OUT OF THE GLOOM
THEY are older now, Heffo’s boys of summer, a few of their gladiator hearts stilled by life’s final whistle, yet the cruel tide of the passing years remains powerless to touch the wonderful, vibrant song of their youth.
That abiding, inspirational, symphony to the possibilities of existence, a sunburst of sound that brought such a beautiful, blinding gleam of hope to Dublin half a century ago, has shed not an atom of its richness or vitality.
Fifty years have sailed out to sea in an eye-blink, but, then, as that canny Frenchman Jean Paul Sartre had it: “The more sand that has escaped the hourglass of life, the clearer we should see through it.”
Last week, a few of us whose lives were profoundly improved by the age of enlightenment these men ushered in, were gifted the opportunity to peer through that pristine hourglass at a few invigorating truths.
On a bright, chilly April Friday, comrades still, this venerable band of brothers gathered on the fifth floor of the skyscraping Croke Park, a towering city landmark that rose up from the sturdy foundation stone of their long ago deeds.
EVERGREEN
There they were, some a little careworn, like trees bent by winter winds, others evergreen and, defying the seasons, still in full bloom, together one more time.
Hanahoe and The Doc, Bobby Doyle and Bernard Brogan, and, seated together, those great old pals, titans of mischief, Cullen and Keaveney. Paddy and Jimmy, beloved poster boys of the revolution, forever princes of the city.
In that summer of 1974, beneath the heaving incline of Hill 16, these were the men who read the proclamation of a city rising up at last against the tyranny of economic and cultural and social paralysis.
Dublin, then, was a largely desolate place, down to its last coin of hope, diminished by years of emigration, dereliction, destitution, unemployment and censorship.
It was a place thirsting for a cold draught of cheer, for a badge of identity, for something that would instil in the youth of the rapidly expanding suburbs a sense of belonging and pride.
That would permit them to fill the surge of exhilaration felt by the sons and daughters of Liverpool and Manchester when they advanced through the turnstiles of Anfield and Old Trafford and entered wonderland.
With perfect timing, Kevin Heffernan and his Celtic musketeers stepped into the coliseum, human jump leads who re-energised Dublin’s jaded battery — uniting great swathes of the city behind a blue standard.
For kids of my age, they injected a thousand vivid shades into a monochrome world, they dispensed the intoxicating, addictive stimulant of tribal affinity.
We walked down through those tightly packed avenues of Drumcondra redbricks to enlist in Heffo’s Army, a swelling of pride in our chests that made us feel taller than the towers of Manhattan.
When Paddy deflected Liam Sammon’s penalty to safety, when the stirring, magnificent David Hickie seized the title deeds to the closing skirmishes, when Galway were finally broken and The Doc climbed the Hogan Stand steps to raise Sam to the heavens, our young hearts palpitated with an excitement we had never known was possible.
It was the spark that lit a conflagration.
Everything that followed, the immortal jousts with Micko’s Kerry, the 12 apostles of ’83, Cluxton’s buzzer-beating 2011 free, the Gavin years, the lifetime friendships, the match-day pints, the Dublin shirts brought to the altar at loved ones’ funerals, the induction of our own children into this great ritual of belonging, all of it was sourced in what those extraordinary men achieved 50 years ago this summer.
They altered the course of so many of our lives.
For the better.
Two titans were physically absent from the gathering, but their presence filled the room. The inestimable midfield colossus, Brian Mullins and Anton O’Toole (pictured left), my dear departed pal, Tooler. The Blue Panther, the big brother I never had.
It was among the great honours of my life to be asked to speak to last week’s 500-strong gathering, to remember the surge of kinship and inclusion as my late father led me into that palace of dreams, to talk of my long friendship with Anton.
To send a postcard from my own yesterdays.
Anton was a phenomenal footballer and a special man, one who exemplified the qualities that elevated that group, the one shaped by Heffernan into a coalition of the committed.
Completely selfless, as courageous and fearless and committed in battle as he was humble in civilian dress, an exceptional man who wore his fame as lightly as a gentle summer breeze.
Anton was a man of honour and integrity, a champion of the underdog and the underclass, a big and powerful man imbued with an innate sense of the smaller man’s needs, fluent in the language of right and wrong.
He is five years gone next month, but — and forgive me if this sounds a trifle sentimental — I could sense him all around me in that room as the porter and stories flowed.
On the screens in that Hogan Stand suite there was a team picture of that class of ’74, and looking at those young, athletic, unlined faces reminded me of a line from Roger Kahn’s gorgeous Boys of Summer, a book that catches up with baseball’s 1955 World Series winning Brooklyn Dodgers when they are older men looking back at the glory days.
PRIME
Kahn remembers them in their prime, out there making magic on their long gone Brooklyn playground, Ebbets Field.
“They were young and full of hope, believing they could conquer anything that stood in their way... they were the boys of summer chasing after dreams that would forever shape their lives.”
That was Anton back then. And his brothers: John McCarthy, Fran Ryder, Gay O’Driscoll, Stephen Rooney, Paddy Reilly, Georgie Wilson, Robbie Kelleher, Alan Larkin.
The memories they forged 50 years ago sit forever on the mantle of so many Dublin hearts.
Like Luke Kelly or
James Joyce or the Abbey Theatre or The Palace
Bar or that wild, vagabond wordsmith, Brendan Behan, they brought a cultural richness to the city of their birth.
Half a century has somehow drifted by, young men have grown older, a few of those giants have surrendered to the long sleep, others are besieged by illness, many — though bone joints may be creaking — remain full of sparkle and vim.
Leaving Croke Park last Friday week, I took a parting look around at these ageing heroes, smiling and hugging and remembering, bonded by something stronger than steel, something unbreakable. Older now, yet forever young.
One last line from Roger Kahn came to me and I could no longer hold back the tears: “Some dreams may fade, but the memory of those summer days never will.”
‘Dublin then was a largely desolate place, down to its last coin of hope’