Goal for Kerry

The validity of the saying that goals win matches was reinforced with Kerry coming back more than once last weekend in the semi-final against Kerry. The match brought to mind this photograph taken a while back in Killorglin – or more correctly, the poem was remembered.

The previous Tuesday required a trip to Dublin. I had planned to do a bit of work on the train but in my rush to the station, my laptop never made it into the bag. Paperwork was completed by Mallow so out came ‘Rain on the Wind’ and I had hopes for enjoyable me-time.

A couple from the Kerry train got on at Mallow. They sat opposite the aisle from my four-seater table. They sat next to each other opposite a man who had been on his own and silent since Cork. The three then proceeded to talk with less stops than the train all the way to Dublin.

My inability to cut out background noise and concentrate on the task at hand was reinforced. My admiration for conversation, a skill that is losing out to the internet age, was very much outweighed by silent cursing at the inability to progress with the book. Mico could not compete with the conversation.

My hopes for an improvement on the return journey and escape to the imagery in the book did not even last as long as the lottery draw. The three generations at the table opposite chatted most of the way to Thurles – either among themselves or, even louder, on a mobile. Are there many things more annoying hearing the same thing three or more times, among themselves and then shared more than once, on the phone?

A friend of the girl opposite me stopped his walk up the carriageway and then they also proceeded to dispel the notion as to the decline of conversation. The book remained on the table.

I overheard that she has travelled from Kerry to Portlaoise that morning but had to spend an hour at Mallow as not all Cork Dublin trains stop at Portlaoise. I reckon I had trumped that experience last December with an hour at Limerick Junction – something that may have been experienced by any Kerry supporter leaving Limerick to connect with the 20.00 Dublin Cork ghost train.

Both were going as far as Killarney. Road transport was then in order for the rest of trip home, she to Portmagee and he Caherciveen. Having only travelled the route some weeks back, I was picturing their journey out to Killorglin, over the bridge and then onwards along the Iveragh Peninsula.

My journey of recall , as the actual one, and as this rambling thought stopped at the old railway sign in Killorglin.

I had not heard of him two months ago but it looks like Sigerson Clifford is somewhat akin to tyre punctures – coming in threes.

“And the ree-raw at the station faith, ‘twas better than Puck Fair

With the shouldering, and shouting, and the din.

We had bottles full of lemonade, and biscuits, for the boys,

 And a brew beagawneen stronger for the men.

Dan Keeffe blew on his whistle and he waved the green flag high

Beyond by Foxy Jack’s place I could hear a shepherd bark.

And we shouted ‘Goal for Kerry’ at the inoffending sky

As the ghost train left the station for Croke Park.”

Sigerson Clifford