A Galway Epiphany

Tiger Woods won the Masters, staging one of the greatest comebacks of all time. On the twelfth hole of the final round, the leader board was a mess of contenders vying for the top spot. You could almost see Tiger look at it, steel himself, think,

Enough of this shit.

And an electric buzz ran through the crowd as Tiger seemed to change. The energy was almost tangible as he bit down and intimidated the wannabes, took the title to huge cheers. The trauma, pain, sordid stories all seemed to fade away as Tiger exploded with joy when he sank the winning putt.

So redemption was possible.

One of the commentators said,

“It’s a miracle.”

I was in Crowe’s pub when Tiger sank that putt and even guys who hated him rose to cheer.

It took the focus off the lead national story: the president of the FAI, Delaney, tried to get a superinjunction to prevent details getting out of his lending the football association 100,000 euros.

This opened the door to details of lavish spending, the usual rackets most often associated with the charities. In a rapidly escalating farce, Delaney resigned as president, created the position of vice executive president, and — guess what? — appointed his own good self to this position.

The tragedy of all this thievery was the grassroots clubs, struggling to pay for the most basic amenities.

The Church, meanwhile, as shocking details emerged about the beloved Bishop Casey, revealed the affable popular bishop to be one of the most horrendous child abusers.

At first, even his most ardent supporters, though reeling in horror, refused to believe it, but the landslide of evidence proved the allegations. The last folk hero of the people was a monster all along.

A very bitter pill to swallow in Galway, which had defended him all those years.

A guy beside me in Crowe’s, reading the Sunday paper, said,

“I fucking believe nothing now.”

The Church had laid down a decree that details of payouts to victims, the crimes of the perpetrators, would be sealed for — wait for it—

Seventy-five years.

You had to shout,

“How are they getting away with this shite?”

A guy sitting on my right kept sneaking looks at me. At first I didn’t take too much notice but then it began to snip at my nerves. I asked,

“Help you with something?”

He had a shifty air about him, like he knew where your wallet was and, worse, where it was headed. He said,

“I know you, just can’t quite place it.”

There are times you sit easily in a pub, the TV is off and all you hear are the muted conversations; something comforting about it. You’re only half aware of your surroundings but it’s peaceful. As you tune in and out of the chat. That was now pretty much fucked.

Then he lit up, said,

“You’re that guy, the miracle fellah. A truck walloped you and those kids brought you back to life.”

Lord above, how stories get embellished. I hadn’t the energy to tell him the facts but he was far from done, he said,

“So, if I touch you, I’ll be like blessed.”

I turned round to full face him, said,

“You touch me, blessed is the very last thing you’ll be.”