Con Houlihan was one of Ireland's most beloved sportswriters, known for his wit, poetic prose, and deep understanding of human nature. His journalism certainly left its mark on this young man.
When you grow up with a deep passion and love for story writing, it’s important to have someone that you want to aspire to as a writer. It’s also equally important that you never want to be more admired and cherished than this esteemed mentor, keeping in mind that you yourself would be but a minion if not for the undeniable influence that person’s writing sent churning through your veins.
Growing up, The Evening Press was the next thing to God in our house. We might not have had money for bread or milk, but we could always rustle up the price of the Evening Press. Yes, we were a staunch Fianna Fáil house, and “The Evening Press” was the Fianna Fáil mouthpiece. I remember I came home one evening with The Irish Independent and it was like I had brought the devil himself into the house with me.
“But there was no Evening Press,” I told them.
“Then you should have left that rag where it was,” my father scowled viciously at me.
But, of course, the Independent was still read - albeit very grudgingly.
Con Houlihan was as much loved and revered in our house as if the man was sent to us from God. I could never wait till I got him home. If the evening was still bright, I would race out from Kilteely village, past the cross of Barnacoolea, down the hill until I reached the Ballinlough Bridges, and then there, up on the bridge, I would sit. The excitement would have the heart racing in me as I foraged and finally found Con.
Every word leaped out from the pages and danced in the road in front of me. The sheer joy of each perfect word, each musical sentence, brought a feeling so alive into me that I felt transcended to places that only the magic of fairies could take me. In each written word I could hear Con speak to me as if he were sitting right there next to me on the bridge. Every laughter was a resounding effort to drive the emphasis volley home. And then, the whisper that made the birds swoop down low and listen - his voice carrying something deep and meaningful into the very heart and soul of the land around me.
I would close the paper, my heart still thumping in awe as I got down off the bridge and my feet touched the road like crisp October leaves falling. The writer inside me couldn’t wait to get home.
One day, Con Houlihan would retire, and I would take his esteemed place. Then, some young boys and girls would make their way into their village every evening, and when they opened the Evening Press, they would be opening it to ME.
I would get home and the paper was grabbed from my grip.
This was a time and a place that hungered for news. My family placed more importance on the quiet and beautiful ramblings of a man who loved the simple joys of life, a man who harvested the endearing innocence of the people he loved most, a man that I will always feel grateful to.
Alas, The Evening Press closed its doors in 1995, and I never got to replace Con, but as I have gotten older, it has become more and more important for me to be a feel-good writer for today’s generation. This present world is very turbulent. Bad news dictates what we are all reading and hearing. Feel-good writers were never more needed than now.
And I’ll be Houlihan till I die.
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