Owen McCrohan RIP

[ballynamona]

I was very sad to hear of the death of Owen McCrohan. He was masseur to the Kerry team under Mick O'Dwyer. He was also an excellent writer. I find myself constantly going back to his biography of Mick O'Dwyer. It does not get the recognition it deserves as an excellent sports biography.

His articles in The Kerryman were always fair and well-balanced.

Some of the South Kerry correspondents on the forum will no doubt know more about him.

RIP.

[watchdebreakswillye]

Feb 5, 2015 20:39:00 GMT ballynamona said:

I was very sad to hear of the death of Owen McCrohan. He was masseur to the Kerry team under Mick O'Dwyer. He was also an excellent writer. I find myself constantly going back to his biography of Mick O'Dwyer. It does not get the recognition it deserves as an excellent sports biography.

His articles in The Kerryman were always fair and well-balanced.

Some of the South Kerry correspondents on the forum will no doubt know more about him.

RIP.

When I was an impressionable garsún growing up, with not a faic only gaelic football in my head, I couldn't wait for Friday's to come., The Kerryman came out on Friday's in those days. I'd run the two miles to the shop and I'd've devoured Owen McCrohan's masterpiece by the side of the ditch before I ever got home. He wrote as if he was a fly on the wall and his articles captured the soul and spirit of Kerry football. He always struck me as a quiet, unassuming man who went about his business without fuss or fanfare. Somehow, I could never envisage him living in a place like Dublin because I always gathered from his writing that his heart was firmly rooted in Valentia & the Kingdom.
I'd say Páidí, Tim and John will give him a great welcome when they meet him up Above. May he rest in peace.

[kerrygold]

RIP.

[Mickmack]

Like Ballynamona I was saddened to learn of Owen's death. I never met the man but his article in the Kerryman was a good enough reason to buy the paper.

He was a brilliant writer.
I read everything he wrote. I remember one article on a Skellig Rangers side from the late 60s or early 70s that had won the SK championship. He painted such a vivid picture that I felt was watching them in action.

Aa far as I know he got involved as a masseur with Kerry by a unique set of circumstances. In the final of 1971 or 1972, Mick OConnell suddenly walked off the field and lay on the sideline. This was before hamstring was invented. Mick was removed to the dugout from urgent repairs. Owen was in the row of seats behind the dugout. He hopped into the dugout and gave Mick a rub on the troubled spot. Mick got back into the dray then.

His book on Mick ODwyer is beautifully written especially the early bit about Micks parents.

His article on John Egan below is another beautiful article...

###############

THE chilling news on a telephone voicemail hit home with stunning finality. Tom Keane's words were almost incompehensible. "John Egan died suddenly this morning."




Over the following 24 hours numerous phone calls helped piece together the tragic prelude and its afermath. It makes for sombre reflection.

The famed corner forward from Tahilla, near Sneem, was never the same since a fall at his Cork home over a year ago had taken its grim toll. Since then it has been downhill all the way. A stenting procedure only a week earlier would become the benchmark for what would unfolded on that traumatic Easter day.

In the pantheon of Kerry's all-time greats John Egan holds a place that is exclusively his own. What precious memories the very mention of his name will evoke among followers of football, not just in Kerry but wherever the game is played or even spoken about. Six senior All Ireland medals and a host of lesser awads tell nothing of the man who captivated, enthralled, inspired and elevated the human spirit. To say that he was genuinely loved, admired and respected in equal measure is not an exaggeration.

Away from the tumult of battle and the adulation of the masses, John Egan was a special person. Up to the end of his life he remained a quiet, mild-mannered, inoffensive counryman who wore his laurels lightly. His gentle demeanour, his innate modesty and humility and his many endearing qualities made him the most pleasant and invigorating company.

Out on the field of play he underwent a personality change. Strong as a raging bull he pulled back from nothing and he feared nobody. He fought for every ball with tigerish ferocity but never, ever, did he offend aginst the finer ethics of sportsmanship, fair play and good behaviour. The Dublin players of his era are known to have respected his talents, perhaps even more than any of the other Kery forwards. That is some compliment when you consider names like Sheehy, Liston, Power, Moran and Spillane.

The man I knew was an absolute gentleman. His kindness of heart, his convivvial nature, his self-effacing demeanour made him a standout person. Once I took advantage of our friendship by quoting one of his superior officers in the Gardai during the course of a personal profile in this newspaper. That worthy's rather abrasive command before John went out on his nightly patrol brooked no argument: "Give 'em plenty paper"! To me, this seemed like a harmless, yet colourful aside but Egan was none-too-impressed and he rang me up soon afterwards demanding an explanation. I apologised profously and we mended fences straight away. That gesture was typical of the man. He harboured no animosity or grudges. He never sought a confrontation either on or off the field and he had no enemies.

On a glorious Hawaiian morning in October 1981, with the sun beaming down, we shared a taxi from the local airport in Hononulu to the Waikiki Beach Hotel where the Kerry team party were based on the return leg of an Australian tour. Dog-tired after a long flight from Sydney we soon sampled the delights of what lay ahead. Wearing shorts and in his bare feet, John padded to the hotel verandah to view a stunning vista of giant breakers pounding on a golden shore that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Then in that calm, unruffled way of his, he remarked with typical under-statement: "This is the life!"

His brilliant and often crucial goals for Kerry are the stuff of legend. Trailing by three points in a National League final against Roscommon and with time almost up Mickey O'sullivan made an incisive run before lobbing a probing ball into the ambit of the Canal End. Although festooned with opponents Egan rose like a salmon to hammer the ball to the net. Kerry won the replay easily.

In the All Ireland final of 1978 with Dublin rampant and leading by five points Egan struck to rescue his side from a moment of exteme peril, leaving Paddy Cullen stranded in the process. Mikey Sheehy's famous goal that day just before half-time has rightly been eulogied as a stroke of genius but it was Egan's first goal that turned the tide and ultimately led to the disintegration of the Dubs.

The 1982 defeat by Offaly when he was captain and with his team bidding for an all-time record hit him hard but soon enough he recovered to bend himself to the task of getting fit and starting over. And talking of fitness there was no harder trier on the training pitch as any of his contemporaries will readily testify.

Taken off in the 1984 final he felt the sting of that rejection more than might be anticipated. He did not attend the team dinner later that night and he never played for Kerry again. To this day Mick O'dwyer admits the decision to replace Egan as being the biggest mistake of his managerial career and, with hindsight, completely unjustified.

And so it goes as the memories keep crowding back. But nothing changes what happened on that fateful Easter morning, April 8, 2012. At the comparatively young age of 59 a noble son of Sneem has heard the final whistle leaving behind many hearts that are bruised and diminished in his passing.

The riper years of old age may have been denied him but he has not gone alone because part of the spirit of Kerry football has gone with him.

To those of us who were his friends he has bequeathed a treasuretrove of imperishable memories.

I measc laochra Chiarraí i bpárrthas na ngrást go raibh sé.

[Annascaultilidie]

That is the kind of style and quality that gets you an A1 in Leaving Cert English. Very tidy.

[fg]

I remember as a young fellow when owen was the team masseur in the late 70's, he was a gentleman and displayed a dignified deportment, later I used to look forward to his column in the Kerryman, which was insightful, emotive and visceral alas far removed from the so called scribes writing in the Kerryman of today, although In fairness weeshies column is about the more insightful of all of the current columnists, RIP, ps. his piece on john egan encapsulated the man if ever any article was to do so, emotional and as I said previously visceral in its portrayal.

[glengael]

I remember his pieces well. They were most eloquently composed but did not shy away from saying what needed to be said. He used to write in the Kerry GAA Yearbook when such a thing was published. I have one from 1997, I don't know if there were many after that.

[ballynamona]

Growing up in Valentia by Owen McCrohan; The Kerryman, 16/06/1995

Growing up in Valentia long ago, the only ambitions I ever nurtured were three in number. Firstly and most importantly, to play football for the island; secondly, to play in the Pipe Band and thirdly, but not least – to own a good singing goldfinch. All of these landmarks were later negotiated which undoubtedly makes me the product of a mis-spent youth but, looking back now, I wouldn’t have changed anything.

That was an innocent age long before the sociologists invented sex education, when the old maxim about sparing the rod and spoiling the child was very much in vogue. It was a time when a mother’s prime concern for her children was that they said their night prayers and washed behind their ears. It was a world removed from Aids, drugs, sun tan lotion, test-tube babies and double yellow lines. And sure as hell, any smart-ass scholar who professed to know anything about the Evolution of man would get a well directed size eight up the backside.

Those of us who were children then didn't know what was happening beyond the ring of tall mountains that encircled our small world. Whether we were better or worse because of our surroundings and our upbringing is immaterial.

Valentia is a place where love of music abounds and when a Scotsman named Louis Noble brought the bagpipes along with him in the early 1920s, the locals immediately became attracted to the instrument and two of them, Martin McCarthy and John Dore, learned to play. Others followed, notably John Joe Walsh, John Joe Shanahan, Charlie O'Connell and Paddy Curran. In time, a band was mobilised and the seeds of a great tradition took root.

As children, we sat in St Derarca's Hall on Sundays, quiet as field mice, as the band marched up and down with measured tread. At school, we pulled faces, mimicking the strained impression of the pipers and when the band sallied forth at midnight on New Year's Eve, I pleaded in advance with my mother to call me.

Even now after all those years, that midnight cavalcade emerges with stunning clarity to enliven my daydreaming. Being woken to the sound of the pipes, rushing to the window to behold a sight that would gladden any young heart. The band was playing The Minstrel Boy and there they were striding out, the icons of my imagination. To me, their music was the grandest in all the world.

In his book, A Kerry Footballer, Mick O'Connell credits me with knowing the names of the Kerry team better than any of my contemporaries, which is probably true. I also knew the lineouts of most county teams, where the individual players came from, what they worked at and whether they were married or single. Even now I could tell you that Victor Sherlock hailed from Kingscourt and that John Joe O'Reilly was born in Cornafean. Having that kind of superior knowledge was a powerful factor in childish oneupmanship.

From the brow of a nearby hill it was possible to gaze westward across a wide expanse of ocean and pick out quite clearly the harsh outline of the Blasket Islands and Inis Tearacht and the Dingle Peninsula.

Ah, the Dingle peninsula, that magical kingdom beyond the waves! It jutted out into the sea like a giant spear thrust into the broad Atlantic. The dark rain clouds of winter often shrouded its peaks before giving way to the glorious mid-summer haze of long ago.

This was the place that spawned the heroes of my youth and even now, two generations later, how lovingly their names trip off the tongue — Bill Dillon, Bill Casey, Sean Brosnan, Paddy Kennedy, Gerald Teahan, Gega O'Connor, Dan Kavanagh, Batt Garvey and Paddy Bawn Brosnan.

Paddy Bawn was a special favourite. He held a whole generation in thrall and coming from a place where there was plenty of salt water it was easy to identify with such a man. The citation appended to his picture in the Irish Press read simply: Well known Dingle boatman and skipper of The Rory. As children, we kicked football, morning, noon and night because we had nothing better to do. All of my classmates became handy footballers and one of them, Mick O'Connell, went on to achieve great distinction on the playing field.

Paddy Hussey won an All-Ireland medal in 1959 while John (Dasher) O'Connor captained the Kerry juniors in an All-Ireland final. John O'Connell, Pat Daly, John Shanahan, Seanie Hussey, Tadhg Murphy, John and Mick Lynch, Patsy Murphy, John Noel Crowley, Paddy Reidy and Willie Murphy were no mean footballers.

hi winter-time the trap cages were taken down in anticipation of the bird catching that had long since become an annual ritual. Making bird-lime was an advanced art at which none except the experts were proficient. It was said that if you chewed the bark of a holly tree for long enough it would emerge from the saliva as the much sought-after sticky substance. Whether true or not, I do not know because I always gave up in despair after a few hours of chewing and spitting. However, it was claimed that the old-timers could do it.

The snow lay deep on the ground one winter's day long ago when a kindly neighbour, Charles Murphy from Coromore (God rest him), presented me with two redbreasted linnets. In no time at all they because the pride of my young life, singing until it seemed as if their very throats would burst with the dint of music. There are still two rusted nails on the gable wall at home and I never look on them now without a touch of nostalgia.

The stubble patch at the back of the cable station was swarming with finches and it was here that I spent the three days of the school retreat instead of making my peace with God.

[Jo90]

Had never heard of bird lime before that article so I had to look it up. I haven't seen such a ridiculously complex method to catch a bird since Wile E Coyote.

"A popular form was made from holly bark, boiled for 10 to 12 hours. After the green coating is separated from the other, it is stored in a moist place for two weeks. It is then pounded into a thick paste, until no wood fibres remain, and washed in running water until no small specks appear. After fermenting for four or five days, during which it is frequently skimmed, the substance is mixed over a fire with a third part of nut oil. It is then ready for use."

[sullyschoice]

It worked though

[kerryexile]

Feb 25, 2015 21:01:57 GMT ballynamona said:

Growing up in Valentia by Owen McCrohan; The Kerryman, 16/06/1995

................

The stubble patch at the back of the cable station was swarming with finches and it was here that I spent the three days of the school retreat instead of making my peace with God.

He did his retreat the way it was intended, getting close to nature...