|
FAREWELL DERMO
yes!yes!I'm on!He exclaimed as he took his seat next to us on the 7am morning flight out of Dublin,heading for Glasgow;heading into that never to be forgotten weekend in May.Clearly,he was overjoyed to be boarding the plane because minutes earlier he had no seat and was concerned about his chances of getting one of the standby places.He was,however,determined to be in the city for the afternoon even if he had to take a connection flight to London or Manchester,because this was going to be the biggest trill of young Diarmuid O'Leary's life-hopefully,seeing his beloved Celtic clinch the league title for the fist time in his years of travelling over for matches.The next time we saw Dermo was proof,if proof was needed,that Celtic had done exactly that.The party was in full swing in the Clada Club and he had been partying hard that day(which one of us wasn't partying?).Dermo and his mates took their leave and retired early to their hotel on the sort of highest high that only true Celts felt that night.Dermo was leaving his dream.
My own celebration partying moved from the Clada Club on the Saturday night and continued onto McCormick's Bar in Bellshill on the Sunday for many hours of joy and happiness.The rest of us were oblivious to the harsh news that would greet us when we woke up on the Monday morning.Dairmuid O'Leary had been tragically killed in a hotel fire on the Sunday morning.The smoke inhalation had overcome him while he was asleep.By the time the firemen had rescued his friends,who had been in a sort of heaven when he left us the night before was sadly to stay there.One of our Celtic brothers would not be travelling back with us.It is impossible to explain the feelings that went from elation about our team's success to despair at hearing this news.
Darmuid O'Leary's Father,Jer,is well known to Celtic fans and republicans around Dublin,not least for his poetry and speeches at commemorations and at Celtic ballad sessions.Jer had also been in Glasgow for the game and by pure chance had met up with his only son after the match,outside the stadium.They both shared the moment of triumph together,but only for a short time.This brief encounter proved to be of great comfort to Dermo's grieving Father later.
The measure of esteem that this family are held in could be judged by the enormous number of mourners who thronged the church for Dermo's funeral almost two weeks later.Represantatives from many Celtic supporters clubs throughout Ireland,politicians,councillers,actors,friends from Glasgow and of course those friends who had survived the fire.There were many who did not know Dermo personally,football fans who had been touched by the tradedy.There were cards of sympathy from all over,including one from the Celtic Ticket Office staff.Disappointingly,there was no official representative from Celtic at the funeral despite the PR department being contacted.Considering the tragic circumstances of Dermo's death and the media coverage,it would have been a courteous act for the club to have been officially represented.
The funeral was like no other,a very sombre occasion but also a very poignant one for the Celtic fans who attended.The priest's constant references to Johnny Thompson and other Celtic legends who have left before their time and who Dermo would now meet was very comforting.A lone piper led the cortege from the church very slowly and as he 'aired' the Celtic song,followed by the Ballad of Johnny Thompson,there wasn't a dry eye in the church.Men of stone were moved that day.Then to the churchyard where the piper was joined by another,significantly younger piper and they led us to the burial ground where a friend of too few years would be laid to rest.An absolutely moving oration at the graveside from Robert Ballagh of the Irish National Congress and,after a beautifully read poem about Big Jim Larkin,Dairmuid O'Leary's body was laid to rest...He will be sadly missed.
By Smiler
Slan Go Foill,Dermo.A dhia na bhfeart,Suaimhness siorai da anam.
Over and Over
He had gone for to be one of the people,to circle again the mystic stone,to dip his bread in Brother Walfrid's bowl.On the most joyous day of his young life,he was to be taken without explanation,lost in his tenement bothy as once they were in the rat-straw hell of Kirkintilloch.
Always inexplicably,I thrilled om seeing the boy.He had the cut,jut and strut of his Father,his Mother's soft watching eye,the loving,giggling bond of his sisters.There was first that awkward shyness,a struggling conversation untill we minded Jimmy McGrory and Charlie Tully,Jinky Johnstone and King Billy McNeill,Bonner,Nicholas and Dalglish,the warp,weft and twine of that special plaid woven for him by his Father and grandfather.
I have that familiar smile now thinking of him,standing excitedly on the precipice of life,dare-deviling from the dizziest heights,bringing his genaration's new self confidence to the world but bravely asking the telling,unanswered questions of it's selfish,narrowing order.
He is gone to remain forever young,ever fresh,ever ready to wreathe us all in the warmth of his character for Diarmuid,over and over,we will follow you.
Francis Devine,Dublin 1998.
With thanks to TAL Fanzine issue 22.
|
