Down around our homeplace, we knew Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh two ways. One was the way everybody else knew him – the voice of the GAA, the voice of sport really. The other was one of the Moriartys in Dún Síon, back in Dingle. His brother Paddy Moriarty was the head of the ESB. Another brother Ignatius ran the farm. They were a well-known family in west Kerry.
But nobody was better known than Micheál. I saw him in small gatherings and I saw him in massive crowds and everywhere he went, people wanted to talk to him. He had time for everyone and he had a word for everyone. He was interested in everybody and wanted to know who they were and who they knew and where they were from.
I was lucky enough to get to know him over the years, first when I was in the ESB and working in Dublin back in the early 1990s. We always spoke Irish to each other, so there was that nice bit of a connection anyway. But it was when I went to some of the training sessions he used run for country players living in Dublin that I got to know him best.
[ Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh - in his own wordsOpens in new window ]
They were usually in UCD but we went to other places too, when they’d have us. Micheál’s training would have been fairly traditional, now. He’d send us off doing laps and then gather us in for sit-ups and press-ups and the like. We’d be half-dreading it but half-dictating it ourselves at the same time.
Irish racing going all ‘béal bocht’ about prizemoney a hard sell ... and even harder listen
Mike Tyson’s glowering silence cuts through Netflix show noise
Ireland v Argentina: TV details, kick-off time, team news and more
Katie Taylor v Amanda Serrano: Irish fight time, how to watch on Netflix and ring walk times for Paul v Tyson
We were in St Pat’s in Drumcondra one night when he told us to do 30 press-ups. Anthony Gleeson was playing full back for Kerry at the time and he was never short of a line. “Thirty?” he said. “How about we do 20 good ones instead?” That would be the kind of thing that Micheál would smile at and leave us work away ourselves.
He wouldn’t be able to help himself if he saw someone do something special in training. Kevin O’Neill from Mayo was part of the training group as well and I remember one night he scored a brilliant point from a tight angle on the endline. “And that is why he’s an All Star,” said Micheál, as if he was sitting above in the Hogan Stand commentating.
Micheál saw the world 10 times over. He travelled everywhere and it wouldn’t matter if he was sitting beside a president or some young fellah who was out for the day with his parents, he would sit and chat away and listen to their story. He had no ego at all about him but he knew that he was well known. And that it meant something to people to get talking to him.
We were away with him several times on International Rules trips and we’d be coming off the pitch after a training session and you’d see supporters gathered, waiting on him. The best footballers in Ireland would be passing by but it was Micheál who was the rock star. He was a pure gentleman about it too – he’d stand for pictures all day and it wouldn’t be hard work for him to do it.
He was funny, in his own way. He would never, ever say a bad word about anybody. But he’d leave you in no doubt what he thought either.
I remember being in his company one time and one of the fellahs with us was giving out about an acquaintance. And he was lambasting this lad, with the sort of rough and ready language you’d never hear coming out of Micheál’s mouth in a million years. When he was finished, Micheál just smiled. “Yes, you know him, yes.”
He used come into the dressingroom before and after matches. Even though we were coming towards the end of that tradition of letting the media in, Micheál was still welcome. He was never considered a threat to anybody. He would come in and check in on fellahs and make sure he had the team right and so on.
There was one time he came into the dressingroom early in the league that came after we won the All-Ireland in 1997. The league still had a few games before Christmas at the time so I’d say you’re talking about mid-November or so. We hadn’t been shy about celebrating the All-Ireland and we were struggling at just the wrong time – the league was going through one of its restructuring years and we were in danger of starting the following season in Division Two.
We lost to Sligo and Offaly, and even though it was only the league, and even though we were All-Ireland champions, getting relegated after winning the league the previous year wouldn’t go down well. We’d be the first Kerry team to do it, as far as anybody knew.
We were in Tullamore after losing to Offaly and Micheál came into the dressingroom afterwards. He saw Páidí Ó Sé, who was our manager at the time. “You’re still breaking records, Páidí,” he said.
It wasn’t until we were in the car on the way home that the penny dropped with Páidí. “Jesus,” he said. “He meant that we might go down! He’s a right smart so-and-so, isn’t he?” (He didn’t say so-and-so, for the record.) Páidí was like Bishop Brennan in Father Ted, finally realising that he’d been kicked in the arse. And by Micheál Ó Muircheartaigh, of all people!
He was a gentleman, just a hugely popular person around the country and he’ll be missed by everyone.
Ar dheis dé go raibh a n-anam dílis. Ní bheidh a leithéad arís ann.
