We drifted together in the twilight of our football careers, long before I rediscovered the bike. Blow in’s trying to find our way. And unbeknownst to our selves Wednesday night pints became part of our lives. Something the town could set its watch by. On the rare night that we weren’t out, we were missed. The lads asking “where are the Boy’s tonight” And for a while I was mistaken for a Teacher!

Easy in one another’s company never delving too deep into one another’s lives. Slowly we have found our way in this small town.

The weekend that Finns burnt down. We, with no sense of loyalty moved to Redmonds and parked our selves in a corner for the long haul. In a Pub full of characters filled with stories and tales of Wexford childhood and GAA days. Conversation ebbed and flowed drifting the length of the Bar. And we were absorbed into it.

Down the years we travelled abroad to the great soccer stadiums of Europe, San Siro, Camp Nou, Bernabeau, and Tynecastle Stadium, returning with a hangover of a story

But these days we are lost. Pat is all around, in the shadows of our eyes, I see him, on the tips of our tongues, the edge of all our conversations. We are lost without him.

And on the night that news filters through, that they’ve turned the life support off on Jimmy. We sit conscious of empty bar stools where once Martin and Pat sat, lost in huddled conversations and silent laughter of Half Way House GAA reminiscence told and retold. Our vulnerable lives flitter away, in the blink of an eye.

At nights end, full of pints and sadness, we, old friends stand on frosted pavement. Silent….What can we say? What can I say?  “Ah Boy’s…I’d be lost without ye..Good Night, see ye’s next Wednesday!”


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