Despite these failings he was endlessly loyal to me. I flunked out of college and caused him years of worry. The startling bristle of his stubble on my cheek and the scent of whiskey from his breath are as vivid to me today as if it all happened yesterday. I felt the pull of his arms as I stepped down on the platform. From the door of the train I saw my father approaching through the crowd. A pipe and drum band was playing full blast. I can recall almost nothing about the match, but I clearly remember the railway station being packed with giddy people when the train eked itself out of the tunnel and braked to a stop. It happened on the long curved platform of Kent Station, Cork, the night after the All-Ireland hurling final of 1979, when my teammates and I brought the Minor cup home.
I have only one memory of my father kissing me.
