Con Houlihan on TDF

High Rouleur

In light of the recent passing of Con Houlihan, thought it may be appropriate to post an excerpt from one of his reports from the 1987 TDF.

( from a poem by Leslie Mallory)

mirages of sweat and rain.
Swamp the eyes;
Dots, bars, stripes blur,
Sun gorges on muscle,
Burns the reserve;
And shins grow
Lead weights.
Pump. Focus. Force the last drop.

Napolean's poplars
Nod their dusty approval,
Connoisseurs of courage,
They have seen it
Ride these roads before.

Do not believe that the greatest of all cycling tours is utterly without an element of humour - that couldn't be. My favourite story goes back to 1948, a time when entrants to the Tour were not as rigidly scrutinised as they are now.
The hero of that race was, believe it or not, the man who finished last. He was about seventy and no more than a social cyclist but to ride the tour was his life's ambition.
He couldn't afford it until he had retired from gainful employment; then he lined up with the men he so admired.
Nobody but himself expected that he would complete the first stage - but he did - and the second and the third and the fourth and the fifth.
It is true that he finished in his own good time - but by the end of the first week, he was something of a national hero. And as the tour went on, his name became more and more a cafe-hold word.
And long after all the other riders had gone by, you could see the crowds lining the road and the streets. And if you asked the reason, you would be told: 'We are waiting for Godot'

Con Houlihan RIP

Snickers Man

Sad to learn he's gone. Always loved reading his back page columns in the old Evening Press. (Which dates me a little)

But I think one of the best pieces he ever wrote was in Magill, shortly after it was relaunched in the 1990s by Vincent Browne but before it was taken over and turned into the unreadable "business friendly" rag that it became.

It was a piece about his time teaching in a remote school in Co Kerry long before he ever took to the pen or the word processor. I've been looking about for it online but couldn't come across it.

Worth a read if you ever manage to find it.

RIP

driver02

Snickers Man wrote: »

Sad to learn he's gone. Always loved reading his back page columns in the old Evening Press. (Which dates me a little)

But I think one of the best pieces he ever wrote was in Magill, shortly after it was relaunched in the 1990s by Vincent Browne but before it was taken over and turned into the unreadable "business friendly" rag that it became.

It was a piece about his time teaching in a remote school in Co Kerry long before he ever took to the pen or the word processor. I've been looking about for it online but couldn't come across it.

Worth a read if you ever manage to find it.

RIP

if you ever get it will you put it up here or send me a PM he was the best.

Wishbone Ash

I know it's quoted ad nauseum but I throw it in anyway - the famous Sheehy/Cullen incident in the '78 final:

'Mike Sheehy was running up to take the kick - and suddenly Paddy dashed back towards his goal like a woman who smells a cake burning ... Paddy crashed into the outside of the net and lay against it like a fireman who had returned to find his station ablaze'.

Pure Class! RIP Con.

RobFowl

Seems like a real old school hard living , hard drinking journo but then you read his reports and the words seem to come alive from the page.
RIP Con, we can safely say his like will not be seen again.

le petit braquet

Thanks Wishbone for that pic of Con in his favourite spot down at the fence at the front of the Canal Terrace and to the right of the goals as you looked out from there. My Dad brought me to Croke Park as soon as I could stand and our favourite spot was maybe twenty steps further back in a direct line from Con. We shared many happy days on that terrace with Con, particularly during that halcyon period for Kerry football between 1975 and 1986. That picture shows the real Con which bore no relationship to the picture that was on top of his column in the Evening Press. He was a huge bear of a man who always wore shoes with the heels broken down and with his own heels sticking out the back. I'm not sure but I reckon his feet were too big for standard sizes but he had more important things to do rather than hunt down extra large sizes.

As many have commented this week, he had a unique gift for describing simply and beautifully the essence of a sporting occasion rather than mere reportage on the events on the field. In the same way that Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh's commentary added an extra dimension to a match, so too did Con's reports. One is the maser of the spoken word, the other the master of the written. With Con you even got descriptions of the activities of the wildlife (not cider drinkers) on the canal bank he encountered on his way to the match and they seemed totally in place.

The world is a poorer place for his passing.