Cormac’s story was wrapped around all the morning papers. It had already been on the Belfast Telegraph cover by Tuesday lunchtime.
The Irish News reproduced the full-cover portrait of Cormac from after the All-Ireland final, replacing ‘CHAMPIONS’ with ‘DEATH OF A CHAMPION’.
Terms like ‘future GAA president’ were bandied about, even though Cormac had never indicated any such ambitions.
It went global too. The Times and the Independent took it to Great Britain.
The Irish correspondent for Associated Press sat down in our living room, fine-tuning his story to string out syndicated news for any American papers taking interest.
Sky News carried it long enough for aunt Maggie’s pupils in Qatar to see it.
Yet it remained a truly Irish story. And as the Irish public learned more detail of Cormac’s life and last deeds, the story became more poignant still.
The young captain plotting another All-Ireland for his county.
The committed clubman playing that Sunday.
The quiz fanatic watching University Challenge on his last evening with his mother, and due on the Scór stage on Sunday evening.
The fiancé making wedding plans. The clean-living boy who didn’t deserve to die.
It was a tale of pure dedication and old-fashioned chivalry that made people well up.
It caused many people to wonder openly whether they were putting enough back in, according to one columnist.
The talk was tending to mythologize Cormac, if not canonize him.
The comparisons ranged from Cú Chulainn to King Cormac to Michael Collins.
That’s why I tempered the superlatives when we gave our first TV interviews that day.
We hadn’t gone looking for the cameras, but when requested we acquiesced – just as Cormac was wont to do.
After speaking of what a great brother he was, I added: ‘Some people are talking about him as if he was a saint. He wasn’t a saint; he was just a good solid lad.’
I was merely trying to point out his private, human side.
For a long time afterwards, I regretted saying that, as though I had deflected from the greatness that everyone else was heralding.
On reflection now, I’m glad I said it; he wouldn’t have wanted any fabrication of his memory.
Mid-afternoon, Cormac came home.
We met the hearse at the Tamnamore roundabout, exit 14 off the M1, returning from Belfast.
As the cortège crawled left at the new Eglish junction roundabout, workmen downed tools and stood to pay their respects.
Eglish was a village noir. Black flags hung from telegraph poles.
Black-draped parishioners formed a long guard of honour, blessing themselves as we passed through.
We lifted Cormac around the house, and laid him in the conservatory.
Here he would lie in state. Open coffin, we got to see him again.
He was dressed in a suit, looking smart but a ghostly spectre of his former self.
The Wake was officially on now.
Ulster Catholics must be the wake specialists of Western civilization. We have the full Irish wake at home for two nights, no discount.
‘House private’ is rare here; evening removal to the church, simply unheard of. It never occurred to us to close the doors to the public.
All comers would be welcomed.
We were in for a crazy time.
We stood as a family beside Cormac, with an endless line of people shuffling towards us. The evening grew darker, but the queue kept getting longer.
Around the house and halfway up the lane it swirled.
There were so many familiar faces, from the recent or distant past: locals, club colleagues, members of other clubs and traditions, old schoolmates, university friends, family colleagues, and streams of schoolgirls and staff from St Catherine’s.
Lots of the faces were as well known to me as they would have been to Cormac. At times it felt like I was standing at my own wake, only the crowd was too big.
There were so many more we didn’t know, but their proudly worn club gear identified them.
I tried to address everyone by name, through calculation or guesswork or simply asking who they were, and I thanked them for coming.
I meant it, for we were grateful to know that Cormac meant so much to them.
Looking through the in-house books of condolence many years later, I see signatures from thirty of the thirty-two counties that week.
They came in droves from certain pockets around the country.
There was a big squad from Ballintubber, paying respects for Cormac’s visit to Mayo. From Faughanvale, Co Derry, they flocked in solidarity with Ashlene.
Then there were the public representatives, players and managers from every corner of the land. You could tell the story of modern Gaelic football through some of the visiting sympathizers.
Nearly every All-Ireland winning team of half a century was represented.
There was Jack Mahon of Galway ’56. And Kevin Beahan of Louth ’57.
Kevin Heffernan, captain of Dublin ’58, and chief of staff of Heffo’s Army.
And Sean O’Neill of Down ’60–61 and ’68, our former mentor at Queen’s.
And Mick O’Dwyer of Kerry 1959–70, leading a herd of Laois lads.
And Power and O’Keeffe of the 1975–86 golden boys.
From Dublin, 1974–83, came Brian Mullins.
Seeing Matt Connor of Offaly ’82 wheel himself towards us was truly touching.
From Meath 1987–8 came O’Rourke, Coyle and Flynn. And Tony Davis from Cork 1989–90.
And O’Rourke and Kane and McCartan of Down 1991/94.
And Molloy, Boyle and McHugh of Donegal ’92.
And Jimmy McGuinness, confiding that something similar had happened to his brother.
Take your pick from Derry ’93.
From Meath ’96/’99 came Geraghty, plus Seán Boylan.
And Kerry ’97/2000 sent O’Keeffe, Moynihan, Ó Cinnéide and Darragh Ó Sé, reaching out a hand to erstwhile adversaries.
Kevin Walsh, Padhraic Joyce, Declan Meehan and Joe Bergin of Galway ’98/’01.
Armagh ’02 were there to a man.
And the Tyrone squad sat in dugout formation around our kitchen, pale shadows of their usual selves.
Just the hundred All-Ireland medals between them, knocking about our homeplace.
Many other current star players came also, from all over Ulster to the Dubs and midlands and the depths of Munster. Like Ireland teammates Declan Browne, Graham Canty and Colin Corkery, the one big-name Gaelic footballer who was known to play with a heart condition.
Others had never broken bread with Cormac, but they went as they thought it the right thing to do. The presence of Brian Cody
and D. J. Carey was a totem of support from the hurling community.
Likewise Joe McDonagh and Nickey Brennan.
And seemingly every reporter or TV personality who had ever interviewed Cormac turned up too.
To see one of the above coming near Eglish would normally be a big deal.
Yet now here they were, shuffling through our hallway, standing sheepishly in our front room. And we had but a twinkling to spend with each one, for the pressure of numbers forced people to pass on through.
Only now were we coming to realize the level of respect Cormac had among the GAA and the wider public. Man, woman, boy and girl identified him as a role model – their own role model.
We were undoubtedly cheered by what they had to say.
We just wished we could have found out another way.
Tomás ‘Mousey’ Dougan handed me his MacRory Cup runnersup medal from 1997; we had Cormac’s already, but to refuse his genuine gesture of sorrow would seem rude.
Brian McEniff gave us a Railway Cup medal for the ’03 tournament – which Cormac had missed due to injury, and for which we presumed he would receive no reward.
Now, posthumously, he had completed the set of national medals from inter-county upwards. Strangest of all, a man from Laois handed me a piece of rubble from the old Cusack Stand.
Meanwhile, in the corner behind Cormac, at the head of the coffin, sat the ultimate prize in Gaelic football. Tyrone people had longed to touch the Sam Maguire Cup for almost a century.
Now they barely even looked at it.
Equally muted, amid this maelstrom, sat the McGirrs in the sitting room.
Since Paul’s very public passing, they had borne their sorrows privately for seven years.
Looking on as Tyrone scaled the pinnacle at last, the family must have wondered what might have been.
Now two of the ’97 minor team were gone, and we were just beginning to taste what the McGirrs had gone through.
* The Pursuit of Perfection - The Life, Death and Legacy of Cormac McAnallen is published by Penguin Ireland, priced £14.99.
