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When he first met the man who would become his father-in-law,
John Mullin could not have foreseen that they would forge a profound, unshakeable bond
He was wearing pyjamas – navy, as I recall, with a maroon dressing gown, tied neatly with a cord – when I first met him all those years ago: a big man, fit for an auld fella, and filling the doorway of the family home in Skerries, a pretty seaside town 20 miles or so north of Dubin.
It was still some way short of seven, this chilly October morning 21 years ago, and I had only recently started going out with his eldest, Maggie. We had taken the night boat across the Irish Sea. We were bound for Galway. First, though, the dreaded first visit to the parents …
As Maggie drank tea with her mum in the kitchen, we men were given space to bond and the video-tapes quickly came tumbling out. Within moments, the TV was filled with images of my new girlfriend, soon to be a much decorated war correspondent, presenting from the fall of the Berlin Wall, in the war zone in Bosnia and appearing on The Late Late Show, Ireland's premier chat show. At one point, the host, Gay Byrne, turned to her and said, oozingly: "Sure, aren't you a great girl?"
Peter watched, rapt, as he had clearly done many times before. He glanced at me now and then, trying to gauge my reaction. Truth was, I was finding this all rather exhausting. In another, his energetic pride would have been boastful. But though it provided me with some great material with which to tease his daughter, I could sense something more admirable behind his boundless enthusiasm.
Soon, he was off on a new tangent. Maggie must have told him how much I loved football. He told me had had played goalkeeper for Crusaders in his native Belfast for several years in the 60s. This was impressive: they were a big enough club and, coming from Glasgow, I could appreciate what he never said: that it was highly unusual then for a Catholic to play for a steadfastly Protestant club.
More. He had been capped twice for the League of Ireland, he said. He even fished his green international cap out of a cupboard to show me. One of those games, he was delighted to say, was against Scotland, and the Irish had won 3-2. Mind you, he said, the Scottish striker scoring the second goal had hit the ball so hard, it had almost taken his ear off.
The player responsible was called Donald Ford, he mentioned. I remembered him well and said that he had gone on to be a cracking career with Hearts. Maggie's father beamed. In that moment, he had found his connection with his daughter's new boyfriend. Something unbreakable was born.
Peter O'Kane, my father-in-law, died in November. He was just 73.
As well as his wife Maura, whom he wooed in Omagh, Co Tyrone more than half a century ago, he leaves behind his five children, Maggie, Michael, Una, Peter and Barry, and 16 grandchildren. And, if it doesn't sound too self-pitying, me.
My own father, also John, died when I was 16, killed by diabetes. He was 51, only a year older than I am now, and we were both far too young for us to enjoy that father-son relationship that can form only after the years of teenage self-indulgence are all played out.
When I first met Peter, I was 29 and he was 52. I was a reporter doing well enough at the Guardian, and no doubt a little too pleased with myself. He, I discovered, was the youngest of five brothers, and the brightest, but he had flunked his final exams. He had joined the RUC – another unusual move for a Catholic in the 60s, hinting at strength of character. With The Troubles on the horizon, he had quit the force, and worked as a delivery man for Coca-Cola. By the time he had gone through teacher training, he was a father of five, and, as Belfast descended into violence, he took the family south to Skerries in 1973, and to his new job teaching children with special needs.
It all seems obvious, looking back, that he became a father figure to me. I never gave it a moment's thought at the time.
Early on, I am ashamed to say, I was a little scornful of him. The remorseless pride in his children. The unquenchable desire to connect wherever he went – to me, it meant you were always late because he would want to chat to the shopkeeper, the barman, the stranger at the bus-stop. Admirable, but to someone still to hit 30, fair game for the odd gag.
I can't put my finger on where it began to change for me. But I do recall five or so years ago, as we sat at the kitchen table in the early hours, telling him how much I thought of him, and how I couldn't love him more if he were my own father. I never said it again, but I am sure he knew.
Perhaps it was our shared love of sport that began the shift. We watched many football matches together – one lovely afternoon in June 1996 in The Black Raven in Skerries, we roared ourselves hoarse as Scotland somehow scraped an unlikely draw with Holland.
A week later, we even played in the same side: the day after a wedding, the groom's English family and friends took on the rest of the nations. It was a grudge match: England had just beaten Scotland at Wembley. Peter flew across his goal to pull off an astonishing save from a 20-yard rocket that was so unexpected that I had already half turned upfield to prepare for the re-start. We won.
And, several years ago, Peter mentioned how much he wanted to go to a Gaelic football final at Croke Park before he popped his clogs. To a non-Irish audience, it is hard to describe what a big deal the Sam Maguire is and how impossible it is to get tickets. But, weeks later, get them I did. Feeling rather chuffed, I rang him up: "What would I want to go to Cork v Kerry for?" he replied. We had a good time, anyway.
I began to respect his achievements. Decent footballer, engaged teacher, garrulous taxi-driver at the weekend, and – it was becoming undeniable – liked by all he met.
But, of course, it wasn't Peter who was changing. It was me, growing up, wising up. I came to see his selflessness, his decency, his sense of justice – his scattiness! – in my wife. And when I became a father, I began to appreciate his easy, loving interaction with his children. It dawned on me that the gift he had somehow managed to give them all was confidence, so arming them against under-achievement, academically, professionally, and, most importantly, as a member of the human race. He succeeded brilliantly,
After my son, Billy Peter, was born in December 1996, Peter gave him - his first grandchild - his most prized possession, that international cap with the gold piping he had scrambled to find that very first time I met him.When Billy was a little unhappy at secondary school, Peter wrote him a note of encouragement. As it transpired, he had done so with all his children at one tricky stage or another.
As he was on that October day in 1992, Peter was wearing pyjamas the last time I saw him: I don't care what colour they were. He was too weak to speak, but, as I arrived, a smile ghosted across his mouth. Then, there was an amused scowl as I performed my favourite joke, shouting "Big Peter the Goalie" and acting as if to catch the cross, then looking in horror at my empty hands in front of me, and then slowly at the goal behind me, where I pretended the ball had landed.
Next day, we watched Ireland come so close to beating the All Blacks. "Pity after such a good start," he whispered.
Two days later, Peter passed away, with Maura holding his hand and his five children around him. They had somehow managed to get him home just in time.
None of his children could face giving the eulogy, and asked me to. It was the greatest, most terrifying, honour, with St Patrick's in Skerries so packed the mourners had to queue outside, I ended with these words, which maybe explain how he inspires me, I hope, to become a better person.
"So, Big Peter the Goalie. You are the very best man I knew. You brought all of us here joy every day. Except, that is, for today. We miss you, we love you and we are devastated. But even in the midst of this terrible grief, we are so grateful for the wonderful legacy you – and Maura – have created. We thank you for this wonderful family; we thank you for these fantastic friends; and we thank you for these fabulous memories. And, as you rest in that well-deserved peace, you should know this: your goodness, your decency, your love live on in your amazing children and beautiful grandchildren. But more than that, you live on forever in the hearts of all those blessed enough to have known you. Peter O'Kane. What a man. What a life."