WHEN Jean McGonigle died recently, a piece of Dungiven died with her. She was married to Mickey for 58 years and their lives together spanned my life. Their home is in one of the most beautiful places on God’s earth, in a house built by Mickey at the foothills of Benbradagh, overlooking the Kevin Lynch’s magnificent grounds. Standing outside the house with the boys and the three girls Brenda, Siobhan and Ciara, my life came washing back over me.

By the time we were in school, the Troubles were going full tilt and the town was a no go area for the other side. The Unionist run council had traditionally put up a Christmas tree at the top of Station Road, festooned with red white and blue light bulbs. That year, the tree was ransacked. In those days, the McGonigles lived on the edge of the green beside the tree. For the next six months, their house was lit up in red white and blue bulbs. The only time before or since that combination of colours was seen anywhere near a McGonigle.

Jean’s son Mickey was my closest boyhood friend. We were part of the Station Road gang, playing football and hurling from the early morning during the holidays, challenging the other gangs to fights and catapult battles and getting into the sort of mischief that nowadays looks very innocent. Mickey was our leader. Once, we were playing a game against the Mitchell Park boys on the tarmac council pitch in Mitchell Park and a row broke out. To settle it, it was agreed that Mickey would fight their leader Paul ‘Czar’ McCloskey in the sandpit. The two boys got wired into each other and soon had bloodied noses. Mickey’s shoe came off in the sand, one of the Mitchell Park lads picked it up and was discreetly peeing in it when he was spotted. At which point Mickey took off after him, the day ended in uproar and the fight in a draw.

Mickey senior used to take us to the underage matches in the pick up that he used to move his sheep, with a wire cage in the back. Once, he brought us over the mountain road to Ballinascreen, nine or ten of us in the back, baaa’ing out through the wire every time we saw someone. We baaa’d into Dean McGlinchey Park and baaaa’d out of it.

The McGonigles’ home, with Jean at the heart of it, was a place of love and generosity.

If the boys – Mickey senior, Damien, Mickey junior, Pearse, Geoffrey and Seoirse – were loud and wild and larger than life, Jean was the quiet adviser they looked to for guidance. When Pearse died tragically during Covid, it was a terrible blow to the whole community, but for Jean, it brought a profound sadness that never left her. Pearse stood on the gate at O’Cathain Park for years, collecting the admission fee to the matches, smiling and helping out in a hundred ways. Like his brothers, he didn’t know his own strength and everytime we met, he liked to hit me a friendly slap on the back, knocking me forward a yard or two. He sold the tickets. He supported the teams. He was there to do whatever was needed by whoever needed it. In her coffin, Jean had a locket clutched in her hand with her beloved son’s photo in it. He will be with her always.

When I think of them all, I feel a great satisfaction. Mickey and I hurled and played football together and always stood next to each other in the photos. We won the Féile in Croke Park in 1982 beating the mighty Dunloy in the final. In 1987, we were part of The Immortals, winning the Division Three league and championship double. Some row or other had happened with the seniors and a few of us dropped down into the Thirds, who were an amazing blend of characters. After winning that, we were brought back into the senior team and a few weeks later I won my first senior championship medal at right half-forward.

A few years later, Big Geoffrey came online. Like a chubby Maradona, he was a miracle, performing all sorts of new tricks. He made his debut for our seniors when he was 15. He was a footballer/commentator, with an extraordinary habit of narrating his way through scores. “I’m putting this one in the left corner,” he would say as he soloed through. His nemesis was Rossa full-back Eamonn Lennox, sarcastic as the bishop’s sidekick in Fr Ted. He would start before the throw-in.

“You’ve put on weight Geoffrey?” “F**k aff Eamonn.”

“At the burgers again?” he would say, shaking his head sadly. “F**k aff Eamonn.”

Geoffrey scored many wonderful goals, but my favourite was one he got against Eamonn. The referee that day was Big Sean McGuigan from Sleacht Néill whose nickname was ‘Play on Sean’ and who thoroughly enjoyed Geoffrey. Geoff rose for a high ball and took it cleanly, Eamonn hanging off his neck. “Sean” shouted Geoff, “Blow your f**king whistle.” Sean was unmoved. Geoff solo dummied with the left. Eamonn dragged him back by the jersey as Geoff went round him. “For f**k sake Sean” Geoff shouted, “what do I have to do to win a free?” Geoff turned onto his right and as he went to shoot, Eamonn and the keeper dived, with Eamonn grabbing Geoff’s left leg. Geoff stayed on his feet, solo dummied again, stepped daintily round them both and fired it to the net. It was an exhilarating moment. Another special goal to add to the Geoffrey collection. I ran towards him to congratulate him, but Geoffrey was already charging towards Big Sean, red faced and enraged.

“Why do you never give me a free Sean?” he shouted at him. “Lovely goal” said Sean, as he turned and jogged back out for the kick-out.

Geoff was also a terrific soccer player but could only play secretly, as Mickey senior was strongly opposed to the game of the colonist. Once, he was in middle of a league game at the Garvagh road pitch when his father arrived in the pick up, marched onto the field, took him by the ear and frogmarched him off, the two bellowing at each other and the referee powerless.

When Seoirse was old enough, he joined us in the senior team and we quickly won Derry and Ulster. A world class trash talker, I still giggle when I think of him torturing what was left of the great Lavey team as we walloped them in the 1997 Derry semi-final replay. Another commentator/footballer.

Last weekend is the anniversary of a unique GAA goal. In 1964, Dublin played Laois in the National League in Croke Park. The winning goal for Dublin was scored by Eamonn Breslin. Pat Gilroy’s father Jackie crossed the ball at the perfect height and Eamonn won it with a diving header. Lucky for Eamonn, Mickey was not his father…