PIGEON RACING There are about 700 "pigeon men" in Dublin alone, and they are a close-knit fraternity, writes Eoin Butler
'BE CAREFUL of her," he warns. "She's a right scrapper. She'll scratch your face off." He cups his hands around another bird and lifts her up for me to touch. Now a discernable tenderness creeps into his voice. "But I've got high hopes for this fella." Tucker Daniel's pigeon loft in Ballyfermot is home to more than 100 racing pigeons. Caring for these noisy birds is a time-consuming business. "When a pigeon man gets home from work, he doesn't stop to talk to the kids or eat his dinner. He goes straight out the back and makes sure his pigeons are okay. It's just a complete love you have for the birds. People call it a hobby, but it's more like a vocation, really."
Tucker invites me inside for lunch, an offer I gratefully accept. As previously alluded to on these pages, my personal finances are in a state of meltdown at present. So any offer of free food right now is, literally, manna from heaven. Tucker is a gracious host. But I doubt he expected the man from The Irish Times to start laying into the cold meats with quite this much gusto. A taxi driver, Tucker has been a member of the Sarsfield Racing Pigeon Club since he was 13 years old. He speaks in glowing terms about the role the sport has played in his life. "Growing up in Ballyfermot was pretty rough. All the jobs I ever got, I got through pigeon men." Dublin's pigeon men (and they are predominantly men) are a close-knit fraternity. There are about 700 enthusiasts in the capital. Tucker is sketchier about the sport's appeal elsewhere in Ireland, but says it is popular in rural areas. I've never heard of any pigeon fanciers in my native Mayo, I remark, shovelling another bread roll into my mouth. "Well, not out in the sticks, obviously," he deadpans. "I meant Cork or Limerick." We talk for more than an hour about every aspect of pigeon racing. Tucker's passion for the sport and affection for his birds is readily apparent. He shows me some old race sheets. The pigeon club in Mallow, Co Cork is exactly 129 miles and 254 yards from Tucker's loft in Ballyfermot. Last year, one of his birds covered the distance in just over two hours and 46 minutes. To put it in perspective, that's faster than Iarnród Éireann. (Regular rail users might consider that somewhat of a dubious accolade. But I'm impressed.) "Oh, pigeons are much faster than the train," he assures me. "That was a slow race."
WE HAVE chocolate éclairs for dessert, washed down with another cup of tea. Tucker winces when I put my mug down directly onto the tabletop. He politely reminds me - for the third time now - to use the coaster. I apologise profusely. "It's not me you have to be scared of," he laughs ominously.
So what does Tucker's wife Carol make of his devotion to these birds? "It was probably a big culture shock for her when we got married first," he concedes. "But as I said, and I'd say this would be true of 99 per cent of pigeon men, our wives know how hard we work. They know how much the pigeons mean to us. Plus, you're never far away from the house. You're certainly not down the pub or anything."
His proudest moment in the sport, he says, came two years ago, when one of his birds won a race from France. "It's widely accepted in the pigeon world that Dublin is one of the hardest cities to fly into," he says. "You have an awful lot of water to cross. The pigeon has to be brave - there's no turning back."
In the end, it took just 13 hours for the bird to find his way home from Brittany. "It was just an absolutely phenomenal feeling," says Tucker, his eyes lighting up. "To hear this bird I'd bred myself coming flapping over the roof. It was magic."