IN THE mid-1980s I took a nostalgic wander down the green terrazzo corridor of my youth in O’Connell junior school, North Richmond Street. At that time, a glimpse of the hallowed sod of Croke Park was visible across the banks of the Royal Canal.
The corridor was well stocked with pictures of classes past and present and I soon became engrossed in spotting former classmates. Out of the blue, a little chap standing behind me remarked chillingly: “Dem’s all dead, mister”.
“Oh no, they’re not,” I said.
“Well, dem’s nearly all dead den, mister ” he retorted.
Thankfully, he was wrong both times, and on November 17th, 26 of us former classmates will sit down in the new-age Croker to celebrate the 50th anniversary of our departing the old school. We will tuck into a fine feast and some will recall a time when Croker hadn’t a ham sandwich to offer famished fans. And, this year, there will be important recent events up for discussion – Queen Elizabeth’s incredible visit last May, the Dubs’ equally incredible last-gasp All-Ireland triumph, Kilkenny’s hurling wonders and so on. And there will be hardy annuals such as: did anyone remember Pat Kenny and how clever was he in class? Pat, who gives his old school a decent plug now and then, is just one of an extensive list of celebrities who benefited from the school’s “long and noble tradition of education excellence”. In politics, it boasts 1916 leaders Sean Heuston and Eamonn Ceannt, one president of Ireland, Seán T O’Kelly, two taoisigh, John A Costello and Seán Lemass, Nationalist MP patriot Tom Kettle, and even Britain’s wartime information minister, Brendan Bracken. The non-political catalogue is also long and colourful; including names such as that of our greatest Olympics champion Ronnie Delany, legendary balladeer Luke Kelly, actor Colm Meaney, commentator Micheál O’Hehir, orchestra conductor Gearóid Grant, Ireland soccer manager Eoin Hand, and businessman Bill Cullen.
James Joyce is there too – he lived directly facing the school, probably closer than any pupil in its history. However, he jumped ship for the fee-paying pleasure of nearby Belvedere College, though I doubt if the Jesuits ever got their money.
The anniversary reminiscences will include OCS’s fierce nationalistic environment. I sat beside Daniel O’Connell’s shaving mug and cut-throat razor for two years. And then I “graduated” to a daily close-up view of Burke’s blood-stained cravat – or was it Cavendish’s? – from the infamous Phoenix Park Murders of 1882. And not forgetting Seán MacDermott’s big rough-hewn hurling stick which could have counted as a weapon in the 1916 Rising.
The Rising was always sacred and central to OCS culture, but there was never a whisper of the heroism of Paddy Finnucane, the RAF ace pilot who died fighting Hitler’s murder machine. That was a taboo subject and something I learned with astonishment years later.
We were part of Gaelic Ireland or at least Rang 6A OCS 1961 certainly was. And we were the best Leaving Cert class in the land. We believed it then, so why break the habit of a lifetime now? Six first-class honours – or honóracha – were expected – and mostly delivered or exceeded. Other classes also did well, for this was education streaming at its most extreme. We were the vanguard of An Bráthair Ó Flaitile’s vision of a triumphant Gaelic Ireland that would emerge through the will of God and the Christian Brothers.
Pancho, as An Bráthair was nicknamed because of an ample waistline, will be fondly recalled once again as we wine and dine. He was the most admirable of Christian Brothers, a man imbued with an unshakeable faith in gaelic culture. His Ógra Éireann special elite group was Pearse-like in its conviction. We met in a room of the Regina Coeli hall, recited Irish poetry, played table tennis and chess and debated various lofty issues in Irish. His greatest weapon was his ever-present teipgrafadán, a voice recorder that Fred Flintstone would have cherisned and on which An Bráthair recorded endless reams of seannachaí tales, sean nós wailings and beannshí keenings. Not a half-door in Connemara was left uncrossed in search of scéalta.
Alas, his sacred teipgrafadán did my head in, even when An Bráthair leaned back with a wry smile, clicked his false teeth after every incomprehensible tale, and proclaimed “bhi sé sin go léir ar fheabhas”.
There was no shortage of nicknames, some imaginative, some simply cruel.
Who could ever forget Brother Laffan, aka Gandhi, who, though slight of build, towered messianically over the science lab? The answer is nobody, and the tales are many. Gandhi was a teaching genius with amazing hearing. He could hear me think even when I was discussing Boyle’s Law silently with myself. Luckily, his back was turned on the occasion when a strange pink flame shot across the laboratory after I had heated a test tube concoction with my Bunsen burner (my heart still palpitates).
Pride of place will go to Father Sean Coyle, a Columban missionary priest in the Philippines. Sean and classmate Phil O'Brien have been the heart of classmate communications down the years. Sean is also editor of the excellent Columban online magazine Misyon, a task he inherited from founder editor, the late Niall O'Brien, a priest whose courage and dignity after being jailed on trumped-up charges, made headlines worldwide.
Lay teachers are now guiding OCS’s destiny. The secondary school has about 350 and the primary school 250 pupils. Almost half of the students are foreign nationals – 45 nationalities in all. The school admits all boys regardless of faith, colour, background, ability or language. This incredible feat was accomplished without any roadmap or guidance, an inspirational achievement by teachers and staff that will fill all pupils, past and present, with pride.
OCS has changed, but is still a great school.
O'Connell School: A Long and Noble Tradition of Excellencetraces its history from 1828. Priced €20 from school office or oconnellsecondaryschool.com