CON MURPHY IN NEW YORK!

New York Irish Rugby Football Club was founded in the mid 1980`s. Several Abbeyfeale exiles were involved in its formation and became active in both the running and the playing side of the club. Among those involved were the three Colbert Brothers – Billy, (hooker) and Tony and Emmet. (flank-forwards.) There were the two Lanes – Paddy, who played at out-half, and Tiger who was entertainments manager. Also implicated were Yanci O`Shaughnessy, (second row) John Joe Foley ( scrum-half)  Maurice Collins (flank-forward) Stephen Murphy (centre) and Billy Harnett (club mascot). Later, Timmy Foley and Timmy and Theresa Dee and members of the Finucane family became part of the huge supporters club.

In due course, the Abbeyfeale contingent decided that it might be a nice gesture to invite two guest players from Abbeyfeale to come to New York each year and play in a pre-season tournament. The very first players to be invited were Mike and Derry Quirke. These were followed in the second year by the Roche brothers, Andy and Brendan.

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And so it was that in 1989, the third set of brothers, Con and Denis Murphy received their invitations to cross the Atlantic and play for the prestigious New York Irish Rugby Team. By this time both brothers had retired from the game. Denis was now spending his leisure time polishing his many medals and day-dreaming of all the Munster Junior Cups that Abbeyfeale had failed to win, while Con was concentrating on his pet hobbies of training greyhounds and organizing outrageous betting coups.

Incidentally, Con`s last game for Abbeyfeale was against Shannon in The Grove on a snowy St Stephen’s Day. Midway through the second half, he got caught at the bottom of a ruck  and was somewhat slow in getting up. Hector Brown was standing on the touch line, following proceedings with considerable interest.

“Don’t wake him!” called Hector. “The snow is nice and soft. Let him sleep away!”

Anyway, the two brothers were persuaded to come out of retirement and play one last game, and so preparations for the journey began – accompanied by the usual chaos!

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As the departure date drew near, Timmy Dee phoned Con from New York with a strange request. A pal of his was looking for a slean and he wondered if Con might oblige by bringing one over from Ireland. Con was immediately suspicious but decided that he had little choice in the matter. “Whatever our hosts in New York want,” he said “we will have to give it to them.”

Pat (Pio) Lane was approached, and he generously agreed to sponsor a top-of-the-range slean from the many fine implements that he had in stock. Pio donated an expensive  “Bill Phil” model which, as anyone familiar with cutting turf will tell you, is the Rolls Royce of sleans.

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A couple of nights before departure, an American Wake was held in Jack O’Rourke’s bar with the slean as guest of honour. A huge crowd assembled and Hector Browne acted as MC. A young and nervous musician named Dave Browne made his debut on the piano and, from this humble beginning, would go on to enjoy a lucrative career in show business.

Tommy Moloney held court in his usual seat up at the corner of the bar, with his trademark pint of Guinness in front of him. A fanatical Arsenal supporter (along with Pa Foley) Tommy lived back the lane and ran a highly successful butcher business in Church Street. He had retired by this time, but still did a bit of part-time meat preparation in Mann’s Supermarket. He was a regular in Jack O’Rourke’s bar where his exceptional knowledge of sporting matters was often called upon to settle an argument. If you wanted to know the winner of the last race in Limerick, or the batting averages of the West Indies openers against Shri Lanka in the final Test at Lahore, Tommy was the man to ask.

He passed away some years ago, but his name is now up in lights in the heart of New York City – a place that he never visited. Let me explain.

Many years ago, John Joe Foley worked for Tommy in his butcher’s shop. In due course, John Joe headed for America to make his fortune. Having amassed many millions of dollars (most of it from insider trading on the stock market) John Joe decided to invest in a luxury cafeteria in the trendy business sector of central New York. He needed a catchy name to attract the punters and he remembered his old friend and mentor back in Abbeyfeale. And that is how the most famous and successful ‘Ateing House’ in the Big Apple became known as “Tommy Moloney`s”!

Connie McMahon also arrived in Jack O`Rourke`s to bid bon voyage to the travelling duo. Connie was Con`s co-conspirator in The Ballydonnell Sam Affair (that story is also on our web site) and he discussed the possibility of trying a similar stroke in the States and making a film about it. “We could call it `Murphy Goes Wild In America!`” he said (A title that was afterwards plundered by Mike Murphy of RTE fame.)

Helen, the new barmaid was kept busy pulling pints. “She’ll never last behind that bar.” said Con. “She’s too quiet.” Con was a better judge of greyhounds than he was of barmaids, because Helen celebrated her nineteenth year `behind that bar` just a week ago. (Congratulations Helen!)

Patsy Prendiville was another who showed up, attracted by the commotion and by the lure of free porter. He slipped a ten bob note into Con`s top pocket and whispered “Have a drink on me when you get over.” He then broke into an unprovoked rendition of `My Way` after which there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. 

Anyway, with all of the usual suspects assembled, there was a bit of a sing-song, a bit of dancing, (Con had received dancing lessons from Noreen Connell out in the yard a few days earlier in readiness for the occasion!) a lot of crying, a modest amount of drinking, and everyone in the bar autographed the slean and readied it for its journey to the Big Apple.

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Events were now  progressing smoothly – in fact, too smoothly! Because, in the midst of all the celebrations, Con suddenly realized that his passport was out of date!  Following a quick consultation with his legal advisor, Counsellor Tim Murphy (no relation) Con was told to proceed post-haste to the Consul up in Dublin in order to obtain an emergency passport which would gain him entry to America.

Early the following morning found Con attempting to set a new land-speed record as he booted up the Naas dual-carriageway in Jack O’Rourke’s borrowed Merc, heading for Dublin. He arrived at the American Consul Offices without mishap and filled in all the necessary forms but then remembered that he had forgotten to bring extra money with him, and the guy behind the desk refused to grant the passport without the necessary fee being paid up front.

Frantic phone calls to various relatives and friends in and around Dublin elicited no response, as everybody was at work. Then Con remembered that Jack O’Rourke’s son, Jamie, was a student at Trinity College. Off he struck for Trinity and soon he was entering the portals of that august establishment that had been the Alma Mater of such noted luminaries as Oscar Wilde, John Millington Synge, Jonathan Swift, JP Donleavy, and to which now was added the illustrious name of Cornelius B Murphy, Esq.

With time very much against him, Con tore through Trinity at a rake of knots, ducking in and out of dormitories, up narrow stairways, along darkened corridors, in through halls of residence, out through reading and study rooms, pounding on doors;

“Anyone seen Jamie Rourke?

“Who?”

“Jack’s son, Jamie. Sure, everybody knows Jamie!”

He located Jamie eventually at the very furthest end of the college, attending a lecture. Con was forced to sit in until the end of the lecture and some say that he even started taking notes, but it is far more likely that he was just marking the card for Shelbourne Park later that evening!

With the lecture over, Jamie quickly organized a whip-round among the student fraternity and they presented Con with enough funds to finally claim his passport and book his passage to America.

“I attended Trinity College,” Con would later boast, “and I was the only student in history to pass through it in one afternoon!”

Incidentally, Jamie and his pals would afterwards claim that the money donated to Con was the best investment that they had ever made. From then on, any time that there was a rugby international in Lansdowne Road or an All Ireland  in Croke Park or a big race in Shelbourne Park, Con would be in attendance with all his millionaire pals, including Patsy Byrnes, JP McManus, Prince Andrew, John Magnier, Lal Browne, etc. After the event there would be a big bash, usually at the Burlington Hotel, with lashings of free food and drink, and Con would always make sure that his fellow students at Trinity were given complimentary tickets! (Con never forgot to repay a favour.)

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Anyway, having survived that little adventure, Con and Denis were now all ready to set off for America, accompanied by the slean. They were to fly from Cork to London and then onwards to New York. Jack Brislane drove them to Cork Airport and Hector went along for the drive. They arrived safely in Gatwick and were about to board the Virgin Airways flight when it was noticed that the seat allocated to Con was broken. The flight was held up for twenty minutes, and Con and Denis sat with the slean on the runway while repairs were being made.

“Typical Virgin.” murmured Con. “Always delaying the ride.” (You could write all of this down, but who would believe it!)

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The flight finally took off, and they arrived in New York at 7am in the morning and were met by Timmy Dee, Maurice Collins and John Joe Foley.

“We thought that you would have to come in through Ellis Island with the slean.” said Maurice. “Did you not think to bring a pike?” asked John Joe.

The drive in through Queens proved eventful. They had stopped at traffic lights when a posse of patrol cars swept up beside them with sirens blaring and cops shooting handguns in all directions out of windows.

“Are they recording an episode of Hill Street Blues?” inquired Con. “Will we be on the television back home?”

“Get down, you eejit!” said Timmy Dee, diving for cover and dragging Con with him. “It’s a bank robbery.”

And so it was, but thankfully both the cops and robbers moved on without inflicting any permanent damage on Abbeyfeale`s roving ambassadors.

“You’d need Walsh and Lawlor and Big Brendan to sort out this place” remarked Con. “Welcome to New York.” said John Joe.

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They arrived without further mishap at the Horse & Jockey public house in Queens – official headquarters of both New York Irish Rugby Club and of the Abbeyfeale Exiles.

Timmy Dee had informed patrons of the Horse & Jockey that two greenhorns were arriving from Ireland and that they were bringing their own slean, as they had been warned that they would get no work in New York without it!

They were given a rousing reception when they walked in to the bar, and even the slean got a standing ovation. Tiger Lane, Tony Colbert and Billy Harnett were behind the bar, dishing out drink, while Timmy and Theresa Dee looked after the food.

The two weary travellers hoped that they might grab a few hours sleep in order to get rid of their jet lag and prepare for the big rugby match, which was the reason that they had been brought over in the first place.

However, their hosts had different ideas. Unknown to Denis and Con, Maurice Collins and his cronies had hatched a cunning plan with which to bamboozle the visitors. They had arranged to keep the two lads drinking in the bar all day long while they themselves changed shifts every couple of hours. The idea was that a half dozen of them would start plying the visitors with liquor. Then they would slip quietly away for a break, and five or six more would take their place and start all over again. A further shift would take over from them, and this would continue until the two lads became paralytic drunk, while everybody else remained relatively sober.

Of course, Con spotted the move almost immediately. (It is hard to fool an ex-Trinity man!) He didn’t want to offend his hosts, and so he looked around for some way out of this tricky predicament. They had seated Denis and himself at a drink-laden table over by the bay window on seats reserved for special guests. Con lifted the corner of a curtain and peered out into the back alleyway. A gentleman with no visible means of support was busy rooting around in the trash cans. Quick as a flash, Con slid the bottom of the window open a few inches and handed out a pint of stout to the startled tramp.

“Go down in that!” he said, “and there’s plenty more where that came from.”

He motioned Denis to do the same, and the tramp must have thought that all his birthdays had come together as he stood there with two full pints!

The news spread like wildfire that there was a free drinks party going on in Queens, and the alley soon filled with tramps from as far away as New Jersey where, apparently, you get a better class of hobo. The New York Exiles continued to supply the visitors with a steady supply of drink but, as soon as they turned their backs, Denis and Con quietly sneaked pint glasses of porter out the window and, just as quietly, retrieved the empties.

After several hours of this carry-on, the exiles were beginning to get somewhat perplexed – and who could blame them! They had poured an inordinate amount of drink in to their guests (or so they thought) but it seemed to be having no effect whatsoever upon them. In fact, they appeared quite sober, while the perpetrators of this dastardly deed were themselves beginning to get very tipsy.

They finally called a halt and admitted defeat – but could never figure out how Con and Denis had managed to perform their Houdini act with the drink. (Now, 15 years later, they finally know how it was done!)

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The gang eventually ended up in a “clinic” in The Bronx at 8.30 in the morning. “All we need now is a song from The Skinner, “ said Con, “and we will think we are back home in Mikey Joe`s! What time do the marts open around here?”

Following a feed of sausage, eggs, bacon and black puddings they returned to the Horse & Jockey and enjoyed a few more leisurely pints before hitting the sack for the first time at 2pm and sleeping right through until 9am the following day.

Theresa Dee collected them and took them down to Greenwich Village for a bit of shopping and a bit of sightseeing. “Just like Knocknagoshel Village ,” said Con “and not a decent betting office in either of them!”

They visited various department stores and bought presents for the folks back home. (Some lingerie, bottles of perfume, a few thongs, a couple of blow-up dolls – little things like that.) They also called in to a bar or two (or three) and tried out the local beer and passed it fit for human consumption. Highlight of the shopping expedition was an impromptu stop in Flushing Meadows where both Con and John Joe Foley gave a whole new meaning to the term “Gushing in Flushing.” Suffice it to say that, had any cop witnessed this ah …… outpouring, we might here be giving a first hand account of life within the New York penal system! People have been deported for less.

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Saturday was match day. New York Irish were drawn against Washington DC. The two guest players failed a late fitness test and were forced to sit it out on the bench. The slean was paraded at the opening ceremony and received another standing ovation. (By this time it was becoming more famous than its owners.)

Included in the New York Irish team were Bill Harnett, Billy, Tony and Emmet Colbert, Stephen Murphy, John Joe Foley, Maurice Collins and Yanci O`Shaughnessy. (These were all fellows who could never hold their place on the Abbeyfeale team)

We will draw a veil of secrecy over the ensuing debacle which we are loth to call a ‘rugby match’ for fear of prosecution under the Trades Description Act. Suffice it to say that, following a most bruising encounter during which the laws of scrimmaging were brought into severe disrepute, Washington DC emerged victorious.

The match report by the club PRO in the New York Times the following morning began with this dreaded sentence; “New York Irish played well, but ………” He then went on to list a variety of imaginary excuses as to why they lost. He should have followed the example set by that excellent Abbeyfeale PRO and told the truth – they were crap!

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After the game, players and guests enjoyed a huge barbeque organized by the lovely Donna Louise. (?) Con and Denis bemoaned the fact that they had been forced to remain on the bench while players with far less ability (and far greater hangovers) were selected. “Billy Rourke would have picked us,” said Con. “Drink or no drink.”

On Sunday, they were invited to an excellent lunch organized by Paddy Lane and his charming wife, Margaret. Over the brandy and port, further post mortems were held as to why they were beaten, and numerous conspiracy theories were aired. Some blamed the referee (an excuse borrowed from the GAA) while others blamed the guest players for not being match-fit. Tiger Lane recounted how, during a trans-Atlantic phone call to his local bookmaker, Lal Browne in Abbeyfeale, he had been offered odds of 3/1 against an Irish win. “Lal don’t lay them odds unless he knows something.” said Tiger. “Did you get any results from Tralee?” asked Con.

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On Monday, Con finally got to see a greyhound meeting. Denis and himself travelled all the way up to Connecticut in the company of Bill McCreery, Bill Harnett and Paddy Begley from Castleisland. The journey took three hours each way, and for the full six hours, Con waxed lyrical on his favourite subject – dogs. He traced form and breeding for every greyhound back as far as Mick The Miller, and kept his audience enthralled with an  endless stream of stories, jokes and anecdotes. He backed a couple of winners on the tote and was very impressed with the layout of the track. “Spike and Barney should apply for a pitch here,” he said. “and give themselves a break from those sharks in Limerick.”

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Tuesday, there was more sightseeing and a boat trip around Manhattan in the company of Anna Mai and Nell Lane (RIP) This was followed by a very enjoyable reunion of the Murphy Clan in New York, hosted by their cousin, Pat Murphy Jnr.

Meanwhile, Tiger Lane had flown back to Ireland, midway through the visit. “This town ain`t big enough for the both of us!” declared Con.

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Wednesday was designated a “rest day”, so they first went on an extended pub-crawl. They started at Ned Colbert`s popular establishment which was situated across the street from the Horse & Jockey and was appropriately named “The Stop Inn.” From there they visited most of the less salubrious saloons in the Borough of Queens, and then, at the behest of Theresa Dee, they finally rested.

Theresa proved to be a real Angel of Mercy to them during their visit. Nothing was too much trouble for her. She made sure that they had at least one substantial (and non-liquid) meal each day. She gave them the run of her apartment, often at great personal inconvenience, and any time that they felt in need of a break from the frantic pace of the city, she had a bed available for them. She accompanied them around New York and showed them all the sights, and she even cured their hangovers and administered lots of TLC when they were feeling somewhat fragile from too many late nights! Little wonder then that they christened her “Mother Theresa” and sang her praises wherever they went. Nice one, Theresa!

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And so to Thursday, and it was time to head home. The closing ceremony took place in the Horse & Jockey, with the slean now on permanent display behind the bar. Bottles of Sambucca were brought up from the cellar and numerous toasts were made. A couple of banjo players from Louisiana happened to drop in and were cajoled into playing a polka set. And did you ever see a Kerry slide, danced to traditional Bluegrass music, and expertly played by two gentlemen of African extraction, who had been granted honourary Abbeyfeale citizenship for the day? The occasion turned in to a typical American Wake in reverse, with Irish exiles from the four corners of New York arriving to bid a fond farewell to the visitors. As well as the usual suspects, others who turned up included Alan Lane, Pat Finnegan, Frankie Noonan and his family, Johnny Bud and his wife Trish, Johnny Finnucane, Pat (Pod) O`Donnell and numerous others who, due to their illegal status, have bribed us not to mention their names.

Con made a brief speech thanking everyone for their marvelous hospitality and for

 making the trip such an enjoyable and unforgettable occasion, both for Denis and for himself. He was particularly appreciative of the efforts of Theresa Dee to keep them out of mischief and who saw to it that they had their coco and hot water bottle every night!

“Landlord! Fill drinks for the house!” he concluded to thunderous applause. “And make sure they pay for them!” he added.

With that, they bid adieu to the Horse & Jockey and were carried shoulder-high out to the waiting taxi which joined a convey of cars and, with much waving of flags and tooting of horns, they were escorted with great fanfare over the Brooklyn Bridge and away to the airport. “The last time I was in a parade like this,” remarked Con, “Abbeyfeale were after winning the Munster Junior Cup!”

And so, with one final farewell to their hosts, they boarded the great big mettle bird, turned towards the setting sun, and headed for the green, green grass of home, taking with them a store of treasured memories from their trip to the Big Apple.

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 However, the trauma of their visit was to have far-reaching effects on many of the New York Exiles. The strain of parting proved too much for Maurice Collins and he never played senior hurling for Queens again. John Joe Foley failed to make the cut in several major golf tournaments and eventually had to return to Abbeyfeale and take lessons from Spike. Timmy Dee went metric and refused point-blank to ever again measure in feet and inches. (Bob Dylan went electric around the same time.)  Bill Harnett gave up a lucrative career running an illegal gambling den and numbers racket in The Bronx and swore to go legit. Tony Colbert resigned from the Horse and Jockey and moved downtown to a little-known watering hole called Tir na nOg. Tiger Lane found God and began singing with a gospel choir in Harlem where his solo performances of American Pie received much critical acclaim. The slean remained on display behind the bar in the Horse & Jockey, until one night it was stolen by a mad Kerryman, who brought it back to Ireland. Sightings of it have been reported on various turf banks along the mountainy road to Tralee. The tramps and hobos still make an annual pilgrimage to the alleyway at the rear of the Horse & Jockey and keep a silent vigil, hoping that one day Con might once again appear among them with more free drink.

Sadly, they are destined to wait in vain.

*(Many thanks to Denis Murphy who helped in the compilation of this narrative, and who must now bear an equal share of the blame!)

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