Sons of Tyrconnell

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The history of the Tyrconnell bloodline in Ireland is pieced together with what can be best described as clouded facts a doubting man could easily cast his skeptical eye upon. What even goes further to fuel the cynic's disbelief is the blind trust so many Tyrconnell disciples have entrusted to feats that have no other authentication than the fables passed from one believer's lips to another's ear. 

Still, the Tyrconnell story is an Irish one, where facts should never muddy-up legend. 

The Tyrconnell lore, best recited in pub after warm, inviting pub on the coast of Westport in Ireland's thought inspiring County Mayo, is one of valiance, bravery and blood spilled in the name of honor. 

Sometime around the late 1500's, after the reign of the Pirate Queen of Mayo had played its course in Irish history, England's tyrannical Queen Elizabeth I sent a battle-hardened crew of mercenaries to invade the West Coast of Ireland. The hired army sailed into Clew Bay with the intention of land grabbing, cattle steeling and all out piracy in the name of England's heartless Queen. On ancient Mayo's shore stood a shabby gathering of farmers, destined to defend their meager homes and as their leader, stood a stoic Kevin Tyrconnell, a peasant's chieftain. It was father beside son, brother beside brother, in the name of honor. 

The first sight the hell bound mercenaries were witness to, was himself, Kevin Tyrconnell, bare-chested in the November cold and chilled light rain under a grey Irish sky. High above his head he wielded a menacing length of sturdy steel, skillfully forged into a deadly sword. But the most noticeable object between the trained forces and the paltry number of Mayo's sons was a weathered piece of marble hung with a strand of leather around the neck of Tyrconnell, dangling on his muscled and pumping chest. The marble was a special stone from the wondrous mountains in Connemara, passed onto Kevin Tyrconnell from his father who received it from his father before.

While the stone around Tyrconnell's neck was the first barrier the well-equipped warriors would encounter, the air was filled with a steady drumbeat coming from somewhere behind Tyrconnell's devoted band of defenders. The unmistakable, brilliant sound of the bodhran, blended a powerful beat that rhythmically pulsed with Tyrconnell's unconquerable heart, and together raised the blood of each and every one of the outnumbered natives. 

With the haunting howl of a mysterious warwolf, the battle began. While the small group of undaunted and fearless men fighting with Tyrconnell dwindled by death and wound, Tyrconnell crusaded on. He watched his family, friends and even those he encountered feeble quarrels with in the past, fall at the hands of their mercilessly vicious enemies. But as each one of his allies perished, the drumbeat grew louder and the sound filled Tyrconnell as his gallantry raged, the wedge of Connemara marble swinging like a death-spitting pendulum. His blood became spirited with the bravery and strength of a hundred hardened warriors as he slashed through the onslaught of attacking mercenaries. One by one their wretched existence expired with the slice of mortality dispensed by Tyrconnell's blood drenched sword. 

No matter how great the sound of the clashing steel or cries of the wounded and dying, the drumbeat sounded overall. When the remaining mercenaries realized any further advance was futile, they retreated to their boats, but Tyrconnell's campaign was not over. He chased down every last one of the vagabonds who dared try invading his land and the land of his people. With hell-focused eyes and vengeance filled wail, he slew them all. When the battle was over, Tyrconnell returned to his stoic stance, his sword buried deep into the turf of Mayo so sacred to his heart. Scattered at his feet were heaped bodies with life’s last steam radiating into the stenched air from their ghastly, mortal wounds. 

The Tyrconnell battle tale continued, as it has been told for centuries, with himself gathering all of Queen Elizabeth's dead soldiers and piling them back on their ship. He sailed that morbid vessel single-handedly, out to Clare Island and burned the lot, swimming back to shore and immediately climbing the great mountain that is now called Croagh Patrick. The waters of Clew Bay are said to have healed all the wounds Tyrconnell received in the battle and also preserved the marble and leather that hung from his gallant neck, allowing it be passed on to his sons' sons.

Through the centuries, there were many great stories told and retold about the bloodline of Kevin Tyrconnell. One that has been ceremoniously spun is that of Martin Tyrconnell, who was killed by the dreaded and evil Black and Tans in 1920. Martin, whose travels led him to be a member of Tom Barry's Flying Column in Cork, had fairly taken many a trespassing Englishman's life and was eventually lined against a brick wall in front of an unjust and immoral firing squad. The sergeant ringing the death command asked Martin Tyrconnell if he would prefer a blindfold. Martin muttered under his breath intentionally to draw the sergeant nearer, then pierced the inside of his lip by the bite of his own teeth, letting his mouth fill with his own precious blood. As the sergeant leaned in to hear Tyrconnell's last words, Tyrconnell spit his fiery blood onto the sergeant's face. As the blood slowly and defiantly dripped down the shocked sergeant's face, it fell upon his imperial uniform coat and Tyrconnell sang his epitaph. 

"I will have my blood spilled in the name of Ireland today," he said with a clinched jaw that housed his blood-stained teeth, "but you will have it soaked into your hide forever!" 

The dispatched bullets sent Martin Tyrconnell into history's lore, helping the Tyrconnell heritage grow greater than just legend. The family's greatest treasure was saturated with centuries of Tyrconnell sweat, salt and blood, and that marble and leather hung around the throat of many a son to come. 

The drum beat still thunders on, but there is no battle or battlefield for the blood passed on from the famed Tyrconnell to his modern-day warrior descendants. Still, this blood will rise with every pulse and rhythmic sensation from the drums so far in the past, but so evident in the present.

To this day, there was only one person alive in the fair city of Galway, who actually knew the only living male Tyrconnell, the often talked about but rarely seen Collum. He was alive and in Ireland becoming a greater mythical hero than his ancestor Kevin and Grandfather Martin. Walter Healy was a thin, easy and undemanding sort, who was always eloquent with the story of Collum as long as the pint in his hand was substantial enough to grease the words as they sputtered off his tongue. He often told outrageous stories of the youthful conquests in which Collum triumphed back in Westport. How Collum could swim like a fish, run like a horse and was strong as any motorized tool on the farm. 

One evening, as the turf fire burned the cold off the gathered patrons of Murphy's Pub on High Street, Wally was deep into a story he had repeated many a time, over the thick, brownish foam on a dark pint of Guinness. Wally, gifted as any when it came to the craic, was in a fluent monologue directed at a couple of Yank tourists who claimed their great-great-granny was from the salt-sea air of Westport. Jerry Ryan stood up in a huff and interrupted Wally's diction, startling the impressionable Yanks. "Jaysus, Wally. You're the devil himself for pulling the leg of everyone here with the yarns of ya'r precious Collum Tyrconnell. Do you now have to start in with the shaggin' tourists?" 

"You need a kick up the arse," Wally charged with a proud, expanded, although meager chest. 

"See here, ya little shite," Jerry Ryan said as he pulled off his overcoat. "Would ya like to come over here and try to do the kickin?" 

"No, no," Wally said with an impish grin, "I'm not one for fightin'. Actually, I'm allergic to the fight. I break out in cuts and bruises." 

You could hear the laughter from Murphy's Pub all the way down to Galway's Square across from the Skeff. Jerry Ryan raised one eyebrow and squinted under the other, going back to his drink defeated by wit, while the Yanks ordered up Wally another pint. 

Back in Westport, Collum was preparing for battle. But his was a modern-day battlefield, for present day warriors who let their strength and bravery show as bold as their ancestors. Only his war would take place with a caman and sliotar in the ancient Gaelic game of hurling. When the local Shanachie reveled in stories of Collum's triumphs on the hurling pitch, it was as if he was Cuchulainn himself. The storyteller would revel, "When Collum Tyrconnell swings that arm length piece of wood and pucks one through the uprights, it’s a wonder the other players on the field aren't knocked on their arses by the force of his swat." 

The G.A.A. couldn't be prouder of the fact that the legendary Collum Tyrconnell's brilliant play would finally be showcased in the All-Ireland quarterfinals with Mayo traveling to Galway. In Murphy's Bar sat Wally, with a grin from ear to ear and a pint in each hand, praising the victorious outcome of the match, two hours before it even started. "Jaysus," Wally chimed, "by the time Collum Tyrconnell is done today, Christy Moore will be singing about him in pubs from Dub to the Clew Bay Lodge." 

"I think your Tyrconnell is a myth," interrupted Jerry Ryan. "The boys from Galway are too knacky for your man." 

"I'll put fifty pounds on my myth over your mouth," laughed Wally. 

Jerry Ryan went red with anger and couldn't resist Wally's temptation. The bet was on and so was the hurling match. The Galway 15 boasted their proud Maroon and White, while the Mayo side invaded the pitch in sharp White and Red. The sun defied the Devil's deal with the Irish sky and broke through enough grey to sparkle the pure green turf that laid claim to this clash of hurling Titans.

Collum Tyrconnell opened the match just as legend and Wally had promoted. A steed indeed, with powerful stride and unmatched skill. On the offense, he sliced by the Galwaydefenders as though they were posts along the road, scoring the match's first three goals to give Mayo an unanswered advantage. On defense, his swift movements were enough to camouflage his blurred jersey and he was able to defy any Galway advance. It looked as though Tyrconnell would show no flaw until a misguided, but unintentional hurley, struck Collum across the back of his head. The blow was fierce, sending him to one knee at first. Blood began to ravine from his scalp to his face and he fell unconscious to his side. A trainer rushed to his side, having to part the gathering of players from Galway and Mayo who circled his corpse-like body. The trainer poured water across Collum's face and wiped away the streaming blood. Under his jersey, lay the inherited stone and coarse leather of his ancestors. He rolled to his back and let out a groan that made the players rear back. 

An unearthly calm engulfed the entire stadium. Neither player nor spectator dared to breathe or blink. The world, the one that laid witness to this unsettling scene in Galway, stopped dead on its axle. But amidst the paused heartbeats and bated breathing, there came a faint sound. Very distant at first. It was no cheer from the Galway fans and no prayer from the Mayo fearful. It was, however, a few faithful using their clinched fists to pound the wooden stadium seats. Then the few became several and they became many. All together the beat became rhythmic, powerful and steady, while the air around the pitch became electric. 

To the sensation of the world around him, Tyrconnell's chest began to expand as his lungs kept the beat. His eyelids gave a sharp flutter, and slowly they opened. At first the world was a blur, but his hand moved to his neck and felt for his family's prized possession. He grasped the stone in his hand and fingered the leather that was now moist with his blood, his own contribution to the family's legacy. The blue sky became even clearer and Collum smiled at the trainer. "Patch me up, lad," he said with a wink. "We've a match to win here." 

Much to the surprise of everyone in the stands and the players on the pitch, Collum battled on. His concentration had never been keener and his focus was unhindered by the blast he sustained. 

Final score, Mayo 3-16, Galway 0-5.

Jerry very reluctantly placed the fifty pounds on the bar in front of Wally. 

"Don't give it another thought," Wally jibed, "You’ll take Tyrconnell when Good Friday is on a Saturday.” 

That was the last of Collum Tyrconnell's reported heroics, except for the fact that Collum's son Kieran was born a healthy 12 pounds, six ounces. Along with a fine, strong neck for holding that piece of storied marble.