WHEN FIRST UNTO THIS COUNTRY

On quiet evenings if I search the corners of my memory, I can sometimes recall my first visit to Merrion in the burnt-out summer of 1976 – the blaze of green, dappled sunlight, grass cutting mixed with petrol, Simon Curley commanding his square, middle-aged men wheel barrowing the cuttings over the bank.

My chess teacher from Blackrock College walked me down from the bus stop as he knew someone on the committee. As a shy, bespectacled boy I had unwittingly entered a wonderland. Down a mysterious rabbit hole I went - of laws, history, dusty books, technique, leather and willow and of course the mysterious spirit of cricket - which in truth I’ve never really left.

Robbie was one of my first friends in Merrion. He had already figured out how it all worked and if you lived on Anglesea Road it added a touch of royalty. With no family history, I served my apprenticeship on the under 15Bs, while of course he was already a star of the U15As. In time our paths caught up and we played most of our underage and senior cricket together. During summers which now seem always long and sunny, we trained all day at Merrion – everywhere and anywhere on the outfield, the nets and even on the tarmac with rubber mats but never Simon’s square. It helped that we were teenagers together as the journey through adolescence morphed into our journey through senior cricket.

If I shake the kaleidoscope, certain parts glitter more brightly. Robbie striding down Anglesea Road long hair, bum fluff and brown anorak. Harp and lime, Robbie with a small cheroot. Gardai raiding the Ballsbridge Inn for under-age drinking as we made up names. John A’s purple-red Austin over a car pit in the driveway. Winter Friday nights in the Pirate’s Den counting down the days to cricket season. Poker nights in No. 41 with his soapy home brew and Paddy’s doomed bluffing. Grills on the pavilion windows, Arthur’s rescued train seats in the pavilion sticky with beer. Goat and Spacer. Tommy & Richie. Benjy’s buckskin pads. Club nights. Wiggins Teape Leinster 2pm. Tom Devlin calling the old black phone box for match scores. Mixed six-a-side on the June bank holiday with Marie and Alice. Mikey in the night. Tours to Kent, Somerset, Wales and Brighton. Robbie’s giraffe legs after Bacardi & Coke. What goes on tour.

By the early 90s our paths had diverged, scarred by the Gibson civil war. I in self-imposed exile, and Robbie reinventing himself as a batsman with extraordinary slices over point and cover, the chin thrown back a legacy of a blow in the teeth at Carlise from Collie Walters. I watched from the margins as Merrion finally started to deliver on the promise of the under 18 cup winning team and so many false dawns. Robbie and Duffy central to it all. Perhaps we needed the hard-nosed Aussies to teach us how to finally convert promise to wins.In the clubhouse we circled each other like mangy old lions, never sitting together each too proud to acknowledge the lost years. In recent seasons we sat at the same table and bought each other pints - perhaps a silent apology. We would rarely agree on cricket tactics, we just saw it from a different point of view as another Bob once sang.

But now I have summoned the cricket ghosts and they grow restless. Soon we will need more benches.

Best to remember him in his prime. A warm breeze from the river. Tanned with bird’s nest hair. Gentle, loping run up. Short sleeve jumper, maroon gold and green v-neck. Hands clasped in front, ball hidden. A high action, the upright seam wobbling slightly towards its target. The puzzled batsman surprised by the late movement and bounce. Ken throws the ball to the sky, a shy smile from Bob as he looks at the ground. A ripple of applause.

Rest in peace.

John Heavey

5th March 2025