THIRTY FIVE years ago I was working in a small town in Ireland. I was what was then quaintly known as a "cub" reporter. I was more or less my own boss in this little bush station. I used to send my stories by train to headquarters in bulky brown envelopes each evening. A bit primitive, but, better than carrier pigeon.
I knew all this was only temporary some day I would hit the big time, in London or New York. The world was my oyster. It was just a matter of learning the ropes, and then goodbye to the sticks.
One morning I woke with an excruciating toothache. I have never known such pain. I managed to put up with it for a couple of days, hoping that it would, go away; it just got worse. Only a dentist could get me out of my agony, but that was easier said than done.
I discovered there was no dentist in the town. This was about 1960 and there weren't that many dentists practising not like now, when there is one at every corner. I would have to travel to one of the bigger towns for the luxury of a real, live dentist. However, I was too busy that week to leave base.
My head was lifting off with the pain and I was like a demented bear stalking around. Eventually, this chap said that there was, in fact, a dentist in the town, but he was, er, retired. He suggested that maybe he might do a job for me? Apparently this unfortunate dentist was an alcoholic, and he could never get his hand steady enough to carry out an extraction or a filling. He was also getting old, so he had decided to retire.
Alcoholic dentist
I listened to his background with great interest, but it did not put me off. I just knew that I was on my last legs and if I didn't get the tooth out pronto, I could be up in Boot Hill within 24 hours. He might be an alcoholic, he might be retired, but he surely knew the basics and he might be able to give me some relief. Once a dentist, always a dentist. That was my thinking at the time.
With a certain amount of trepidation, I set off for his house. The door opened and this small, grey faced man with the most weary eyes I have ever seen on a human being was standing there. I explained my predicament to him, and then he told me of his "little problem".
No, no, he would rather not do the job, much as he would like to help me out of my agony.
It had been so long since he had practised that he had almost forgotten how it was done. I continued to beg, plead with him, to "have a go." The alternative was to go home and slash my wrists.
With my journalistic powers of persuasion, I eventually broke him.
His surgery
He ushered me into an old study cum surgery, with a musty, stale smell, filled with little medical bottles, books and general bric a brac. It obviously hadn't been used as a surgery for a long time. He rooted around for a needle and some stuff to give me the anaesthetic. After an eternity, he got down to work. He was feeble, lacked confidence and hardly had the strength to pull the tooth.
There was no going back at this stage . . . After numerous tugs, he had the offending molar at the end of his pliers. He was quite pleased with himself. A shy look of satisfaction spread across his haggard face. A job well done.
Later that day, I was still bleeding and feeling weak. I knew it would take a bit of time for the bleeding to stop, but hours later there was still no sign of it stopping. I was too busy to go to bed for a much needed rest. That night I had to go to a vital meeting of the GAA county board.
During the meeting, I was in a state of collapse. Sitting at the press table, I was discreetly spitting blood, out of the corner of my mouth on to the floor. A little red pool was forming. This was highly embarrassing, but I had to stick to my post. The GAA was discussing a motion to ban me from covering its games. There were objections that my reports were too colourful and exaggerated.
Keen sportsman
As far as I was concerned, they were perfectly accurate. I, have always been a keen sportsman and am a great believer in fair play. If heads were being broken every week, if women were running on to the field with bottles, hitting players over the head, if the Gardai had to be called on one occasion, if an ambulance had to be called to bring two players to hospital, then I was going to report it. The GAA didn't like the bad publicity.
One delegate, who discovered I played rugby for a Dublin, club, jumped to his feet and shouted with glee: "He's playing rugby on Saturday and covering Gaelic football on Sunday. He's not qualified to report our national games." In the old days if you played a "foreign" game, you were worse than a Black and Tan, and the vigilante committees would be after you.
When that unforgettable meeting ended, I felt like a war correspondent who had stood at his post beyond the call of duty, bombarded by verbal fire. A senior official, a friend of mine, looked at me and said I didn't look well. He apologised for all the vitriol that had been flung at me during the night and advised me to ignore it.
He then saw the pool of blood on the floor. He got me to a doctor at 11 p.m. The doctor was horrified and said the hole where my tooth had once been had not been plugged. He did the job, and asked: "Who in the name of God did that to you?"
Like a good journalist, I did not disclose my source. As far as I was concerned, the old dentist had done his best. That's as much as anyone can do and I bore him no ill will. He died some years later, and I was one of the first into the church for his funeral.
Oh yes, the motion to have me banned from all GAA grounds in the county was defeated. Unfortunately, this meant I had to continue getting soaked every Sunday, watching the usual mayhem which at that time passed for football.