I haven’t been feeling too well this week, as I had a lupus* flare up a few days ago and just needed to lay low. Social media has taken a back seat and my normal sleep hours have multiplied by two-fold in the last 48 hours. 

You know how thoughts pop in and out of your head in the middle of the night, like a stream of consciousness, and you wished you’d written them down, but of course you ALWAYS forget to bring that yellow sticky notepad to bed, or if you DID remember the notepad, you forget the bloody pen!? That was me last night.

What am I going to write about for the blog this week? I thought to myself as I tossed and turned. I spent the guts of two hours turning the fan on every five minutes to quelch the delightful hot flushes I’ve become accustomed to at the fair age of 50, only to turn it off again when I couldn’t fall asleep due to the noise from the bloody fan. I was like a yoyo, working up a sweat at 2am.

I know, I’ll write about that time I was in hospital and the man in the bed beside me left his little container of urine on the windowsill, but he covered it with tinfoil, and it caught a seagull’s eye which then flew down, swooping the shiny bottle away and the little gay nurse from Guatemala came prancing across the ward in despair, looking up to see the seagull sprinkling us all with Mr. Roche’s pee-pee, like holy water from above. 

Stream of consciousness. It’s a true story. Beaumount Hospital, Dublin, 2016, and I’d been taken in for a suspected TIA (a mini-stroke), and was placed in a ward that catered to both male and female patients.

Nah, I won’t write about that.  

That’s one for the book. It was 2:10 am. Another thought popped into my head.

I know. I’ll write about the time my girlfriend’s dad passed away in Las Vegas, and she wanted to spread his ashes over the Pacific Ocean and I knew a pilot who offered to take us up in his four-seater light aircraft, but of course I sat in the back and as soon as my girlfriend opened the window to scatter her dear father’s ashes as we hovered over the beautiful big blue ocean, the contents were promptly swept back into my face. Bits of bone and ash were blown into my mouth, followed by a nice petal from the rose that did manage to make its way out the window.

Book-worthy.  I’ll save that one too.

Still unable to sleep at 6:05am, (or decide what to write about), I had the idea that I’d make a coffee and do what every upstanding Irish citizen should do – tune in to see the highlight of Team Ireland at the Olympics in Tokyo – Kellie Harrington’s fight for GOLD.  

I crept downstairs bringing my pillow with me to the living room, and snuggled up on the couch, sipping my coffee with excitement. I was reminded of the nights my dad used to let me sneak downstairs to watch the Benny Hill Show in the 70’s when I was 8 or 9, and if we heard my mam coming in, I’d quickly hide behind the couch until she left again. It was sort of a forbidden and naughty feeling to be quietly turning on the TV while it was dark and everyone else was sleeping. I quickly switched the commentary from Czech to English as Kellie walked into the arena, looking composed and fierce.

WHAT. A. FIGHT.  I knew she would win by the end of the second round, even though the first round was dodgy. The best part was watching the medal ceremony on our TV screen, while simultaneously watching my Facebook app. Dublin Live were streaming footage from outside her family home on Portland Row as they celebrated her victory. It was like being there with her family, friends and supporters as they cheered her on. I admit, I choked up a little when the Irish National Anthem was played, tears streaming from her eyes, even if we could only see them seep into the top of her face mask as it caressed her freshly pummelled cheeks.

Now, there is no way on this earth that I can compare myself to Kellie Harrington**, or any World Class or Olympic Athlete, but I admit, watching it all unfold at 7:30 am in Prague this morning, brought back memories of August 2019.

I had won a Gold Medal in the European Squash Masters Championships in Vienna, and I got to stand on the podium on the highest bench, in between the silver and bronze medallists. Sarah Parr from England had finished third, and Melanie Moore from Norway had put up an incredible fight in the final, securing the silver medal. The Irish National Anthem was played, and I shed a tear or two, as time stood still for me for about 45 seconds. (They played the abbreviated version). Once the music stopped, I embraced the medallists, one on each side of me. This was my first time to win a Gold Medal at the European Masters Championships.

It was particularly special because only 3 weeks earlier, one of my very favourite cousins, Mark Cullen, had died by suicide. I had been training solidly for a year leading up to the event, but somehow Mark’s death wiped everything away. Nothing mattered anymore. How could a silly squash tournament mean anything, when Mark had died so suddenly, so unexpectedly? I went into hibernation for almost two weeks. I drank every night, smoked cigarettes out in the back garden, listened to Jimmy Somervilles ‘For a Friend’ over and over, sent drunk texts in desperation, and bawled my eyes out, reminiscing on our youth. Mark and I were the same age, and took the Leaving Cert*** together spending every afternoon in 1988 studying in his family’s back garden. At age 17, we were as close as could be, with the exception of one thing. Neither of us dared tell the other that we were gay. It wasn’t until our late twenties when we finally came out to each other. It’s an emotional story that I go into detail about in my book.

With two weeks to go before the championship in Vienna, I had a call with my Performance Coach Cliodhna O’Connor, who put everything into perspective for me. I had done the work with her relentlessly, between strength and conditioning and mental training (and driven her mad in the process). I had worked with my Squash Coach Eoin Ryan at Sutton Lawn Tennis Club, who had a tremendous calming effect, assuring me that my trickery at the front of the court was always going to be trouble for any female player of a ‘certain age’. I had invested 10 months into working with Daniel Davey, one of Ireland’s top nutritionists and had finally arrived at a strong and fighting weight. Many supporters from the Portmarnock Sports and Leisure Centre where I taught spin classes each morning at 6am, often joined me for extra training sessions, egging me on with roars of laughter and flying beads of sweat. My bosses Cathy McGivney and Carol Hunter had bent over backwards to ensure I had a favourable work schedule while I was training.  Lucky in Love, and Salming, my clothing and equipment sponsors, had provided me with enough gear to last a lifetime. I’d done all the work and I had plenty of support from my community. Physically and mentally, I was the fittest that I had ever been. I was undefeated in Masters tournaments all year. And I was 48 years old. What would Mark want me to do?

I travelled to Austria later that month, and played my heart out, knowing I had nothing to prove to anyone. Yes, I’d lost two weeks of my training regime to grief and Heineken and Marlboro Lights, but my flight was booked, and I needed to fulfil my destiny, even if I had no idea what my destiny was.

Cliodhna always gave me the same simple piece of advice. “You’ll land where you land”. I recall vividly when I hit the winning shot in the final match, sending my opponent in the wrong direction. Even though she reached the ball, she conceded it was a double bounce, meaning I’d won the last point. I was European Champion. I cried there and then on the court as all the lads from Ireland jumped up and down screaming with delight behind the glass backwall. Rosie Barry, the President of Irish Squash was there waving the Irish flag knowing full well what this meant to me. I whispered beneath my breath That was for you, Mark. 

After hugs and tears and mugs of beers, my phone rang amidst the bustling and noisy club. I excitedly answered, fully expecting a profound one-liner from Cliodhna. ‘You picked a pretty good spot to land there’, she said. 

So, forgive me for being sentimental about Kellie’s iconic win. It isn’t just that she’s won Gold for herself, for her family, for her country, but I wonder if, like me, it means something more. 

As any avid sports fan does, I quickly googled Kellie Harrington and found out two glorious pieces of information about her. 

1. She is openly gay and,
2. She is a cleaner in St Vincent’s Psychiatric Hospital in Dublin.

As it was still early for a Sunday morning, and I’m at my most creative when it’s early, my mind launched into a conversation I might have had with her years earlier, if I was 38 and she might’ve been 19 or so.

Given my history with mental illness over the years (https://orladoherty.com/a-pint-of-heineken-and-a-shot-of-lithium-please-part-one/)  I imagine it went something like this:

“Excuse me, could I borrow your mop? I’m after spilling my water all over the ping-pong table”. Earlier, I’d noticed the cleaning lady at the front of the sterile hospital corridor doing push-ups on her break.

“Ah c’mere to me, sure I’ll do dat for ye, love’.” Kellie Harrington, jumps up to grab the bucket filled to the brim with water and lifts it like it was a feather duster.  

“Thanks a million”, I say, pushing the ancient exercise bike out of the way, and wiping the sweat from my brow. A tall Indian doctor excuses himself as he eyes us both, then scribbles something on his clip-board.

“Wha’ are you doin’ in here anyway?”, her face lights up with a warm smile, her eyes squinting with curiosity.

“I’m mad you see, at least they all think I am”. I joke watching her command the mop like it’s one of her own limbs. I notice she’s ripped underneath her blue scrubs.

“You’re a mad yoke on that bike anyway. We can hear ya down the corridor, peddling like the clappers you are!” Kellie is squeezing the mop like there’s no tomorrow.

“Have to keep fit”, I brag, wondering if she’ll notice I have some muscles underneath the tank top I borrowed from the guy with multiple personality disorder in Room 21. He was feeling generous that day.

“Ah good girl. I do a bit o’ boxin’ meself.  You’ll be outta here in no time pal”. She flutters away, softly singing Hakuna Matata in her proper Dublin accent.

And…we’re back…

I read an article today that Kellie Harrington believes boxing doesn’t define her. She plans on going back to work as soon as she gets home. She has a small circle and nothing is going to change in her life. There is more to life than boxing, she says. I am humbled by her humility and modesty. 

So, here’s to all role models, and here’s to staying down to earth. Here’s to athletes all over the world who work their arses off, regardless of age, gender, sexuality, religion, sport, or physical and mental ability. Whether it’s the Over 80s Tiddlywinks in Donegal, or the Under 13’s Rowing in Galway or the Special Olympics Basketball in North Dublin, I salute all competitors.

But most importantly, here’s to you Kellie Harrington. Congratulations on your Olympic Gold. Congratulations on your character, attitude and perspective on life. Long may you inspire us!  Hakuna Matata!

*In 2020 I was diagnosed with mild lupus, for which I take medication. I get about one or two flare ups a year which normally wipe me out for anywhere from three days to three months.

**Kellie Harrington – Olympic Gold Medallist in the 2020 Tokyo Women’s Lightweight

***The Leaving Certificate is the final exams Irish students are required to take in order to complete Secondary School (Equivalent of High School Diploma or A Levels)