The following brilliant piece first appeared in the 25th Anniversary Edition of the Kilmacud 7's programme in 1997. Coincidently Borris took home the winners Cup in the Senior Competition the same day
MY FIRST HURLEY by Richie Stakelum (1997)
'If you wander up the green hill slopes, midst the pure and balmy air,
You can view the rolling plains below, so lovely bright and fair.
There nature gives her richest garb to every bush and tree,
And spreads the wild flowers o’er the vale, round Lovely Fair Ileigh.'
That is the third verse of a song that is close to the hearts of every player that ever wore the maroon and white of his beloved ‘Borris’. The title of the song is “Lovely Fair Ileigh”, written about a village and its hinterland in North Tipperary. It’s where I was born and raised – a place apart for any aspiring young hurler.
My first hurley, and indeed many more, was made by one of its favourite sons. Phil (Phippy) Kenny was the hurley maker in Borrisoleigh for as long as I can remember. He was one of the famous Kenny brothers, Paddy, Phip and Seán. Paddy had guile and speed, Seán had power and charisma but Phippy had sheer class.
My big brother Pat, known locally as ‘Stack’, brought me down to Chapel Street with a half-crown clutched tightly in my fist. When we arrived at the big green door, we could hear the whirr of the band saw as it sent swirls of white ash dust cascading all over Phippy’s “Erin Foods” overalls. This was heaven. We shuffled nervously through the piles of shavings and stood mesmerized as his skilful hands guided the new ash plank along the steely blue barbs of the great saw. He paused, looked over the rims of his speckled glasses, sucked deeply on his Players No. 6 and smiled. He hit the red button and immediately the great machine shuddered and began to slow down, the dynamo’s whistling soon fading away and the swirls of the fine dust settling on the hundreds of cob webs in the sky light.
Pat was the biggest so he did the talking. “Phippy will you make one for him? He has the money”. I saw him scratch his head, squint his eyes and take another pull. My heart sank. “Please God don’t let him say he’s too busy, like last Saturday. Surely today will be different, sure the seniors aren’t playing Toomevara until Sunday week.” Without saying a word, he fumbles along the bench amidst bits of hoop, insulating tape, 20 No. 6 and a box of matches. Yes, he’s reaching for the ‘pattern’. He motions me over and uses the pattern, a wafer thin hurley which he places against the hip of my grass stained short trousers. I can hardly contain my excitement. Stack is too busy messing with the spoke-shave to notice, ‘cos he’s been here before, many times. He’s 10 and has 3 hurleys. Phippy carefully selects a new plank and brings it to the bench. He carefully traces out the pattern onto the yellow, seasoned wood. Now he’s ready to begin.
As we wait for the saw to warm up, he allows us to look at some of the seniors’ hurleys that are in for mending. There’s Matt of the ‘Cross’s, it has 3 hoops and a bit of blood along the handle, he’s a tough yoke Matt! Look and Noelie’s, ‘tis smaller and lighter and has the print of a new ball on the bas. Oh look! There’s Dwyer’s. It stands alone, a brand new hoop on it and black tape, and his initial N.O.’D. Dwyer is the county man, our hero.
Fifteen minutes later, my new hurley is beginning to take shape. It looks nearly ready for the planer. The brown Stanley plane reefs great, long, curly-wurly flakes as the master craftsman flashes his hands along the thirty inches of mountain ash. Very little is said as this timeless ritual is performed. We marvel at the mountain of sweet-scented sawdust that’s piled high in this most magical of places. Phippy, his eye along the length of the camán, a shave here and there, then comes the piece of glass from the bucket which doubles as an ash tray. This is used to smooth the little ridges left by the planer. He puts it on the floor and gently tests the ‘spring’. Nearly there – now into the vice for one last time where he pares the nose with the spoke-shave. This will allow the fast pick up. After he has sanded it, he reaches for the stamper. This is the ‘coup de grace’. He stamps both sides of my new hurley with his name.
“Now young Stakelum, tell your father that ‘tis the best one I’ve ever made, there’s great stuff in that, I’d say ‘twill never break.” I thrust a sweaty half crown into his dusty hand, we thank him profusely and bound out into the sunlight. I could burst I’m so proud. My immediate reaction is to smell the new ash, there’s no smell so sweet. I parade up Chapel St. and turn right at Ned Finn’s heading up Main St, past Noel Dwyer’s house and my head is full of dreams.
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Richard Stakelum won a County, Munster and All-Ireland medal with Borris’ in 1987 at wing-back. He also has a county medal from 1983. He captained Tipperary to victory over Cork in Killarney in the Munster final of 1987. It was Tipp’s first Munster c’ship in 16 years and he gave the famous “The famine is over” speech afterwards. He won an All-Ireland medal as a sub in 1989. He moved to Dublin where he began playing club hurling with Kilmacud Crokes in 1992 up until his retirement in the late ‘90’s. He served as a selector on the Dublin senior hurling team with Anthony Daly from 2009 until 2014. He is a brother of current Tipperay team selector Conor.
