Quinn

Prologue

17 September 2019

Derrylin, Co. Fermanagh

As he pulled out onto the main road from the Quinn Industrial Holdings car park, with Slieve Rushen Mountain in his rear-view mirror, Kevin Lunney’s mind was on the evening ahead: dinner with the family, possibly cutting the lawn afterwards, definitely looking through papers ahead of an important board meeting the following morning. Distracted by these thoughts, he failed to notice the black Audi tailing him.

He sped along in his Toyota Land Cruiser, unhindered. Traffic congestion in Derrylin was never a concern. That’s the way he liked it. His evening commute was less than ten minutes, door to door. A much different scenario to what he’d faced during his time away from this place, his home. He’d left many years earlier to study electrical engineering at Queen’s University in Belfast and, after university, got a job with Andersen Consulting in Dublin, a role that took him across the Atlantic for a while to work on a project with Microsoft in Seattle. But now he was back home and, truthfully, he never missed the big city life. Instead, he was content to be back among family who, for generations, had lived along the narrow roads he was now driving, between the border villages of Derrylin and Kinawley. He knew every house and family along the route. The school friends with whom he’d grown up, played football and worked alongside. All that had been possible because of one phone call from the man who had gone on to become like a second father, a mentor, to him; the businessman who changed his life.

Sean Quinn.

As Kevin made his way home, he passed farmers taking advantage of the late summer sun to get a final cut of grass in. He thought of his wife, Bronagh, preparing the dinner for seven o’clock as usual – he was a man of routine, as she often said. They had known each other since their schooldays and married three years after he returned home from Dublin. They had since raised a family of six. The eldest boys were entering their teens now and he knew that Bronagh had a whole new level of worries about them. They both did. It would only be a matter of time before they’d want to go out on a Saturday night into pubs that Kevin and Bronagh worried were full of dangerous hotheads with too much drink in them. Nowadays, simply being a son of Kevin Lunney's could cause a row.

If Kevin had looked in his rear-view mirror at that moment, he might have seen that the driver of the black Audi was on his mobile phone, telephoning ahead, confirming that the target was a matter of minutes away. They’d scouted the route and identified the weakest spot for Kevin Lunney: a section of road near his home from where he couldn’t easily escape. The driver’s accomplices were already in position. Kevin Lunney was driving straight towards them.

Kevin turned left off the main Derrylin road and onto the home stretch, the Stragowna Road. Ahead of him he could see Molly Mountain, where he’d lived as a child. One of his brothers still lived up there on the family farm. The wind farms on Doon Mountain were also in view. They were now owned by a French firm.

Kevin often pondered on his life since his return to ‘Quinn Country’. He’d never actually thought of anything he’d done since returning to work for Sean Quinn as for himself. It was always for the big man, the boss, the chieftain. Kevin could still clearly remember that day in Dublin, when he was working at Andersen Consulting. Out of the blue, he got that call from Quinn, inviting him up to see him the next time he was home. Kevin was amazed that Quinn knew who he was and had called him personally, never mind his shock at the role that Quinn later offered him when he did travel north. That had been in 1995, with the Celtic Tiger in full throttle and the country throwing a party. Having left Fermanagh almost fifteen years before, Kevin was going home to become the general manager of Quinn Insurance, which had only opened its doors the previous January. Quinn told him that the company was going to become the biggest of its kind in Ireland. And Kevin Lunney would be the person to make it happen.

And he did.

But now, as the Stragowna Road narrowed and the uncut hedges tumbled out onto the road, that time felt long gone for Kevin Lunney. Sean Quinn was now a king without a kingdom and, as Kevin was back at the company as chief operating officer after Quinn’s departure, his former mentor was now telling the world that Lunney was a traitor. Dozens of ‘Wanted’ posters with Kevin’s face on them had appeared all along the border, alongside the words ‘Cromwell’s men are here again’. There had been threats against him and some of his colleagues, but for Kevin, Quinn’s anger felt much more personal. The threats had already led to violence, as he was still recovering from a vicious attack by a young boxer while he'd been eating his lunch in a local café. It had left him in hospital with multiple facial injuries, including a broken nose. He still felt tender around his right eye and face. But he’d made his choices and refused to be forced off the land of his ancestors, even if he knew there was a clear and present danger from those who wanted their king back on his throne, or at least on the red chair Quinn used to sit on in his old office. Those who refused to believe that this was no longer Quinn Country.

The driver in the Audi called ahead again to say that the prey was only moments from the trap. Kevin Lunney pulled off the Stragowna Road, passing Carn Cottage on his right, a new bungalow built by his neighbours. He steered the jeep past the short stone wall on his left and around the bend and up the lane, which hadn’t much more than a foot's clearance on either side of his 4x4. He was less than 200 yards from home.

Kevin had failed to notice the Audi during the short journey and remained unaware of it as it took the same turn, reversing up the lane to box in Lunney’s Land Cruiser and allow for a speedier getaway. But he couldn’t miss the large white vehicle now obstructing the lane in front of him.

It was unusual but not unheard of for a ‘townie’ to get lost in the multitude of vein-like roads – many of them little more than tracks – that ran through the borderlands. Still, Kevin approached with caution. If by the time he reached them they had yet to move, he decided to stay in his own car rather than to get out. For a moment, the white vehicle sat still. The only noise on the lane was the sound of a late summer evening: birds buzzing, distant tractors, grass being cut. In truth, Kevin’s mind was still primarily on the evening ahead – dinner, the possibility of cutting his own lawn – not really on the car in front of him.

Without warning, the white vehicle burst into life. It reversed straight for Kevin, wobbling over potholes and bouncing off the ditches as the driver struggled to keep it on the lane and on target.

There was no time to avoid the inevitable. Within seconds, almost in slow motion, Kevin saw the front of his Land Cruiser crumple as the vehicles collided. From nowhere, two men in balaclavas pulled at the driver- and passenger-side doors of his jeep, which Kevin had instinctively managed to lock. They were shouting, but he couldn’t make out a word they were saying.

He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket for his phone. Bronagh and the kids. Call Bronagh. Panicked, he struggled to get the code into the iPhone.

Bang.

The driver-side window crashed in, showering him with fragments of glass. As one of the men grabbed at him, Kevin retreated to the back seat, away from his grasp. Now the man was inside the car, followed by the other one. Kevin kicked and pulled at their balaclavas, but was soon overpowered and hauled outside.

Though disorientated, Kevin was still aware enough to notice that a third man, heavier than the other two, was now behind him. Then he saw it for the first time. The red, old-style Stanley knife. It was in the hand of the third man. The blade flashed in the late summer sun, as the man thrust it towards Kevin’s throat. He then used it to slice away his watch from his wrist. Amid all the head-spinning confusion, he understood a command: ‘Get in there now. We want to talk to you,’ one of the attackers shouted.

But he’d no idea what the ‘there’ was.

He knew the accents too – they weren’t northern but southern, with a mix of brogues. The guy with the knife was clearly from Dublin. If they wanted to rob him they’d come a long way. If they wanted the jeep, why wreck it by smashing the windows? None of it made sense.

One of the men was holding what looked like two milk cartons. What was in them? ‘Get into that or we’ll kill you,’ said the man with the knife.

‘Jesus Christ almighty,’ Kevin screamed.

What could possibly warrant such viciousness? They hustled him towards the back of the black Audi, which he saw now for the first time. Kevin contorted himself, trying to pull free, but his captors held on tight. It was clear that they had a destination for him.

The boot.

He kicked at the car as they tried to force him inside. They were all shouting again, at him, barking orders at each other. ‘Get in there or we’ll kill you.' One shoved his head while the other two lifted his feet from under him.

His face was pushed tight against the rear of the back seat as the rest of him was stuffed inside. Before he could turn over and make a bid for freedom, the boot lid slammed shut. The summer sun, the dinner with Bronagh and the kids, cutting the lawn, the prep for the board meeting, were all gone.

Replaced with an all-consuming dark.

1

The Dig

As he walked the road close to the border, a young Sean Quinn knew every hole in the hedge. At one such opening, he glanced over his shoulder and jumped through the whin bush. He poked his head back through another of the holes to check if anyone had seen him. It was the day of his 11+, important exams that decide a student’s transfer from primary education to a grammar school or other secondary schools. However, awaiting the bus to ferry him to the exam, Sean had come to a decision. He was finished with the type of education that a school could give him.

He knew he was making a life-changing decision, but as he pulled his coat tight around the blue suit his father had bought especially for his exam day, his instincts told him that he was doing the right thing. By now, the other students had arrived and were waiting by the side of the road. He could hear their chatter. His defiance only grew as he heard the bus approach. The driver stopped and welcomed the others aboard, knowing all of his passengers by their first names. Then the door swung shut, the diesel engine growled, and the bus drove away.

Sean waited until he could no longer hear the growl before climbing out onto the road. He was barely eleven years old, but Sean Quinn had just defied authority for the first time in his short life. And he was very proud of himself, even if he was nervous about telling his parents of his decision.

Looking back on that decisive moment now, Quinn reflected, ‘School was never of any great interest to me; I was always more interested in getting involved in something.’ His sister Bernie went to the same primary school. ‘He was nearly too fond of the fun and in the classroom he was always witty, he was always quick with his responses,’ she recalled. ‘There was a group of them and there was great craic, you know, they entertained us. I would never have at that stage anticipated that he was going to go on to be a successful businessman. He nearly seemed too relaxed and too laid back for that. But I suppose he showed his determination in that he just didn’t turn up for the bus the day he was supposed to go to the transfer exam. He wasn’t going to go down that path. And maybe that was the first insight we got that he was his own person and was going to do his own thing.’

Quinn still remembers the moment his parents realised he hadn’t taken the bus. ‘When I went home my mother wasn’t very happy, but my father said, Leave him alone, he’ll be all right, he’ll help me with the land, he’ll be grand. My father left school when he was six or seven, so I beat him by a good margin.’

For better or worse, Sean Quinn had decided to forge his own path, one far away from the classrooms and school yards of rural Fermanagh. He would forge this path in an area rife with sectarian tension.

***

Sean Quinn was born in 1947, just twenty-six years after Ireland had been partitioned in 1921 and two years before the twenty-six-county Irish State became a republic and the British government reacted with the Ireland Act of 1949, which set down the status of the six counties of Northern Ireland as being part of the United Kingdom – a status that would only ever change with the consent of a majority of its population, which, in the 1940s, appeared a mathematical impossibility.

The Quinns lived just two miles on the northern side of the border with the new Republic, in the one-horse town of Derrylin, Co. Fermanagh. Those in the North who wished to remain a part of the UK, called ‘unionists’, were of the ruling class and were also largely Protestant, while those who wanted the North to rejoin with the rest of the island of Ireland were termed ‘nationalists’ and were mostly – though not exclusively – drawn from the Catholic underclass.

The tension between both groups had been simmering for decades prior to Quinn’s birth, often threatening to boil over. The unionists regularly resorted to desperate measures to maintain their control over the six counties. Fermanagh, for example, suffered from unionist gerrymandering in its councils, meaning that, despite the fact that the county had a Catholic majority averaging 55 per cent since the turn of the century, unionist figures maintained control of these councils. The year before Sean Quinn was born, a local unionist councillor told a meeting that the nationalist majority in Fermanagh must be ‘liquidated’ and, over the following years, it did indeed drop, as detailed in Margaret Urwin’s authoritative book Fermanagh: From Plantation to Peace Process. This was due mainly to the fact that Catholics faced widespread discrimination in housing and jobs and therefore had to leave the county to find work.

On a parliamentary level, Derrylin and the south Fermanagh region was actually represented at Stormont – the political base of power in Northern Ireland, found in East Belfast – by a nationalist, Cahir Healy MP. Born in Donegal in the late 1800s, he’d been interned twice and argued against Fermanagh and Tyrone being included in the new northern state. In 1945 he helped establish the Anti-Partition League (APL) and was returned to Stormont in 1949 in the so-called Chapel-gate election, after fundraising collections were organised around the North by the APL.

Yet even these minor successes were met with a fierce backlash. Unionists reacted to this latest threat by increasing discrimination of Catholics, making it even more difficult to get jobs or council housing (to include flats). For example, between the end of the Second World War and 1968, a mere fifteen council houses built in Derrylin were let to Catholic tenants. Furthermore, just a few miles away in Lisnaskea, a predominantly nationalist town, 108 council homes were built during the same period, yet only twenty-eight went to Catholics. Fermanagh Council even went so far as to create the new village of Donagh in an attempt to move Catholics out of Newtownbutler, four miles away, so unionists could gerrymander a majority vote in the area.

A 1972 report by the Fermanagh Civil Rights Association called it out: ‘Between 1945 and 1967, 195 houses in Fermanagh were allocated to Catholics, while 853 – over four times as many – went to people of other denominations. Approximately 54% of the population, and that containing by far the greater number of those in need of houses, received only 18% of the Council houses.’ The report, titled ‘Fermanagh Facts’, went on to accuse unionists of attempting to ‘eradicate’ the Catholic majority in Fermanagh.

Given the prevalence of this practice throughout the six counties, it would be of little surprise that housing discrimination proved to be one of the sparks that lit the fire of conflict in the North. A conflict that would cause Sean Quinn’s neighbours along the border, and even in nearby Derrylin, a lot of hardship over the years.

The village of Derrylin – or Doire Loinn, meaning ‘Oakgrove of Floinn’ or ‘Oakgrove of the blackbirds’ – sits on the main road that runs from Fermanagh’s county town of Enniskillen all the way to Cavan town on the southern side of the border. With Upper Lough Erne to the east and Slieve Rushen Mountain to the west, the village’s population has never peaked beyond 650. In the mid-twentieth century, farming provided the only source of significant employment.

Heading south-west out of Derrylin, you cross the border onto the A205 and one mile into the Republic you find Ballyconnell. Sitting on the Woodford River at the foot of Slieve Rushen (or Slieve Russell) Mountain, it’s in Co. Cavan but its natural hinterland is Co. Fermanagh. Because of its proximity to the border, it was the scene of a number of attacks by both Anti-Treaty and Free State forces during the Irish Civil War of 1921–3, culminating in an Irish Republican Army (IRA) column sacking the town and killing two men in February 1923. Sean and his siblings would grow up with Derrylin in the North and Ballyconnell in the South as the two compass points in their lives.

It was, according to many, a unique area. ‘There was an English professor visited Derrylin because, he said, Elizabethan English was still being spoken there. It was trapped by Lough Erne to the north and the mountains to the south, so it was an enclave largely untouched by the twenty-first century,’ says former headmaster and local historian Bryan Gallagher in an interview, adding that the people of the area were very aware and proud of their distinctiveness. ‘The accent of the people in Derrylin was different from those who lived on the far side of the lough. There, the accent was more northern but in Derrylin, or Teemore where Sean Quinn was from, the accent was broader, more of a brogue. The people are known to preserve folklore and the history of the area.’

And it was from this distinctive region that Sean Quinn emerged, like his parents before him.

***

Although there were ten years between them, Hugh Quinn and his future wife, Mary Clarke, knew each other from a young age, growing up on neighbouring farms in south Fermanagh. Mary’s parents, Arthur and Ellen, had both emigrated to New York and married in Manhattan’s grand nineteenth-century neo-Gothic St Patrick’s Cathedral before returning home when they inherited a family farm, a decision that their grandchildren would come to appreciate. Hugh Quinn and Arthur Clarke became friends, the older man becoming something of a father figure to Hugh during his teen years. In his memoir, The Outsider, Sean’s older brother, Peter, told how his father had ‘appeared to act as Arthur’s minder when the older man got drunk and started rows, which was a regular occurrence’.

At the time of Sean’s birth, his parents lived in a small two-bedroom house in the townland of Gortmullan, which runs right up to the border. As well as Peter, Sean had an elder sister, Miriam, while the baby of the family, Bernadette, or Bernie, was born two years after Sean. By that time, Hugh Quinn had bought a twenty-three-acre farm in the neighbouring townland of Knockategell and built a larger home, a typically austere two-storey farmhouse.

Many years later, Sean Quinn reminisced on his father’s shrewdness. ‘My father was able to buy the farm in 1950 for £2,000 and paid cash for it. He couldn’t read nor write, but he was quite clever and he could count money and he would know a good animal from a bad animal.’ He added, ‘He was very astute, you know. He would know what was going on.’ In his book, Peter also recalls his father as being exceptionally good at mental arithmetic: ‘I discovered that if I told him that an animal weighed eight three-quarter hundredweight and we were getting £7.15.0 per cwt (hundredweight) he could work out the price in his head faster than most people could do it with pen and paper.’

Peter Quinn explained his father’s business philosophy as being ‘one learned by doing and only by doing’. He recalls being shown how his father’s system worked at a young age. ‘He decided that I needed to learn how to buy and sell, or deal as it was called in the farming community. For a thirteen-year-old, that sort of experience was a much better way of learning than reading books or anything I did at university later. And his philosophy, that now is always the best time to learn what one does not already know, is still valid. He may have been illiterate, but he was also wise in the ways of the world and intelligent enough to know that experience teaches even the greatest fools. He did the same with my brother, when his time came to learn the art, or science, of trading, and I have to admit that despite a few mistakes, he made a much better use of the lesson in his business dealings in subsequent years.’

While his father had a strong intuition and head for numbers, Sean recalls how it was his mother who had the book smarts. ‘My mother was quite bright and a lot of the local farmers used to come in to ask her to fill in their farm documents, whatever it may be, their herd numbers. She was quite brainy as regards figures and she could write a good letter back sixty, seventy years ago. So, from an education point of view, she wore the trousers and my father done whatever he was told. He done the work and she done the arranging.’

Peter concurred, saying that his mother, ‘became what would be described locally as widely read and her ability to retain information was phenomenal. She was very articulate both in speech and on paper and could be equally caustic through both media. At her funeral, the priest indicated in his homily that being relatively new to the parish he hadn’t known my mother until the last six months of her life. However, he continued by saying that, from what he had heard of her, … she could have trimmed hedges with her tongue. We thought that his comment was entirely apt.’ She ‘had dreams and ambitions and saw a world full of opportunities and potential’. Sean spoke fondly of his mother, although he remembered there being disputes. Peter describes their mother as being a bright woman but ‘a very cross mammy’, only realising much later in life that she’d likely suffered from recurring, mild depression.

Subsistence farming is a tough life, and like with any family there were ups and downs. Sean recalled: ‘It wasn’t always friendly. There was plenty of rows but lovely times as well. I suppose we didn’t know any different. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t have a tractor. We didn’t have anything in those early years; I think maybe I was ten or twelve when my father bought a tractor. And then maybe I was fifteen, sixteen when he bought a car. There were no telephones, no television, no running water. There was very little.’ Yet, overall, they made the best of their situation: ‘They looked after us very well. We were always very well fed and dressed and we felt that we were as well looked after as any other family in the area.’

Bernie also remembers the Quinns’ upbringing as being no different to any other family in the area. ‘It was subsistence farming. We had all our own produce, we had all our own potatoes, vegetables, fruit. Mammy was a good baker, a good homemaker. Everybody learnt how to milk and everybody helped out with that. Mammy made her own bread, her own butter; her boxty was very popular. Now, we didn’t always enjoy it. We would prefer to get away from the work but I suppose it was good training.’

She remembers good times away from the daily grind, nights of humour and gentle gossip. ‘Ours was the céilí house so all the elderly men in the area would have come, sometimes nightly, but certainly weekly, to play a game of cards or just have a chat in the corner with my mother and father and the rest of us. There was never any division within our community, you know. One of our callers came every single night, but during the day he would have had all his non-Catholic neighbours visiting and he’d be telling us about what they were doing and we knew them that way, as if we were living with them and we were living among them. And our postman was from across the fields, and he would have brought Daddy all the news of what was going on in the area. And there was never any feelings of difference.’

Yet differences remained in the area, particularly around issues like land ownership, as the Quinn boys found out when their father looked to buy more land. With two sons and only one farm, Hugh Quinn felt that he had a problem. As he saw it, Sean and Peter were both destined to be farmers and in order to avoid any future dispute, their father decided to buy a second farm of land at Cranaghan, on the southern side of the border. The seventy-six acres were a mile south of Ballyconnell and three miles from the homestead on the Mountain Road. The land had once belonged to the Church of Ireland Estate and was now being sold by a Protestant farmer who Hugh Quinn knew and respected. He offered to pay £30 per acre, or a total of £2,250, but when he went to seal the deal, there was an issue. Some local Protestants, angry that the farmland was being sold to a Catholic, attempted to prevent it from going through. A meeting was convened in a local hall to discuss the proposed deal, but, according to Peter Quinn, one of their own Protestant neighbours told the gathering that ‘Quinn was the highest bigger, it should be left with him.’ Only then was the sale agreed.

At a later point, Hugh tried and failed to buy another Protestant farm in Teemore, even though he was again the highest bidder. Peter Quinn recalled: ‘Someone had learned the lesson from a decade earlier and the mistake was not going to be repeated.’ It was over forty years since partition, but Hugh Quinn’s plans for his family were being blocked by the invisible sectarian walls that ran across the borderlands.

Still, Hugh was likely happy to finally own land on both sides of the border, even if the very notion of partition was something with which he disagreed. In his book, Peter Quinn writes that ‘even though he was not politically minded, my father never really accepted the validity of the border. He felt, as did most of his nationalist neighbours, that Fermanagh should have been part of the Free State.’

The Quinns, like every other family on the Mountain Road, Protestant or Catholic, looked on Ballyconnell as their local town, no matter about the border. ‘It was where groceries were bought, where cattle, sheep, pigs, donkeys and horses were bought and sold on the monthly fair day, where pints and half-ones were consumed and men got drunk, where politics was discussed and, mostly importantly of all, where most of those who lived along the Mountain Road expected to be buried,’ Peter said. ‘The creation of an international boundary could not break that link. Indeed, in many ways, it has still not been broken.’

All the Quinn siblings would agree with Peter’s conclusion that, as a result, the family grew up with a ‘bipolar perspective’. He explained, ‘We were in Teemore, but we socialised in Ballyconnell; we were in Fermanagh, but we were aligned economically and socially with Cavan; we knew west Cavan much better than we knew most of the rest of Fermanagh – in fact, we barely knew anyone in north or west Fermanagh at all. We lived in the newly established North but we thought and acted as if we were in the Free State, as it continued to be called in south Fermanagh. We had relatives in various parts of Cavan, but very few in Fermanagh, beyond the boundaries of our own parish. In fact, most of the old people from south Fermanagh had more relations in New York and the other parts of the United States, than they had in other parts of Fermanagh; that was certainly true in the case of Catholic families because the dreaded emigration did not apply as an equally consistent imperative to those of other religions.’

In many ways, it was the border that created the character of Sean Quinn. His identity was carved out of his upbringing on the Mountain Road. There was a duality at the core of his existence, a cognitive dissonance that came from living on the line between two states: twin cultures, two currencies, two governments of mutual suspicion, two religions and two political aspirations. Difference was his normal. In business, he would come to ruthlessly exploit those differences.

For all the effort that Hugh went to in order to purchase this patch of land south of the border, it did not stay in the family for long. Bernie explained that the land was sold, ‘Because they [Peter and Sean] were going through Ballyconnell, I think my mother and father thought that Sean might get some bad ideas or bad habits there. So eventually they sold it, the land.’ Perhaps the more likely reason was that Hugh already suspected that his sons were not destined to be farmers.

Many years later, Sean Quinn would buy back the same parcel of land to build a hotel.

***

Growing up, the main focus for the Quinn children was the Teemore Shamrocks pitch just north of their home off the main Enniskillen road. The club’s history stretched back as far as 1888, though they only formed officially in 1904. They won the Fermanagh championship three times in the 1920s and again in 1935, though local rivals Rosslea Shamrocks and Lisnaskea Emmetts dominated Fermanagh football in the 1940s and 1950s. As the Quinn boys progressed through underage levels, they dreamed of bringing success again to Teemore.

For Sean Quinn, football became the sole focus of his teenage years. ‘It’s funny, there was no history of football in the family. My parents didn’t play or nobody belonging to me played football. But it probably just came from the fact that the football pitch was only 200 metres away from our bedroom. And I used to be running from the byre, from milking the cows, straight across, jump the wall and across to the football pitch. And that happened maybe five, six evenings a week, you know, we’d be there. It was the only thing we knew.’

Of course, there was little else to occupy his spare time in those days. ‘There was no cinema, we didn’t go to the pub, we didn’t go anywhere, we didn’t have any way of going apart from a bicycle, so the football pitch was our home. And we used to have good fun there. So that’s how it started, and of course then when you played for a few years you want to get better at it and you want to get bigger at it, and you want to try to win trophies.’ So with his already customary resolve and work ethic, he set out to make his boyhood dreams a reality.

During the sixties, the Quinn brothers established themselves in the team alongside stalwarts such as goalkeeper James Cassidy, who had won an All-Ireland medal with Fermanagh in 1959. Their manager was Teemore curate Father John Maguire. Teemore hadn’t won a championship in a generation. By 1969, however, that wait was about to end. Things began well when Sean convinced Cassidy to play one last championship. They went on to beat Ederney St Joseph’s in their first game before coming