When Sports Illustrated published an account of Ronnie Delany's welcome home to Ireland after his Olympic victory (SI, Jan. 21), a reader named Bernard Patrick McDonough, a West Virginia businessman whose interests include the largest shovel factory in the world, got in touch with the author of this report. Their acquaintance prospered as they discovered a mutual interest in Ireland, and eventually Mr. McDonough invited the author to fly to Ireland for a weekend and see what might be done to improve economic conditions over there. Before leaving Idlewild, the author, for reasons he has not disclosed, arranged with TWA to fly one of Mr. McDonough's shovels to Ireland on short notice. The plot thickens and is finally and happily resolved in this concluding installment.
At shannon airport, where a driver was waiting with a Vauxhall sedan to drive us wherever we wanted to go, I decided to tell Mr. McDonough something I had been thinking about on the plane.
"Mr. McDonough," I said, "now that we are on Irish soil, I wonder if I might presume to think of myself not only as an American sportswriter but as a consultant on Irish affairs and, if you will, a sort of public-relations counselor. Have you any objections?"
Mr. McDonough held up a hand.
July 28, 1957
"Please," he said, "think of yourself in any way that gives you pleasure."
"Thank you," I said. "Now I feel free to bring up a public relations thing. Back home, during our first telephone conversation, you asked me, 'Will the Irish in Ireland work?' You said they were excellent workers in other lands, but you were not so sure of them over here. May I ask if the question still interests you, sir?"
Mr. McDonough nodded.
"It's an important question," he said, "because if you pay a man 50¢ an hour and he's not a worker, he may actually be costing you $2 or $3 an hour."
"I can understand that," I said. "But I don't think it would be wise to ask your question indiscriminately over here. It might put people's backs up. I would suggest that we start off by visiting some cousins of mine. I think we can get some frank answers from them."
Mr. McDonough said I was the doctor.
I leaned over and spoke to the driver: "Take the road to Ennis and I'll direct you from there."
It wasn't long before we had pulled up in front of the home of my Cousin Michael, whom I had met for the first time in my life during my visit to Ireland with Ronnie Delany. Cousin Michael raises beef cattle and farms 200 acres and keeps in close touch with things.
"You can wait in the car," I said to Mr. McDonough, "and I'll see if they're up yet." It was just a little after 8 in the morning.
I opened the gate and started up to the front door. I hadn't gone more than a few steps when I was suddenly set upon by two huge dogs who came racing around the side of the house and almost knocked me down and then started nipping and snapping at my wash-and-wear suit as I fought my way to the door.
"Down, boys, down!" I cried, but that only seemed to anger them.
Mr. McDonough watched from the car with a bemused look on his face, and I became almost as embarrassed as I was frightened out of my wits.
Then, providentially, there popped into my mind a Gaelic phrase I had heard James Cagney, the actor, use in telling a story one time. Whirling on the dogs, I flung out both arms and shouted: "Fag an bealach!"*
Whether it was the Gaelic command or the waving of my arms that did it, I do not know. But the dogs fell back as if I had thrown scalding water upon them.
The commotion brought Cousin Michael, a tall, spare man in his 50s, to the front door. He was thunderstruck upon seeing me, but recovered quickly and beckoned to Mr. McDonough to come into the house. I ran back to the car to get a brown paper envelope out of my bag. It contained something I had been studying at odd times ever since I went to West Virginia to meet Mr. McDonough for the first time: the fat catalog of the O. Ames Company, the largest shovel factory in the world, now a division of the Bernard P. McDonough Company.
In a little while we were talking away at a great rate over the tea and brown bread that Cousin Michael's wife, Cousin Lena, had served us. When I sensed that the cordiality of the occasion had reached a proper level, I said to Cousin Michael: "Cousin Michael, Mr. McDonough has a question to ask you. I have advised him that it is not a question to be asked of just anyone. I also told him I was sure you would receive it in the proper spirit and not get your back up."
Cousin Michael and Cousin Lena exchanged glances.
I signaled Mr. McDonough like a director giving an actor a cue.
Mr. McDonough put down his teacup. He looked from Cousin Lena to Cousin Michael and then he said: "Will the Irish in Ireland work?"
Suddenly, like the wail of a banshee, there came a great howling and yowling from the dogs outside the house. It was sheer coincidence, of course. Cousin Michael, however, seemed to welcome the chance to rush to the window and draw aside the curtains and peer out. He turned to Cousin Lena.
"They've a driver out there," he said. "Has anyone asked him to have a cup of tea?"
"In a minute," said Cousin Lena. "You've been asked a question."
Cousin Michael came back and sat down in his chair and held his hands out to the electric heater on the floor. Finally, he leaned forward and, looking directly at Mr. McDonough, he said:
"They'll work for a stranger."
Nobody said anything.
"Put a stranger in charge," said Cousin Michael, "and he'll make them work. They won't work for anyone they know."
Mr. McDonough pulled out paper and pencil and started making notes. I reached into my brown paper envelope and drew out the shovel-factory catalog. I turned to the page containing the aerial views of the factory, which looked like it might be a branch of General Motors. I handed it to Cousin Michael and said, "This is Mr. McDonough's shovel factory in the United States."
Cousin Michael took the catalog carelessly and said again to Mr. McDonough: "They'll work for a stranger. That's the key to the situation."
Then he looked down at the photograph of the shovel factory. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open a little. He slapped the catalog smartly and jumped to his feet.
"Put me in charge, Mr. McDonough," he exclaimed. "I'll make them work!"
There was silence for half a minute and then Cousin Michael realized he had eliminated himself by his previous remarks, and there was a good laugh all around. Cousin Michael asked did we want whisky or sherry and we said neither this early in the day. Before we got up to leave, Cousin Lena told us that some German industrialists were starting a factory in County Clare (it was the Germans who built the electric power plant on the Shannon years ago) and Mr. McDonough raised his eyebrows and made a note of that significant piece of news.
Finally, off we went to visit other County Clare cousins. We missed Cousin Thomas who was off in the bog, too far to fetch. Cousin Johnny was out, and the cousin who has the pub, one of the McDermotts, had not opened up yet. But we found Cousin Delia at home and she sent the boy out into the fields to tell Cousin Paddy.
A tribute to the shovel
Over more tea and brown bread, we talked of enterprises that might be started up in Ireland. Cousin Paddy (he went to agricultural school) said an experimental farm would do the country immeasurable good and Cousin Delia said a sportsman's lodge on the shores of beautiful Lough Derg (a widening of the Shannon, really, and heaven for trout fishermen) would certainly be a sound investment. Mr. McDonough nodded in' agreement and made notes.
With that we said goodby and pushed on toward Gal-way. Along the way, as we passed through a village, Mr. McDonough suddenly cried out: "Pull over to the curb!"
He was out of the car in a flash, and I followed him and saw what had caught his eye: some shovels on display outside a kind of general store. As Mr. McDonough picked one up and examined it, the proprietor came out of the store and introduced himself as Paddy Corcoran.
"I've never seen a shovel like this," said Mr. McDonough.
"That's for cutting turf," said Mr. Corcoran, "or peat, as you would say, I suppose."
I ran back to the car and got my brown paper envelope with the shovel catalog in it. Dashing back, I showed the picture of the big plant to Mr. Corcoran.
"This is the largest shovel factory in the world," I said. "They turn out 10,000 a day." I pointed to Mr. McDonough, indicating he was the proprietor.
"Go 'way," whispered Mr. Corcoran, looking at the picture. "Go 'way!"
"Mr. Corcoran," I said, laughing a little bit in self-deprecation, "I'll confess something to you. A few weeks ago, I was under the impression that the shovel had gone out of existence in this modern age of machines."
Mr. Corcoran looked at me pityingly.
"My dear man," he said, speaking as one would to a child, "the shovel will never go out of existence. I don't care what scientific advances there may be."
"I believe that now," I said. "We'll always need the shovel."
"The shovel," said Mr. Corcoran, "is the grandest implement known to civilized man." He looked at Mr. McDonough, who nodded in agreement.
Mr. Corcoran turned back to me.
"Just consider now, mister," he said, "the shovel is with you all your life. Here in a country such as ours, isn't it the shovel that turns the sod so the seeds may be put down and the vegetables grown and the oats and barley and all to provide sustenance for the growing child?"
"Yes," I said, "that's true, Mr. Corcoran."
"Take a lad reaching the threshold of young manhood," said Mr. Corcoran, beginning to warm up to his theme. "He goes out to look for work. He's untrained. So the prospective employer says to him, 'What can you do, m'boy, what can you do?' "
Mr. Corcoran looked from one of us to the other.
"Well, now," he said, "if the boy can say nothing else, he can certainly say, 'I can shovel!' And then, and then what is the employer to reply except, 'Well, my lad, that's something, that's something surely. There's a lot of shoveling to be done!'"
Mr. Corcoran laid a finger alongside his nose. He seemed at a loss for a way to develop his thesis further.
Then, across the street, a priest in his cassock walked slowly by, hands clasped behind him, eyes on the walk before him, obviously deep in thought as though he might be pondering next Sunday's sermon.
It was the inspiration Mr. Corcoran needed. He thrust out an arm to point.
"Take him," he whispered. "Did you ever stop to think, mister, what's waiting for all of us at the end of the road, at the end of the line? Isn't it the shovel in the hands of that holy man as he sprinkles a few clods over the box and speaks in the Latin tongue the words, 'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' and down you go and the shovel covers you over?"
Mr. Corcoran bent down in a half crouch and spread out his hands.
"Isn't it something to think about, mister?" he croaked. "Isn't it something to conjure with?"
Mr. McDonough put the shovel he was holding back into the rack.
Mr. Corcoran straightened up and spoke more rapidly as he saw we were getting ready to move on.
"You talk about your scientific discoveries," he said, "your machine age, your atom bomb, your haitch bomb. Have all the scientists, so called, found anything yet that does as much good, that is with a man in life and in death like the shovel?"
Mr. McDonough nodded and put out his hand.
"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Corcoran," he said. "And you've certainly given us something to think about."
"Ah, they were just a few thoughts at random," said Mr. Corcoran. "You'll come inside and have a little drop of something surely?"
"Thank you," said Mr. McDonough, "but we're behind schedule now."
At Galway, we went directly (and incognito) to the shovel factory, which turned out to be a foundry really and made other things besides shovels. On a good day, a dozen or so shovels might be produced. The factory had a dirt floor and there were great leather straps turning the machinery. The power came from a generator which was turned by the river flowing underneath the plant. Thinking of the vast shovel factory in West Virginia, I looked at Mr. McDonough. He gave no sign of what his reactions were, beyond pulling the sheaf of papers from his pocket and jotting down some notes.
We stopped at the Shamrock Lodge in Athlone for dinner, and while we were eating, the proprietor, Mr. Frank Coen, joined us.
"May I ask, gentlemen," he said politely, "when ye arrived?"
We said we had landed at Shannon that morning.
"And how long will ye be in Ireland?"
We said we thought we would be ready to start back on Monday evening.
A very worthy cause
Mr. Coen looked from one of us to the other and finally he said, in the kindest way: "Ye arrive on Friday and ye go home on Monday? Ye are stark mad. Why, I went to see a man across the street one Saturday night and we got talking and I didn't come back until Tuesday."
Next morning, as we rode along the road to Dublin, Mr. McDonough referred to the shovel factory for the first time.
"As you can imagine," he said, "it would be far more practical for my purposes to build a new factory than to take over the one in Galway."
"I should think," I said, "that the government man we're to meet in Dublin will have some valuable thoughts on that subject."
"Possibly so," said Mr. McDonough, "possibly so." He lit a fresh Sweet Afton cigaret from the butt of another one. He had succeeded in quitting smoking back home, but now he was chain-smoking again, having tired of refusing the cigarets that were pressed on us every time we met someone new.
I looked out the car window, thinking not of shovels in mass production but of one particular shovel. This was the one I had arranged with James Cahill of TWA to fly over to Ireland when, and if, I gave the word. We drove past a caravan of tinkers and ancient stone walls with such sentiments painted on them as "Boycott An Tostal" (the annual festival to welcome tourists) and "Shun Cycling Slaves," the latter a reference to bicycle racers of whatever athletic faction the sign writer happened to be against.
I decided to take Mr. McDonough into my confidence.
"Mr. McDonough," I said, "would you like to hear about a very worthy cause here in Ireland?"
"All right," he said.
"By way of preface," I said, "let me say that since you proposed this weekend visit to Ireland, I have been trying to think of some way to make it sort of symbolic of Irish-American interest in the Old Country."
"Well," said Mr. McDonough, "I'll tell you something. I've felt for a long time that the Irish have gone out all over the world and a great many of them have done very well. But I've heard of very few coming back to help Ireland."
We looked out over the countryside, lush and green, with the fine-looking cattle grazing in the fields.
"This thing I have in mind," I said after a minute, "is a campaign to build Ireland's first cinder running track of Olympic standards. Did you know that the country which has produced one of the greatest runners of the mile in Ronnie Delany hasn't a cinder track of her own?"
"If they can produce runners like Delany," said Mr. McDonough, "what do they want with a cinder track?"
"That's just it," I said. "Delany left Ireland and went to Villanova University in the United States. They have every facility, including cinder tracks. If he hadn't gone to Villanova, if he had stayed here and been forced to race and train on grass alone, maybe he would never have run a sub-four-minute mile. Ronnie has said as much himself."
"It seems to me," said Mr. McDonough, "that Ireland has more pressing problems than cinder tracks."
"Just a minute," I said. "Do you admit, sir, that young people are leaving Ireland in great numbers?"
"So I'm told," said Mr. McDonough.
"All right," I went on, "now consider this. Suppose Ireland was to get her cinder track and start turning out topflight athletes by the dozen. Ronnie himself has said that's possible. Don't you see, sir, the effect on the morale of the youth? Don't you foresee the upsurge in national pride? Don't you see an Irish Olympic team at Rome in 1960 that will be the wonder of the world?"
A reason for running
Mr. McDonough lit another Sweet Afton.
"What," he said, "is being done to get the cinder track?"
"There's a man in Dublin named Billy Morton," I said. "He's the big organizer of amateur athletic events and is the honorary secretary of the Clonliffe Harriers."
"Harriers are hounds, aren't they?" said Mr. McDonough.
"Literally speaking, yes," I said. "But in this case they are cross-country runners. There are all sorts of running clubs in Ireland. Delany's club is called The Crusaders."
"There seems," said Mr. McDonough, "to be an awful lot of running in Ireland."
"Well," I said, "money isn't too plentiful, as you know, and it costs nothing to run. But getting back to Billy Morton. He's got the land for this cinder track at Santry Court on the road to the Dublin airport. Ron Delany is behind him 100% and Mr. Briscoe, the Lord Mayor, kicked off the campaign with a personal donation of ¬£25. That will show you the caliber of people interested in this thing."
Mr. McDonough nodded. "I'd like to get in on it in a small way," he said.
"Good," I said. "I'll give Billy Morton a ring after we've lunched with the government man."
The government man (who had been forewarned by Mr. Francis W. H. Adams, the former New York police commissioner, that we were on our way) called promptly after we had checked into the Gresham Hotel in Dublin. He turned out to be John Donovan of the Irish Industrial Authority, young and pleasantly owlish-looking, and we went to the men's grill for lunch.
Mr. Donovan was full of facts and figures, and there was not a question Mr. McDonough put to him about the country that he could not answer out of his head.
Over tea, Mr. Donovan said: "We're getting a great many inquiries from people interested in starting up enterprises in Ireland, but many of them have capital and nothing else. What I mean to say is, they wouldn't know how to conduct a manufacturing business if they started one. Frankly, we're not interested merely in people with money to invest, however laudable their motives may be."
"You want know-how," said Mr. McDonough.
"Exactly," said Mr. Donovan.
I reached down and brought my brown paper envelope up from under my chair. This time I drew out not only the shovel factory catalog, but a number of other pieces of literature describing the summer and kitchen furniture and some of the other things that Mr. McDonough manufactures. For good measure, I threw in a brochure of the Parkersburg Rig and Reel Company, manufacturers of oil-well drilling equipment. The brochure had a picture of Mr. McDonough in it, identifying him as president.
Mr. Donovan hastily leafed through the material, leaned back and slapped the table.
"Mr. McDonough," he said, "you're the kind of man we're looking for. We can make you a very interesting offer which might include the building of a factory, without cost to you, and certain tax exemptions which would have to be worked out."
They spoke the same language and soon were discussing not only the making of shovels, but the starting up of a toy factory (Ireland would dearly love a toy factory, said Mr. Donovan) and the building of light ships and furniture and all sorts of things. There was, of course, no mention of my own heart's desire: a cinder running track for Dublin.
The luncheon ended with Mr. Donovan promising to airmail a full report to Mr. McDonough and Mr. McDonough pledging that after he had studied it, he would send a technical expert to Ireland to go into the matter in detail.
Back in our rooms upstairs, I picked up the telephone and called Billy Morton.
In a moment, Mrs. Morton was on the wire, and I told her who I was. We had met last December.
"Ah, what a pity," exclaimed Mrs. Morton. "Billy will be terribly sorry he missed you. He's in London to sign up Brian Hewson [the four-minute miler] to run against Delany at Lansdowne Road later this month."
I asked her to hold the wire.
"Bad news," I said to Mr. McDonough. "Billy Morton is in London."
Mr. McDonough puffed on his cigaret, thinking.
"We could go back home by way of London," he said. "It's only about an hour and a half from here by air."
"Mrs. Morton," I said into the phone, "we'll fly to London to see Billy. Where will we find him?"
"Just like that, you'll fly to London," exclaimed Mrs. Morton. "Isn't that grand! Well, you'll find Billy at the Lancaster Gate Hotel. Look sharp now or you may not recognize him. He's had his hair cut."
"He doesn't wear the hair long any more?"
"No, and I've been after him for years to have it cut short. Do you know what he'd say?"
"No," I said, "what?"
"He'd say, 'How can I cut my hair short when I'm to conduct the symphony this Wednesday evening?' "
"Ha," I said, "that's Billy all right. Very well, Mrs. Morton, we're on our way."
The long and short of it
Two hours later we had checked in at the Dorchester and were sitting in the lounge waiting for Billy to come over from the Lancaster Gate. Soon—short, stocky and breathless—he came bustling in.
I introduced Mr. McDonough and then said to Billy: "Billy, you look years younger with your hair cut short."
"Do I now," said Billy, pleased as punch. "Tell me, boys, what would you take me for?"
"I'd say 50," I said.
Billy's face fell.
"Oh, dear God in heaven," he gasped, "I'm only 47!"
"Will you let me finish, Billy?" I said. "What I meant was, I'd say 50 with your hair long, no more than 40 with your hair cut short as it is now."
Billy was only half convinced, but he perked up when I asked him if he had signed Brian Hewson to run against Ron Delany in Dublin later in the month.
"I did," said Billy, "and it will be a great event. You know Hewson beat Delany in one race last summer and ran a photo finish in the other. Delany will be out to beat him this time with nothing left in doubt about it at all."
"And how is your cinder track fund going?" said Mr. McDonough.
"Well, sir," said Billy, "I'll tell you, Mr. McDonough. It's slow work. But the money is coming in little by little and we'll make it eventually. Part of the proceeds of the Delany-Hewson race will go to the fund, of course."
"Do you think," said Mr. McDonough, "Ronnie Delany would have become the Olympic champion if he had stayed in Ireland and trained on grass alone?"
"It's a moot question, sir," said Billy. "Some people in Dublin say Ronnie is such a natural that he would have won anyway. Others contend that he wouldn't have developed so well without the big-time facilities he enjoyed at Villanova University. To say nothing of the fine coach he has over there."
"Jumbo Elliott," I said.
"Do you think, Billy," said Mr. McDonough, "that you'll develop some other fine athletes like Ronnie when you get your cinder track?"
Billy looked around the room and then leaned across the table.
"I prefer to quote Delany himself on that subject," said Billy. "Delany said at our first meeting in the cinder track campaign that he would hazard the guess that there are dozens of Irish lads who would be as good as himself or Eamon Kinsella, the hurdler, if they just had the facilities to train."
"What a great team Ireland could have in the Olympics at Rome in 1960," I said.
"That's what I'm saying," said Billy.
Mr. McDonough had reached for his checkbook and, as he wrote, Billy and I glanced airily around the lounge so as not to watch.
"Here you are, Billy," said Mr. McDonough. "I'd like to have a little part in the cinder track."
"Well, thank you, sir," said Billy, taking the check and looking at it. His eyes popped.
"A thousand dollars!" he exclaimed. "Why, this is the largest single donation so far. Thank you, Mr. McDonough, not only on my own behalf but on behalf of the thousands of Irish lads who will enjoy the benefits of the cinder track. And let me say, sir, that this is more than a mere donation to the fund. It is proof positive that the sons of Irishmen in America have not forgotten the Old Country and will not stand idly by while she is in need. With your permission, Mr. McDonough, I'll announce this grand gift at the ground-breaking by Ron Delany and the Lord Mayor next Wednesday."
(This was better news than I had dared to hope for; I was counting on a ground-breaking, but I thought it might be months away.)
Mr. McDonough shook his head. "I don't want anything like that, Billy."
"Ah, it will be a shot in the arm to the campaign, sir," said Billy. "You just leave it to me."
"Tell me, Billy," I said, reaching under my chair for my brown paper envelope, "do you have a shovel for the ground-breaking?"
"Well," said Billy, "no particular shovel, no. But that's a detail. I'll get one."
"Take a look at this," I said, holding out the shovel factory catalog. "These are the famous Ames shovels from Mr. McDonough's factory."
"Ah, they're grand shovels," said Billy, looking at the pictures.
"Let me tell you about them," I said. "The Ames shovel is the great American shovel. The first one was made back in 1774, two years before the Declaration of Independence."
"Yes, yes?" said Billy.
"Now just consider, Billy," I went on, "all the historic events in which the Ames shovel must have played a part. The California Gold Rush of '49, the building of the railroads, the breaking of ground for the skyscrapers of New York. You know, of course, that Abraham Lincoln used to do his sums on the back of a shovel, lying before the fire."
"I believe that is so," said Billy.
"Chances are," I said, "Lincoln's shovel was an Ames shovel."
"Hold on, hold on," said Billy. "Maybe I see what you're driving at. Wouldn't it be a grand thing if this historic American shovel could be used to break ground for the cinder track next Wednesday?"
"Well, wouldn't it be a symbol?" I said, "a shining symbol of the bond between Free Ireland and America?"
"And what could be more fitting," cried Billy, "especially since Ronnie Delany will be taking part? A Dublin boy going to school in America puts his boot to a great American shovel to break ground for Ireland's first real cinder track!"
I turned to Mr. McDonough.
"Mr. McDonough," I said, "I had something like this in mind when I left New York. I arranged with Mr. James Cahill of TWA to fly a shovel to Ireland on short notice. Could you have a special shovel flown to Idle-wild right away? If so, TWA will take it from there."
Mr. McDonough thought a minute.
"I don't see why not," he said. "In fact, I believe I could have a special shovel chromium-plated."
He got to his feet.
"I'll call my office right now," he said. Billy Morton stood up.
"Before you go, sir," he said, "may I propose a toast?"
I got up and we all raised our glasses.
"To the great American shovel," said Billy Morton. "Let it be borne like an Olympic torch across the sea to Ireland!"
Things worked out as if they were surely meant to be. Mr. McDonough called the shovel factory from London and ordered a beautiful chromium shovel flown to Idlewild.
At Idlewild, 45 minutes after getting word from me to activate our shovel plan, James Cahill of TWA handed the shovel to Capt. William B. Schumacher on Flight No. 992. At Shannon, TWA Agent Finian Fielding put it on an Aer Lingus plane for Dublin, where Patrick Condon was waiting to rush the shovel to the Lord Mayor's Mansion. And there it stayed until the evening of the ground-breaking ceremonies.
For that happy occasion, Ronnie Delany (just home from Villanova) and the Lord Mayor (still Robert Briscoe then) put their boots to the shovel while a fine crowd, including every child (said Billy Morton) for 12 miles around, cheered and some of Billy's invited guests raised their glasses in the temporary clubhouse on the cinder track site.
"I was happy," said Mr. Briscoe, "to be one of the first small subscribers to this project and now I want to give a second subscription equal to what I gave last time."
Ronnie Delany said that he himself hoped to be able to contribute to the fund before the track and the stadium to go with it were completed. He said he was sure there would be many world records set on the track.
The papers were full of the news of the ground-breaking and the shovel from America, and when Delany ran against Hewson (beating him in the slow time of 4:09.7—and what would you expect on grass?), 33,000 spectators were on hand at the Lansdowne Road Stadium. Gross receipts were $12,000, a great boost for the cinder track fund.
A few days later Billy Morton announced that the Clonliffe Harriers would sponsor a special athletic event each year from now on. It will be a mile run in Dublin and on the new cinder track when it is ready.
There will be a perpetual trophy put into competition. No one will ever win permanent possession of it. But the names of all the winners will be inscribed upon it.
And what do you think this perpetual, trophy will be, this prize that Irish lads will strive for as long as there's a Dublin?
It will be Mr. McDonough's magic shovel.
* "Clear the path!"