The wind howled through Galway two weeks ago, not just in the physical tempest that uprooted trees and left scars upon the land, but in the sorrow and upset that swept through the hearts of its people. A county that has so often roared in triumph, lifted by the feats of its sporting heroes, this week bows its head in mourning.
Michael Coleman was more than a hurler; he was a beacon of hope when he stepped onto the field, a warrior wielding his hurl for the pride of his county. To see him in maroon was to witness dedication and passion made manifest. For years, he carried the weight of expectation, of dreams spun in childhood and sung in terraces. He gave people something to believe in, something to rally behind, something that bound them together in celebration and heartbreak alike.
Hurling has always been more than a game. It is a source of unity, of identity, of shared experience that lingers long after the final whistle has blown. The echoes of Michael's presence will remain—not just in the medals, the newspaper clippings, or the stories shared over pints, but in the young hurlers who picked up their sticks because they wanted to be like Michael Coleman. His was a spirit that transcended the pitch.
John Cooney, too, was a role model in his own way. With gloves laced tight, he fought with skill and determination, but outside the ring, he was more than an athlete—he was a friend, a mentor, a source of laughter and light.
For the young men who sat in his barber’s chair, he was someone to look up to, someone who made them feel heard, valued, and understood. He gave more than haircuts—he gave advice, encouragement, confidence. The world stretched out before him, full of possibility, and his sudden absence leaves a space that words struggle to fill. To happen while in his chosen arena of sport makes it doubly heartbreaking.
The wounds of this storm are not just physical. Some who were injured remain in recovery, their stories not making headlines, but their suffering just as real. Others carry the storm within them, the trauma of loss, of destruction, of despair in a time of year already heavy with darkness.
This is a time for reflection. A time to recognize the unseen battles fought in silence. Grief is not always loud; often, it is found in quiet moments—the empty chair at the table, the unanswered phone call, the habit of looking for a familiar face in a crowd only to remember they are gone.
What, then, do we do in the face of such sadness? We lean on one another. We offer our hands, our words, our presence. We remember that loss, while inevitable, does not erase the impact of a life well lived.
To the families of Michael Coleman and John Cooney, we offer our deepest sympathies. May they find comfort in the legacy these men leave behind—the joy they brought, the inspiration they ignited, the moments of connection they fostered.
To those reeling from the storm’s wrath, we see you too. We acknowledge your pain. Your struggles may not be splashed across headlines, but they matter. You matter.
Galway, a county of resilience, will endure. A storm has passed, but its memory lingers. And so, too, will the memories of those we lost. Let us honour them not just with mourning, but with action—with kindness, with support, with the understanding that grief is a burden best shared.
The winds will settle. The wounds will heal, in time. But the legacies of those we love remain, carried in the hearts of those who refuse to forget.
