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Kathleen “Kitty” Dorgan is known as “the Jellyfish” in our club – if you’re careless enough to let yourself be caught in her path, you will be stung.
Now, fair is fair – Kitty was and is a fine clubwoman, but she is easy to unimpress. She is always on a couple of committees, she was the driving force behind getting the club lottery off the ground, she’s always on hand to help with the catering when we host big games and she’ll never hear thanks for those efforts. That doesn’t mean she’s modest; it means that, no matter how much she’s praised, she’ll lament the fact she’s unappreciated.
Like a good golfer, she knows when to use power and when to use finesse. The first time my wife Chloe met her, Kitty noted – rather than complimented – her bright-blue nail varnish and said: “Were you aware that they do muted shades of red and pink now too, girlie?”
Kitty’s response to her own son Joseph leaving his initial college course in Wales and switching to one in Limerick was: “It’s an awful shame the gasúr didn’t realise what he desired before myself and his father funded a year as one of Cardiff’s leading socialites.”
Preaching to the curate
And then there was the time Fr Cotter came to the parish as curate. We were well-used to Canon Friel’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-them half-hour masses by that stage – the joke was that they only ran over on the day of a big championship match, when the sermon would become a de facto team talk. Fr Cotter still had the optimism of youth on his side as he earnestly went through his routine and even threw in a bit of Latin on the occasions when he was given the 11.30am Sunday gig.
There’d be little change out of an hour and so Kitty had to visit the sacristy after one such performance. “I’m sure any scouts from Rome would be delighted,” she said, giving the impression that this was a positive review, “but maybe stick to 30 or 35 minutes for the non-televised Masses.”
“But we don’t have any televised Masses, Mrs Dorgan?” was Fr Cotter’s innocent reply.
“Precisely, Father,” she said.
Lead attack
Still, at the bottom of it all, she’s part of our tribe and every wolfpack needs a few lead attackers. Kitty’s “one-for-all” attitude was exemplified perfectly after one of the most unusual incidents to happen our club in recent years.
Pete Varley is a footballing legend in the county – he won countless championships with his club Cregane Rovers and is the only man around to have been part of All-Ireland-winning teams as a player and a manager. And, not long ago, we thought we had secured his services as coach and selector to our U21s.
What happened is that one of our club’s best footballers, Séamus O’Donoghue, who played under Pete for the county and was a selector with him when the minors made an All-Ireland final, was ratified as our U21 boss. In congratulating him, Pete promised to help out whatever way he could but, having been told that, our club secretary Aidan Creedon somehow took it to mean that he was fully on board.
Naturally, it was a coup that was much publicised in the local media when Aidan leaked it and both Séamus and Pete were horrified. It was sorted out with no hard feelings and the official reason given for Pete “stepping down” without having even taken a session was that he had received an offer of a senior job outside the county.
Most of us shrugged our shoulders and moved on, but Kitty couldn’t let such an insult to our club pass. About a year later, there was a county quarter-final double-header at the club and she was in charge of the “VIP lounge” – the small kitchenette upstairs in the pavilion where media, GAA officers and match officials could avail of tea and something to eat.
Pete was among those present, minding his own business as he moved along the queue, but he was stopped in his tracks as Kitty drew back the tray of triangular sandwiches just as he was about to take a few. “I’m afraid, Mr Varley,” she said, “that if our U21s weren’t good enough for you, neither are our refreshments.”
In moods like that, there’s no reasoning with Kitty, so poor Pete had to go home hungry. As Roly O’Shea – king of the malapropism – said that evening: “Still, it’s better to have Kitty inside the tent seeing out rather than outside the tent seeing in.”
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