The Man Who United Ireland

The conversation turns to Eamonn's beginnings, which in a neighbor's view were not auspicious. "She said he looked like a skinned rabbit," says Mrs. Coghlan. "Long and thin and red." She is firm on the point that she never pushed Eamonn into running. "It was a God-given gift is the way I look at it," she says.

"Which would be lying dead now if he didn't put forth the effort," says Father Sheehan. He cannot stay long because he has a race this afternoon and confessions at seven and eulogies to prepare. "The parishioners are dying like flies," he says and exits, displaying electric blue socks beneath his black broadcloth. In the sudden vacuum of his passing, he seems an appropriate addition to an Ireland that let Swift run its cathedral.

Then the room is filled once more, this time by William Coghlan, Eamonn's father. A hugely attractive man of immense warmth. He is an electrical contractor. Asked if he has any big jobs going, he says, "No, just little ones. Just things I can do myself. Who wants to be a millionaire? The money only brings worries. Can money put a good family around you, the likes of Yvonne and Suzanne? I'm richer than all the millionaires I know." Eamonn beams approval.

William Coghlan for four years has been the president of the Irish Amateur Athletic Federation, the national governing body for track and field. "It can be mutually embarrassing," Eamonn has said of having the governor and governed in the same family. "If I complain publicly, am I complaining about my father? And if he makes a point in a meeting, is he saying what's best or what's best for his son?" The runner has come to appreciate the problems of the official, and the official those of the runner. "Now that he knows how forcefully the Irish people are behind him," says William Coghlan, walking Eamonn and a guest to the car, "Eamonn should spend six months in the States, racing the best people, to prepare for Moscow. That's because the official idea of sport can be discouraging here. It seems that I am always lecturing other officials that it is not they who are important but the athletes."

It is Coghlan's practice three or four times a week to have a massage from Barney Crosbie, who is a physiotherapist to rugby teams and the occasional runner, "because he's a loner," says Crosbie, "as I was for 20 years." Crosbie has a firmly set, down-turning mouth and 60 or 80 mobile wrinkles on his forehead. "Seventy years gone last January," he says. He rubs Coghlan with "putcheen," a mixture of barley moonshine and olive oil. Coghlan has turned his head while on the table and seen Crosbie taking a swig of the stuff for inspiration. "They use it on horses and dogs so it must be good for humans," says the masseur, coughing.

Crosbie and Coghlan enjoy an affectionate contentiousness, based on Crosbie's remarkable assertions. "No world records are set after 10 p.m.," he says. "After that the muck of the air comes down on you. After 3 a.m. the muck of the air starts to lift and you're lifted with it."

"But, Barney, I ran my world record after 10 at night."

"Now, that was indoors, wasn't it?" says Crosbie with a tone of dismissal. "Another thing. You'll do yourself harm if you train when it's below freezing."

"I do it all the time, and I've run fine."

"You're a lucky man."