Phil Quinlan was a promising 15-year-old athlete who packed his bags one Sunday morning in November 1989 to play a game of football.
A day later, his mother was told he had a 25% chance to live.
Part investigative tale, part time capsule, And a Bang on the Ear sees Phil painstakingly piece together the events that led up to, and followed, the accidental clash of heads that left him in a coma before waking up to 30 years of pain and paralysis.
Full of hope and humour, rage and rehabilitation, this is a deeply personal and inspiring story, shining a light on the issue of brain injury in sport.
An extract from chapter 6:
26 NOVEMBER 1989
FIVE HOURS AFTER THE INJURY
I remember getting ready for the cycle to the game, but my Dad said he'd drive me up instead. The fog was too bad to cycle in, he reckoned. So bad the game would probably be called off anyway. In fact, he was certain it would be when we arrived and the fog was much thicker in Kilberry than it had been in Navan.
The referee arrived and we lost our minds laughing at him. He pulled up on this old red-and-white Honda 50, wearing these big thick black wellies. Dad grabbed him and asked him if he was going to let us get home before the fog got even worse, but he shrugged him off and never bothered to answer him.
At points during the game, you couldn’t see more than fifteen metres or so ahead of you. You’d send a pass across the field and have no idea whether it got to one of our lads or one of theirs. Two minutes into the game, the Parkvilla keeper kicked the ball out and it just appeared out of the mist and landed between me and Gordon Mitchell. We looked at other with an expression that said, 'What the fuck?’ I passed the ball on, but to who, I’ve no clue.
The next thing I remember is both Philip and Ray jumping for a ball about ten metres in front of me at the Torro end of the field, almost in line with their dugout. Initially it looked as if Ray had come off a little worse. I’d played football and rugby with Philip for years and knew he was a hardy little lad, so I wasn’t at all surprised to see him run it off.
It wasn’t really until half-time and Philip was sitting in the dugout that it all went downhill fast. But even then, as we played the second half in almost total darkness, I don’t think anyone thought it was going to be any worse than a headache and a bandage.
That said, as we drove home, I could tell Dad was worried. He’d worked in the mines, and he’d seen some of the effects of head injuries before. The drive home was horrendous because of the fog, it was almost impossible to see. When we got back, he told me to run around to Philip’s house straight away and see if there was any update.
As I went to leave, Philip’s sister was at the door, asking what happened. It wasn’t until later that evening she was able to tell us just how bad it was, and that Philip was fighting for his life.
That evening, as I sat in my room, I fell out of love with football. And I never played another game, not for Torro or any other team.
Donal Greene, ex-Torro United player
THE MOMENT OF THE INJURY
Dad drops me to the Round O carpark at 1.15pm. I’d normally cycle, but he insists today that he’ll bring me. The drive is quiet, even for Dad. I’m not sure if he’s volunteered to be a taxi because of the fog or because he’s worried I wouldn’t go otherwise. To be honest, I’m not feeling great. It’s probably just a head cold, not the sort of thing that would normally stop me playing. But combined with the weather, I’ve little interest in togging out.
We get to the car park, and Kerr Reilly’s bus is waiting to take us to the gate beside the haystack shed. That’s as far as it can go, but we’re all well used to walking across the two fields from there to to the pitch. As we get ready on the side of the pitch, the lads are still laughing at the referee turning up in his wellies on a Honda 50.
I can just about make out some of the Torro lads warming up on the other sideline. Donal Greene is there; so’s Ray Kealy. I’m surprised at that. Liverpool are playing Arsenal this afternoon, surely Ray wouldn’t want to miss that. Mind you, if you were to listen to the Torro players in school this week, you’d swear this was their FA Cup final. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to miss it: bragging rights.
‘Brazil,’ I think to myself, making a note to remind Ray after the game that I want my Subbuteo team back. For ages he only had Shamrock Rovers, and there’s only so often you can play five on five Rovers versus Celtic on a full-size Subbuteo pitch. Still, it’s not as bad as Trev and his blue tablecloth for a pitch. Sometimes I wonder if the lads take Subbuteo seriously enough at all.
We start the game slowly enough. We’re used to beating teams by eight or nine goals. But the fog is getting worse. It’s impossible to see the far side of the pitch if you’re hugging the touchline. We score; Liam Carey got it. As we’re celebrating, he tells us he beat five players, rounded the keeper twice and then scored. But it could just as easily have been a one-yard tap-in for all I can tell.
The fog is getting worse now, and it’s cold. I knew I should have stayed in bed. Mind you, at least I’m pretending to give a shite. Neville Dunne over there might as well have left his jeans and farmer’s hat on for all the running he’s doing.
I get possession a couple of times and try to find a team-mate, but it’s a lottery where the ball might end up. The worst are the kick-outs though. One might hit you a bang on the ear before you even realised the ball was coming your direction.
The ball goes out of play, and the ref says there are fifteen minutes to go to half-time. I think to myself that maybe, if we grab another couple, he might just tell us all to go home then. We’re clearly the better team, and he gets paid that way regardless.
‘Quinno, to you!’ a shout rings out from the fog. And sure enough, the ball is bouncing head-height between myself and Ray. I get my head in first and flick the ball on, just in time for Ray’s head to collide with the back of mine. Crack.
ONE MINUTE AFTER THE INJURY
‘Are you alright, son?’ asks the referee after I’ve had the magic sponge applied by the manager. ‘Yeah, it wasn’t that bad,’ I say, rubbing the back of my ear.
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘I do, of course. I’m in Kilberry.’
‘What day is it?’
‘Sunday.’
‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Three.’
‘Okay. You’re grand.’
FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE INJURY
The fog is getting much worse.
It’s a lot harder to see now.
Jesus, he’s going to have to call this game off. I can’t see a ...
‘Quinno, would you pay attention? That ball was there to be won,’ comes a roar from the dugout.
I spin round, I don’t see the ball, but the world keeps spinning after I stop.
I think I’m going to be sick.
TEN MINUTES AFTER THE INJURY
Half-time at last. I’m so tired.
‘Quinno, you’re coming off,’ says Gerry Browne, the manager.
Normally I’d complain. But I’m exhausted.
‘Ha ha, Philip’s fallen asleep,’ I hear one of the lads say as he shakes my shoulder. There’s lots of laughter.
‘Oh fuck, there’s blood coming from his ear.’
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER THE INJURY
‘Kerr, get the bus ready!’ I hear Gerry scream. But he sounds like he’s down a tunnel.
I’m so sore now. It feels like someone was beating me black and blue in the dugout.
Was today a rugby game?
No, it couldn’t be. It was football. We were playing … who were we playing again?
THIRTY MINUTES AFTER THE INJURY
I’m being carried shoulder-height by the lads. We must have won the World Cup. Did I score? There’s Kerr Reilly’s minibus. How did he get that to Stadio Olimpico? He complains about having to drive to Slane.
He’s screaming at me not to go to sleep. It’s the last thing I hear before I doze off again.
NINETY MINUTES AFTER THE INJURY
I’m climbing trees at 151 Kalungwishi Street. I’m not sure how I got back here, but the weather has taken a nice turn. I fall.
There are nurses everywhere now. Kerr is shouting at someone to take a look at me.
I look at the floor. Is that blood? Black blood?
Is that my black blood?
My grandad arrives from his house close by.
I ask him, ‘Am I going to die?’
THREE HOURS AFTER THE INJURY
‘You’re in an ambulance, Philip, it’s okay.’ I haven’t even asked. But I must look confused. I’ve no idea who is talking to me. I’m tired. My head hurts.
FIVE HOURS AFTER THE INJURY
I can hear my uncle Dave talking to Liz, my aunt. He’s a heart surgeon. Maybe he’s here to help me?
‘The CT scan shows a large bleed on the right side, pushing the brain over to the left-hand side.
‘But the worst thing is that the upper part of the brain is being shoved down through a narrow part inside of the skull, which is extraordinarily dangerous.
‘It looks like it may be fatal.’
27 NOVEMBER – ONE DAY AFTER THE INJURY
It’s uncle Dave again. He must have helped them fix me. ‘Things look a little better, but still serious. I would be worried about the outlook.’
From A Bang on the Ear by Phil Quinlan with Steve O’Rourke, in bookshops now, priced €17.99. Published by The O’Brien Press
