As I said, Kernan is one of the good guys. Looks like a roadie for a heavy metal band and beneath a mellow, affable facade beats a mind as smart as a whip. We met in Freeneys, a slice of old Galway, unchanged and in the window they sell fishing tackle. I’d managed to procure for him a signed Barcelona shirt with the 2010 team names. Cost me . . . oh, some serious weight. In truth, I’d traded my 1963 All Ireland Galway Football shirt for it.
Phew-oh.
Loved that shirt, was even signed. Kernan greeted me warmly.
“So glad you agreed to do this, Jack.”
He was dressed as always as if en route to the ever-running Dylan tour. I’d worn my all-weather Garda coat, item 1834, that the Department of Justice even now wrote demanding back. I said,
“Buddy, hear my answers and then see how glad you ar
