The untimely death of Johnny Lyons last Wednesday at home, suddenly and peacefully, has rippled far and wide. He will be sorely missed by his family, his friends, his colleagues, his interviewees and by his loyal listeners on both Today FM, but mainly with 98fm for whom he worked for nearly 20 years as Sports Editor.
98fm had a superb tribute programme, “Now that’s what I call Johnny” on Sunday morning, in which many people recalled their time with Johnny, from the bold voice you heard well before you saw him, to the unexpected appearance of black vest, tight trousers and his cowboy boots. Jonny Bell and Ger Siggins are just two of the numerous sports people to voice their appreciation of Johnny. The programme is available as a number of podcasts. Take a listen.
I will not even try to recount the numerous stories that continue to add to the Johnny Lyons legend, each one seemingly more extreme than the last, and yet completely believable to anyone who knew Johnny. Never did a story about Johnny end with disbelief; no matter how outrageous the tale, if it included Johnny it was believable.
Johnny loved life and sport, but mainly he loved people. His memory was amazing for people and their lives. He made you feel part of his circle, even when you hadn’t seen him for years.
My own involvement with Johnny came in the first couple of weeks after moving to Ireland with my parents back in 1980. They had rented an apartment on Fosters Avenue and I took to spending time in the public park at the top of Mount Merrion, Deerpark. I was made welcome by a group of three lads, including Johnny. Like many 15 year olds we spent the summer playing games in the park: football (three and in or headers and volleys), rugby (catch and kick) and even cricket (six and out rules).
Johnny loved his sport, especially his beloved Leeds United and the Dutch National team, but was knowledgeable about all sports. Johnny loved his cricket, although his passion was not matched by his talent. He loved all sports, and despite being a Leeds United supporter he was knowledageable about not only the sports he covered, but more so about the people who played these sports at all levels. He poured over many books, but especially sports books. He played cricket as if he had studied every shot from the MCC manual and bowled the same way, although that certainly changed over time. It was the Lyons brothers that got me first involved in Pembroke CC.
After a year my parents moved the family to a more permanent home in Blackrock. I kept in touch with one of the lads, Derek O’Connor as we both attended St. Michael’s College, but eventually as boys do, I lost touch with them.
Playing in Pembroke did keep me in touch with Johnny’s brother, Maurice and we played many games together for the lower teams, including one memorable team talk in Blackrock College after Maurice had been involved in a last wicket run out. Maurice also did the legal work on my first home and became the Club pianist for one memorable summer.
Johnny did come back to Pembroke after a break and I did not recognise him as he strode down The Wall. Gone was the bookish schoolboy with glasses, replaced by this larger than life rock star, of leather overcoat, even in summer, cowboy boots and vest. He was the perfect rebellious adolescent. He had however not changed as a person; he recognised me immediately and his voice boomed across the field from The Wall in greeting as if it had been five minutes since we last met, not five years.
Johnny played on and off for Pembroke’s lower teams, whenever his journalistic work allowed, which over the years became less and less as his media career took off. However, every time I ran into Johnny he always had time for me or anyone, whether a phone call or the occasional times he arrived into the bar in Pembroke. He would always quickly be surrounded by people for a quick hello or a lengthy chat over a drink or two.
He was a character, larger than life, and never to be forgotten. Johnny wouldn’t thank me for my thought that Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If”, which was written 120 years ago, seems particularly apt right now. He was a man in every way Kipling wrote about. He talked with crowds and kept his virtue, and walked with kings and never lost the common touch. He met triumph and disaster just the same way. He filled the unforgiving minute every time, and the world was his. He never “became showbiz”, he was showbiz and didn’t need his job to be that way; he was just “Johnny Lyons”.
I consider myself lucky to have met Johnny, to have known Johnny and just wish I had spent more time in his company. He delighted in your achievements and shared your troubles and as others have already said, he made you smile. You always left his company in better form, or at least on wobblier legs.
We are all the poorer for his departure. Others have spoken and written about his career, the stories, and the legendary tales of nights out that turned into weekends, or trips that became treks. His light burned so very brightly, but now he has signed off for the final time and for the first time without the words “I’m Johnny Lyons”