He condemned Ireland’s culture of binge-drinking, which he believed had been responsible for Conor’s death.

He said, ‘Young people think life is cheap. Well, life is not cheap, and we are coming to terms with that terrible truth now.’

He said what a loss Conor’s death meant for the game of rugby.

When the priest had finished speaking, Conor’s uncle – Eileen’s brother – went to the lectern and read an A.E. Housman poem, ‘To an Athlete, Dying Young’, of which I could recall, when I sat down to write this, only a single stanza:

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears.

There is another verse, which I have just located in my library copy of A Shropshire Lad, that it seems I should have noticed on the day of the funeral, should have spotted and remembered. It goes like this:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

I think of these lines quite often, now. In the church that day, very few of us were in the mood for poetry. Very few of us were in the mood for anything at all.

Naomi Frears – where had she been, all this time? – read from the Gospel.

The choir sang the ‘In Paradisum’ from Faure’s Requiem.

Then Brendan Harris rose to speak about his son.

‘My son was murdered,’ he said. ‘He was beaten to death in cold blood by hooligans when he should have been making his way safely home. My wife and I want to see justice done. We want to see the people who are responsible for this terrible crime punished. We want the balance to be set right. We appreciate the sympathy and understanding we’ve been shown by so many over the last two weeks. Thank you to everyone who has helped us ...’ he stopped, and I expected him to cry, but his anger seemed to grow in strength, ‘... at this difficult time.’ His eyes were bright and his hands were in fists. He didn’t sound like a man thanking the congregation for its sympathy. He sounded like a judge handing down a death sentence.

If I had known then what we all know now, I would have turned to look at Richard Culhane as Brendan spoke those words. But, like almost everyone else in that sweltering church, I knew nothing. I was, perforce, as ignorant as the rest of them.

When Brendan Harris had finished speaking, and made his way in hollow silence to his seat beside his wife, the priest stood and offered Mass.

‘Take this, all of you, and eat it,’ he said. ‘This is my body, which I have given up for you.’

Bang. Bang. Bang.

We fucking showed that little cunt.

Among the people who received communion were Richard Culhane and Barry Fox. They shuffled to the foot of the altar with the rest of the old Senior Cup team.