The Story So Far: A Friendship That Carried More Than Memories
It began with tragedy in December 2005, when a fire claimed the life of William’s father in Bray. That fire left William homeless, broken, and dependent on a small circle of friends — Josephine and me — to hold him steady in the months that followed. Josephine travelled between Bray and Dublin multiple times a week, splitting her time between William and me, trying to keep something human and whole intact during a time of overwhelming loss.
In 2006, when William finally received the keys to his new home, the chapter with him ended. Our friendship quietly dissolved. But Josephine and I stayed close — emotionally and practically — even as life started to shift again.
Then came 2008, when Josephine took a brave step and joined a local Special Olympics club. That club became her outlet, her identity, her escape — but also, eventually, her burden. Over the years, she became more involved, not just as an athlete, but also as a volunteer and leader. But it came at a cost.
By 2010, ahead of the Limerick Games, I remember offering to help Josephine with the cost of the trip. Her response was sharp but polite: “You’re not Blue Dolphins.” It stung a little. I was good enough to be the referee on her application form, but not enough to help cover her travel expenses? I let it go at the time — or so I thought.
Weeks later, after the Games, things slowly unraveled. Josephine came to stay, like she always did, for an extra day of meals and comfort. On the Sunday evening before catching her Wicklow bus, we’d do our usual stop at Tesco or SuperValu, so she could pick up a few items for her Monday morning breakfast.
But what I didn’t know at the time was how deeply she had struggled to even attend the Games. Over the following weeks, as her health declined, the truth surfaced. Josephine had skipped meals to afford the trip. She never said a word during the lead-up.
The next day — a Tuesday — I walked into my local credit union and withdrew €500 in cash. It wasn’t a loan; it was a line drawn in loyalty. She never asked, but I knew what needed to be done.
Then came the harder realizations. The club fees, the pressure to volunteer, and the expectation to never complain — all under the veil of “community.” Josephine had a free travel pass from her welfare support, but club minibuses and trips like the train to Limerick came out of her own limited funds.
And when it came to celebrating success, even that was filtered through restriction. I remember attending a few Blue Dolphins parties at the Grand Hotel in Wicklow. But before the event, Josephine and I would eat in the hotel restaurant — because the party only offered finger food. Junk food. And Josephine couldn’t risk relying on that alone.
I still recall Pam, a figure in the club, coming over to us and saying: “You shouldn’t be ordering dinner before — there’ll be good food at the party.” But we knew better. You couldn’t always count on promises. You had to prepare.
This wasn’t just about one friend and one club. It was about a larger structure that lacked oversight, allowed costs to climb, and turned volunteers into gatekeepers instead of protectors.
In 2025, I finally reached out to Special Olympics Ireland HQ.
And they listened.
They acknowledged Josephine’s story. They agreed it was time to look deeper — into local clubs, into volunteer pressures, and into the safeguarding needs of vulnerable athletes. They're working with directors now, they say. They’re looking into her club. They want to make things right — but only time will tell.
In the meantime, I continue to support Josephine in the only way I know how: with care packages, loyalty, and a voice she can count on.