Cathal Dennehy: Saying a final goodbye and thanks to a beloved coach

“If it was easy,” he’d say, “all the soccer players would do it.” There was nothing easy about this path we’d chosen. It was filled with hurt, discipline, denial. But he added humour. He made it fun. He taught us the value and meaning of putting one foot in front of the other, day after day, so one day you could look your potential in the eye. That way you’d rest easy, knowing you’d never be that guy at the bar, telling blank faces I-coulda-been-a-contender.

He nourished the seeds of our potential with the same care he applied in his perfectly manicured garden. No phone call was too long. No weather conditions too harsh. He extracted great joy, and deep satisfaction, in seeing the fruits of his labour finally blossom.

Will Logan was my coach for over a decade. Known to many as Bill or Willie, he died last Sunday, aged 92. At his removal in Limerick on Wednesday, a stream of former athletes came to pay their respects to a man who’d steered their careers, and lives, with a careful, caring hand.

“The secret is to run fast, but relaxed,” he’d say, a lesson every runner, from elite sprinters to five-hour marathoners, must eventually learn. Before training, he’d approach with a smile and always the same greeting: “Now, you’re fresh and well?” After you answered, he’d outline the session. That wasn't an accident. He was always watching, listening, assimilating, then adjusting.

One day, when my mother couldn't ferry me to UL, I cycled the five miles across Limerick and turned up for training tired and cranky. Will only needed to see my face as I hopped off the bike before saying to another athlete, “He's not going to run well today.” And I didn’t.

Young distance runners are often shy, awkward, introverted types, but around Will conversation came easy. He was 55 years older than me, but talked to you like a best friend, dispensing as much advice about life as athletics. “A man should never get married until he has sense,” he’d say. Then he’d pause, and smile. “And a man never has sense.” 

He was married to Nuala, with whom he helped found Limerick Emerald AC, for over 60 years. “I’d get less for murder!” he’d laugh. But of course, Nuala was his world, and in his latter years, after she died in 2017, he’d walk the two miles to her grave every single day. They had nine kids, raising them in a modest house down the road from Thomond Park. In his youth, he worked in bars in Limerick City but was a teetotaler all his life. He spent decades as a caretaker at St. Enda’s Community School: an ordinary, decent, hardworking man. But an extraordinary coach and mentor.

He loved sport, all sport, and read the Irish Examiner daily, always starting with the sports section, preferring the positivity he found there over tales of man’s failings.

Through athletics, he changed countless lives, sending a stream of athletes – including his son and daughter, Paul and Patricia – to the US on scholarships, offering a path to a better life at a time of economic deprivation. His training was simple, sensible, crafted through experience – six decades of learning what worked and what didn’t. No one session was repeated in a season, Will understanding there was enough monotony in this game as it was.

In his hand at every session was a silver stopwatch that was older than him. It told a tale about every athlete, but his eyes told him much more. He believed in the value of cross country and would coerce club athletes to always turn out for teams, the weakest runner getting just as much attention as the strongest. What mattered to him was not talent, but commitment.

Over the years, many would drift away from this unforgiving sport – careers or social lives taking over – before eventually finding their way back. They’d often disappear again just as fast, so Will would give some returning athletes a dictum: run 500 miles and come back to me. A simple, effective way to ensure a base level of aerobic conditioning, but it served another role: filtering out those who weren't in it for the long haul. To the committed, he’d give his soul. “You can fool your coach,” he'd say when some runners would cut corners during a session. "But you can't fool yourself."

He was always there, no matter what. One day, just before our planned session in Shelbourne Park, he smacked his head against a window frame. Opened a nasty gash. He stuck a thick bandage on it. Then showed up regardless, the blood still visible.

He showed up for everyone: fast or slow, young or old, white or black. During my time with him he coached two asylum seekers: one from Sierra Leone, another from Ethiopia. He treated them like his sons, taking them to Limerick Sports Store to buy them proper running shoes. Fifteen years on, the Ethiopian still sends me messages from Addis Ababa, where he’s built a good life, asking how Willie is doing, never forgetting what he did for him.

He instilled belief, made you think bigger, but always within the scope of your own ability. If you thought top-20, he’d tell you top-10. When you were thinking top-5, he’d convince you you could win. He was endlessly optimistic, but it never strayed into delusion.

You’ll have a coach just like him in your area, whether in basketball or soccer, hurling or tennis. Someone who gives up their time and energy, day after day, so others can thrive. A coach who cares – about the person even more than the performance. Treasure them. They’re among life’s greatest givers.

In recent years, I’d call down to Will’s house every Christmas. One time, he pulled out a photo album a former athlete had put together. North of 90 years of age, he could still rifle off the names of almost every face he saw from 40 or 50 years earlier – young athletes so filled with potential, which he did his very best to nourish.

His dad was a boxing coach, lifting so many working-class people towards better futures. At his father’s funeral, a group of boxers had carried the coffin. On Thursday afternoon, at Mount St Lawrence Cemetery, a group of athletes carried Will’s coffin – draped in the flag of Limerick AC – to its final resting place.

That was when the harsh reality set in. This was the last goodbye. So what do you say to a person who gave you so much, the best days of your life, and asked for nothing in return? The same thing I’d say at the end of every session, knowing that because of him, you were a little bit faster, a little bit better, than before.

There’s only one thing you can say to someone like that. Thanks.