PJ Ferguson an appreciation and tribute Whenever you were born, son of Michael and Bridge, you were a boy running up and down the Port West and East, with your neighbours and other members of your family, many the scrape and scrap you got into. You went through the schools both National and Secondary, playing football and got an education. Then you grew up. You still played football at Senior level, with some other legends of Gaelic football, too numerous to mention, they drank in your father's bar far into the night relating tales of games won and lost. In the port of Ballyshannon where ships sailed over the dangerous route that brought them into the estuary of the famous oldest town in Ireland, you began to carve out a niche for yourself. PJ Ferguson, you were no longer a boy, you were a man. Life was very good on next to nothing. You were a great listener, and learned many songs, recitations and stories and rare yarns, which were stored in your mind till death. When you took to working the miracle that was your destiny and your character began to grow like a male rose that has a beautiful head, and yet the flaw of a thorny stem - no one is perfect. Ballyshannon post the boom town that witnessed the harnessing of the might River Erne for electricity, left the town on its knees, you emigrated to the capital of the world, London, where you kept your dream of returning to your native heath, like the salmon. You were a bus driver of the No.19 double-decker. Even in London city you made it a town, many things occupied your thoughts - but two stand out - George was the best, Elvis was the King, and ever after you were called Elvis, a handle that was a pleasure round your neck. Whatever about your footballing skills the man that told you not to give up the day job did you a favour. For while you knew the words - In the Ghetto, Blue Suede Shoes, you could jive, man, but you could not sing for nuts. Like all who leave at sundown for foreign parts you came back at sun-up, you met Ann, got married, had several jobs. You did not have many easy days at the start. But as the years rolled along, the jobs got better. You were blessed with three children Gerard, Moya and Karla. Elvis became well known, and famous, fulfilling your destiny. You became an enigma far and wide in Gaelic football circles. Your one-liners live after your death - block the ball, keep her lit, and one from your term as manager of Aodh Ruadh relates the time your squad were losing the final for the pot (Cup) and were finding it hard to put the ball into the onion bag (net). You were trying to get a message to some of the players by out-stretching your arms. The players took to to mean go wider to the wings, until you got through to them to sandwich the full-forward. Another of your quickies was one of your players giving the signal to waste a bit of time as the final whistle was near. The player duly went down writhing in the square, and after this had the desired effect you ran on and whispered 'You can get up, you've won the Oscar'. The player in question had in fact sustained a serious blow to the face and was bleeding profusely. PJ you were the only man to turn a string of expletives into acceptable prose. The day dawned when you turned from wild rover to settled, married man. You were back in your environment, you were very happy. That was a milestone in your journey through life. Every morning you were holding court in Pearses Shop. All who entered your office had the craic with you as you pondered the sports pages of the papers. Mainly the horses. All loved you PJ, you were the fellow well met and genuine. Four years ago you started driving three friends to all games involving Donegal - home or away. Aodh Ruadh were on a losing streak. You were critical of the team, however you still supported them - fidelity you had in plenty. In the middle of one game when you noticed the full forward was rooted to a spot outside the square, you were heard to shout "move soon or we will have to get planning permission". Before your sudden and tragic death, you built two nice houses at the top of the 39 Steps. One was for you and your good wife Ann, who had just buried her father in Ballintra. You were back on the far side south of the river from where you and your family lived on the far side north of the Erne, everything was sailing along nicely, everything was hunky dory. You had come full circle, valhalla had been reached. Joy unconfined. You and Gerry and Michael and Ann were happily building your nest on Monday to move in on Friday. You fell to the ground. Nobody could save you. Lifeless. Medical help rushed to the scene to no avail. The wake was held in the new house. You got one of the biggest funerals ever seen in the town of Ballyshannon. Your coffin draped with the Aodh Ruadh jersey was carried to the church, flanked by a guard of honour. If only you could have seen it PJ. you too would have been happy. Fr Frank, a tower of calmness and strength, said nice things (all true) about you. You got an oration from Martin, and Sheila sang Adieu to Ballyshanny as they lowered you down. You were eulogised over the airwaves and in the press. Pauric led the queue singing your praises, recalling your gifts, we laughed and cried. We all turned away from your grave, just like that. The King sang a song called 'Are you lonesome tonight, do you miss me tonight?" Well the shortest answer is we bloody well do, and we will miss you, Elvis, you will be remembered almost forever. You were Elvis the King. Now the King is dead. Full stop. You go to heaven with excellent references - as William the local poet rightly says carved in stone on the bridge. "Here once he roved a happy boy: Along the winding bank of Erne; And now, please God, with finer joy, a fairer world his eyes discern.' And as when you were a boy in the Port where your father Mick and your mother Bridie gave you happy time in hard times, you will be talked about long into the night in the smokeless bars, George is number one, Elvis is the King. Sympathy is extended to Ann, Gerard, Moya and Karla, your brothers and sisters, family and friends. Elvis has left the building . PJ Ferguson has departed this world. Anthony, Joe and Jim (not in any particular order) the ambulance patients. - courtesy of the Donegal Democrat, 13th December 2007 Tweet

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