When Ayrton Senna was killed at Imola during the 1994 San Marino Grand Prix, I was just 12-years-old.
Following the delay after the crash, Dad switched off the television and we went for a drive in the Curragh countryside. At this point, his death had not been announced and to be honest after the crash, I did not think too much of the developing situation.
Going for a drive was just something we did on a Sunday, but normally we waited until after the race. I was a child after all – what did I know? Not much was said – not that I remember at least – until he turned on the radio (it was Des Cahill on RTE Radio 1 if my memory serves).
Later on, a touch stunned and not quite in the frame of mind to comprehend or form coherent thoughts, I ventured down the road to a friend’s house.
We played a bit of football for a while and did little else. There really wasn’t a whole lot else to do. Some time later, another friend emerged, cheerily proclaiming aloud that ‘another one bites the dust.’
Not quite sure how to respond, we just played a little more football. We were children after all.
Did I cry? Weep for someone that I had never met? No. Life just went on. There was never any need to embellish it more than necessary. I was merely a child after all.
