A second chance at La Salle

Although it took returning after 40 years to complete his undergraduate degree, the values Tomas Kelliher, '26, learned at 20^th and Olney guided his life throughout.

Tomas Kelliher, '26, (left) with former La Salle men's basketball Coach Fran Dunphy, '70 (right). Kelliher returned to La Salle after 40 years to complete his degree.

Tomas Kelliher, '26, first arrived at La Salle University in 1986.

With widespread effects of the unrest in Northern Ireland, Kelliher felt uncertainty leaving his hometown of Killarney, Ireland. However, Kelliher found opportunity in the world of golf. He was recruited to study abroad at La Salle as a student-athlete while earning a degree in political science.

During his undergraduate career, life had other plans. Kelliher left La Salle three class credits shy of a diploma. After some time working in the states, he returned to Ireland where he built a career in golf and his family. As time passed, new successes and challenges arose including the loss of his wife and supporting his brother through kidney donation. While Kelliher maintained the values and the memories he'd gained at La Salle, he did not expect to return to complete his degree.

Then, he had a conversation with friend and former men's basketball Coach Fran Dunphy, '70. Dunphy's encouragement, was the push Kelliher needed to return to La Salle for his final course, supported by his children the whole time.

"When I got the chance, I was delighted," he said.

Now, Kelliher is a La Salle graduate. But the impact of the University and its Lasallian Catholic values have guided him for decades-through hardships and happy times.

Continue reading to learn more about Kelliher's life journey and how his time at La Salle has shaped his values in his own words.

Faith on the Fairways: A Life Shaped by La Salle

By Tomas Kelliher, '26

Killarney Beginnings

I was born and raised in Killarney, a town whose beauty speaks for itself. The lakes of Killarney lie like mirrors below the mountains of the McGillycuddy Reeks. Ancient oak woodlands, winding roads, and the changing soft light give the place a magic that even locals never quite get used to. Tourists come with cameras and guidebooks; we grew up with it as our backdrop.

In the 1980s, beauty did not shield us from reality. Tourism is the lifeblood of Killarney, and during the Troubles many visitors were wary of the entire island. Images from Belfast and Derry filled television screens abroad and, to many, "Ireland" became a single blurred picture of conflict. When September arrived and the main season ended, the town grew quiet. Hotels shut their doors for winter, pubs went half-empty, and everyone tightened belts.

My own world, though, was expanding.

I attended St. Brendan's College - "The Sem" - a school with deep roots in the old Irish tradition of sending boys on to Maynooth and the priesthood. There was a sense of seriousness about the place. Priests in long black coats, Latin on the timetable, and the lingering expectation that some of us might end up on the altar one day.

Around that time, golf entered my life in a serious way. A few of us from school had started hitting balls at Killarney Golf & Fishing Club. At first, it was just something to do after class. But soon, I was spending as much time as possible there: on the range, around the putting green, on the fairways of Mahony's Point and Killeen.

I discovered I had a natural rhythm for the game. My handicap began to tumble. The club's professional staff took an interest in us juniors, giving tips, encouragement, and the odd gentle telling-off when enthusiasm outran manners. Before long, I was playing in bigger events and, by the mid-1980s, I had earned a place on Irish schoolboy teams. Suddenly, a young lad from Killarney was travelling to England, Scotland and Europe to represent his country.

Looking back, I can see how deeply those years shaped me. Golf taught me discipline: you cannot fake a scorecard. It taught respect: for opponents, for rules, for the course, for the game itself. It taught patience and resilience; some days the ball simply refuses to listen, and you have to keep going anyway. At the time, they seemed like sporting lessons. Later, I would discover they were life lessons.

Members of the La Salle Men's Golf team during the 1980's, including the late Father Robert H. Breen, who was La Salle's head men's golf coach from 1984-88.

Philadelphia, Here I Come

I was nineteen when La Salle University in Philadelphia offered me a place and a chance to play golf at collegiate level. It was an extraordinary opportunity for someone from a small town in southwest Ireland. There was excitement, of course, but also genuine fear. I had barely been out of the country. Suddenly I was flying across the Atlantic.

As I travelled up to Shannon Airport, my thoughts churned. Would I fit in? Could I compete with American college golfers? Would my accent be understood at all? Would I hold my own academically? The green fields slid past the train window, and I found myself leaning on instincts and values that were already there: trust that this opportunity was meant to be taken, courage to step into the unknown, and a stubborn refusal to let fear make the decisions.

The flight from Dublin to JFK was long and loud. When the wheels finally hit the runway in New York, there was a jolt not just in the cabin but in my mind: You're really here. JFK felt enormous, chaotic and somehow thrilling - signs everywhere, announcements in accents I had only heard in films, queues snaking through immigration. I clutched my documents like a lifeline and followed the crowd, hoping I looked more confident than I felt.

I had barely caught my breath before it was time for the connecting flight to Philadelphia. That short hop down the East Coast was a blur of nerves and adrenaline. But what I remember vividly is what happened when I stepped off the plane in Philly.

There, in the arrivals area, stood two men holding a simple sign with my name on it. They were from La Salle. They smiled, shook my hand, took my bag and, with that small gesture, turned an intimidating arrival into a homecoming. It was my first real taste of Lasallian hospitality - warm, practical, and quietly reassuring.

As we drove toward campus, the city lights flickered in the dusk. Philadelphia was bigger, louder, and faster than anywhere I had known. I remember staring out the window thinking: A lad from Killarney… how did I end up here? Underneath the disbelief, though, was a quiet conviction that this was no accident. Something in me knew this experience would change my life.

Life at La Salle

La Salle University was everything Killarney was not: urban, busy, diverse, and constantly in motion. Yet it didn't take long for me to feel that I belonged.

I lived in St. Francis Hall, a short walk from the athletics center where we met for golf practices and team meetings. Mornings were for lectures - business, humanities, whatever the timetable demanded. Afternoons often meant piling into vans and heading out to golf courses around the region. Evenings were a mix of cafeteria dinners, study sessions, and the kind of late-night conversations that only happen in college, when possibilities still seem wide open.

At the centre of my golfing life there was Fr. Robert Breen. He was our golf manager and a Lasallian educator in the truest sense. By day he taught social studies at a local school, and by afternoon he was on campus, checking in on his players, organising fixtures, and making sure we balanced sport with study. His presence was calm and fatherly. He had a way of encouraging you without ever letting you feel indulged.

He paired me with two upperclassmen - Chip Greenberg and Mike Watkins - who became my anchors in that new world. They showed me everything from how to navigate the cafeteria queue to where to catch the best view of the city skyline. They introduced me to their families, who, in true American style, welcomed the lad from Ireland with complete warmth. Before long, I had a second home in Philadelphia.

La Salle wasn't just a place to get a degree or play golf; it was a community built around clear, lived values:

• Faith in the presence of God - a quiet conviction that we are not alone in the world, even when life feels uncertain.

• Concern for the poor and social justice - seen not just in slogans but in service projects, outreach, and a constant invitation to look beyond ourselves.

• Respect for all persons - classmates from different backgrounds and beliefs treated as brothers and sisters, not as strangers.

• Inclusive community - a sense that everyone, from the star basketball player to the shy first-year student, had a place at the table.

These values weren't hammered into us; they were woven into the culture. Into the way staff spoke to students, the way teammates looked out for each other, the way people showed up for one another when things were tough. At nineteen, I took it somewhat for granted. Only years later did I realise how deeply those values became part of the way I approached the rest of my life.

Philadelphia gradually stopped feeling foreign. It became a second home. And when my years at La Salle came to an end, I didn't so much "leave" as carry it quietly back with me to Killarney.

Life at Home, Life in Golf

Returning to Killarney in the early 1990s, I carried my La Salle experience like a second backbone. I rejoined Killarney Golf & Fishing Club as an adult member and threw myself into work, family life, and the club.

The club itself has a proud history. Nestled on the shores of Lough Leane, it is one of Ireland's most scenic and respected golfing venues. My father had worked on the development of the second course back in 1966, operating machinery, moving earth, helping shape fairways that would later welcome players from all over the world. He hadn't even been a golfer when he started there. Then one lunchtime the staff handed him a club, he tried a few shots, and that was that. Golf had him.

His enthusiasm flowed down to me. Playing those same fairways decades later, I often thought of him as a younger man, covered in mud, carving out the landscapes I now played across.

Over time, I became more involved in the club's running. In 2007, I was elected a Director. It was a serious responsibility, but also a privilege. I had the chance to give something back to a place that had given me so much.

That responsibility grew when Killarney was chosen to host the Irish Open in 2010 and 2011. I served as Tournament Director for both years. It meant working with the European Tour, coordinating with the club's management and greenkeeping teams, and making sure that every detail - from parking plans to spectator safety and course set-up - met international standards.

They were intense, exhilarating years. The world's golfing spotlight shone on Killarney. Watching some of the best players in Europe walk the same fairways I had grown up on was surreal. But what meant the most was seeing the pride in local members, staff, and volunteers. It wasn't just my achievement; it was a community effort, the product of countless hours of unseen work. It felt, in many ways, like an extension of the teamwork and shared mission I had learned at La Salle.

But life is never just one steady upward line. While outwardly everything looked successful, challenges were waiting just out of sight.

My Brother Brian - A Call to Serve

The next great test came not in the boardroom or on the fairways, but in the hospital.

My brother Brian's health began to fail in the early 2000s. Kidney failure is a slow, punishing condition. At first, dialysis held things together, but everyone knew it was only a bridge. Eventually he was placed on the waiting list for a kidney transplant. In Ireland, hundreds wait each year, hoping that the right match will appear. It is a strange and sobering system - a new chance at life often born out of someone else's tragedy.

Brian was fortunate. After two years, a donor kidney became available. The operation went well, and for several years he enjoyed a much improved quality of life. Then, slowly, the signs of trouble returned. Tests confirmed that the kidney was failing. His energy levels dropped. Dialysis loomed again.

This time, the doctors suggested that a live donor might offer the best chance of a longer, healthier life. They asked whether any of us in the family would consider being tested.

We didn't hesitate. Every sibling stepped forward.

Over months, we underwent blood tests, scans, tissue matching. One by one, my brothers and sisters were eliminated as possibilities until I was the one called back again and again. Eventually, in a quiet consultation room, the consultant looked at me and said:

"You're the best match."

They were careful to stress there was no pressure. Donation had to be completely voluntary, based on full understanding and free consent. I remember leaving the hospital that day with my head spinning. There was a mixture of fear and clarity. Fear of surgery and recovery, of leaving my own boys without a father, even temporarily. Clarity that if I could help Brian live, I had to.

At home, I sat down with Sheila at the kitchen table. The boys were in bed; the house was quiet. I explained as best I could what the doctors had said - the risks, the likely outcome, the things no one could predict. She listened, really listened, then took my hand and said:

"If you can help Brian, we'll face whatever comes."

Her courage lit the path for mine.

The operation was scheduled for December 3, 2012.

The Journey to Dublin

The morning I travelled to Dublin for the transplant is etched in my memory.

At Killarney train station, I stood on the platform with my small suitcase, trying to appear calmer than I felt. Beside me were three people whose presence still moves me when I recall it.

First, Fr Paddy O'Donoghue, my father's first cousin, a priest who had been woven into the fabric of our family life for decades. He placed his hand on my shoulder, blessed me, and told me that giving life to another was one of the greatest acts of love a person could make.

Next to him stood Paul Downey, a local Garda who had himself lost a kidney to cancer and survived. He understood the weight of what I was about to do and wanted me to know I wasn't stepping into it alone.

And then there was Sheila. She drove me to the station, making gentle conversation, trying to keep things normal. She held herself together until the train pulled in. Then emotion crashed over her. She hugged me with a force that seemed to say, Stay, and her tears soaked my shoulder. Letting go of her that morning was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

As the train rolled away, the sight of her standing on the platform stayed with me like a photograph in my mind.

For the three-hour journey to Dublin, the countryside passed in a blur. My thoughts darted between Brian and his children, Sheila and our boys, the operation ahead and the unknowns that followed. Underneath the worry and the "what ifs," there was a steady undercurrent I recognised from my La Salle days: faith that I was doing the right thing, a sense of service to someone I loved, and a deep trust that I would not walk through this alone.

At Beaumont Hospital, everything moved quickly - consent forms, final bloods, meetings with surgeons and anaesthetists. Yet in the middle of the rush there were moments of deep stillness: Brian taking my hand and squeezing it, the quiet in the anaesthetic room, the whispered prayers I found myself saying almost automatically.

The next thing I remember clearly is waking up, groggy, sore, uncertain. My first question was about Brian.

"He's doing great," the nurse said, smiling.

Relief washed through me like a tide.

Brian's recovery was strong. He gained back energy and colour. He returned to the ordinary, precious business of living. My recovery took longer - three weeks in hospital, six months before I felt fully myself again - but I never resented a single moment of it. To see Brian well was enough.

If my La Salle education had ever needed a test, it came then.
Faith.
Service.
Community.
All of them converged in that decision to give a kidney to my brother.

Sheila - Love, Loss, and the Road That Followed

After the transplant and my recovery, I allowed myself to believe that the hardest chapter might be behind us. For a time, life settled into a rhythm again. Work, golf, family, ordinary days - the stuff that, in hindsight, we see as extraordinary in its own quiet way.

Then, in early 2015, came the news that shattered our world.

Sheila was diagnosed with cancer.

If there is a word for the feeling of standing in a consultant's room while your life is quietly divided into "before" and "after," I don't know it. I watched Sheila absorb the information with a calmness I could not match. She nodded, asked a few practical questions, and on the way home we spoke more about dinner than about disease - as if normality could somehow hold the diagnosis at bay.

The months that followed were a blur of appointments, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, scans, results, good days, terrible days, and long evenings on the sofa when fear hovered in the room with us. Sheila faced it all with a mix of courage and humour. Even as the illness took strength from her body, she never lost the sparkle that had drawn so many people to her throughout her life.

Sheila was a hairdresser by trade and a people person by nature. She knew everyone in Killarney and, more importantly, everyone felt they knew her. She had the rare ability to make people feel seen. Clients confided in her, friends laughed with her, strangers relaxed in her company within minutes. Our house was rarely quiet; someone was always calling, dropping in, or arranging to meet her.

For Stephen and Ryan, then seventeen and thirteen, the year was heavy with fear. They were old enough to understand but young enough to still hope that their mother might pull off a miracle recovery. We did our best to keep life structured - school, homework, sports - but nothing could disguise the fact that the centre of their world was slipping away.

On the morning of January 31, 2016, Sheila died.

There are no words that adequately describe that day, or the days that followed. What I can say is that the people of Killarney wrapped us in an embrace of compassion that I will never forget. At her removal, people stood in line for hours to pay their respects. St Mary's Cathedral was packed for the Requiem Mass.

Fr Kieran O'Brien, who had been one of the priests at our wedding, spoke beautifully. He described how anyone who befriended Sheila made a friend for life. He called her "the light of the world" and "the salt of the earth." It was not exaggeration. It was simple truth.

After Sheila's death, I found myself in a new role: both mother and father to our boys. I reduced my work to three days a week to be present for them. Together, we learned how to navigate birthdays, anniversaries, and ordinary Tuesdays without her. Grief is not something you "get over"; it is something you grow around. Slowly, we did.

Stephen started work as a gym instructor at the local leisure centre - a role that suited his caring and disciplined nature. Ryan threw himself into football, chasing his dream on pitches around Ireland. Every step they took made me proud and reminded me that Sheila's influence lived on in them.

Around this time, I received a call from Philadelphia that bridged past and present in a way that took my breath away. Friends were visiting Fr Breen in the priests' retirement home and rang me from his side. We talked about Sheila, about my years at La Salle, about golf, about life's unexpected turns. Hearing his voice, and theirs, felt like a hand reaching across the Atlantic. It reminded me again that community - true community - doesn't end when you leave a campus or a town. It endures.

When I look back on that period, I see clearly how the values nurtured at La Salle helped me to endure it: faith in God's presence even when the road was dark; service, this time to my sons, who needed stability and love more than ever; and community, in the form of friends from Killarney and Philadelphia who refused to let us walk alone.

Even now, years later, the loss of Sheila continues to shape me. So does the gratitude for the years we had.

A Call Back to Leadership - Captaincy 2026

Life gradually settled into a new rhythm. I continued to play golf and remained involved in Killarney Golf & Fishing Club, though my responsibilities there took a back seat for a time as I focused on family. Still, the club was always there - a constant presence, a place where I could breathe, where the familiarity of fairways and faces offered a kind of healing.

Then, in late 2024, something unexpected happened. The Men's Club approached me about becoming Vice-Captain for 2025, with the understanding that I would serve as Captain in 2026.

I was genuinely taken aback. To be asked to lead Killarney Golf & Fishing Club - a place intertwined with my family, my youth, my father's work, and my own journey - felt like a profound honour.

It is one thing to be a member of a club. It is another to be entrusted, even for a year, with its traditions, its public face, and the wellbeing of its members.

I accepted with a mixture of pride and humility. In my mind, I could see Sheila's face; I knew exactly how delighted she would have been. She loved the club - the social side, the friendships, the shared sense of occasion on big days. Saying yes to the captaincy felt, in a quiet way, like a continuation of something we had shared together.

The role of Captain carries real responsibility. Killarney Golf & Fishing Club has over a century of history. Some of Ireland's finest golfers have walked its fairways. Irish Opens, national championships, and countless local competitions have been played there. As Captain, you do not simply represent yourself; you represent all of that.

You:

• Chair meetings and set a tone of fairness and respect.

• Support the management team and staff.

• Welcome visitors and dignitaries.

• Encourage teams, from juniors to seniors, to play with pride and sportsmanship.

• Work to ensure that the club is a welcoming place for every member, regardless of ability or background.

For me, the heart of the captaincy lies in service and community - those Lasallian words again. I see the role not as a position above others but as a chance to stand with them. To listen, to encourage, to help shape an environment where people feel they belong.

As I prepare for 2026, a few priorities are clear in my mind. I want to:

• Strengthen our team structures so that players feel supported in developing their games and representing the club.

• Support younger members and juniors, helping them see the club as their long-term home, not just a place they pass through.

• Foster a culture of communication and inclusion, where ordinary members know what's happening, feel part of it, and see that their voices matter.

• Honour and support the volunteers who give hours of unseen work - on committees, in competitions, in the small but vital jobs that keep a club alive.

Stepping into the captaincy at this stage of my life, I feel all the threads coming together: my father's involvement in the club's development in the 1960s; my own junior days; the Irish Opens I helped host; the kindness the club showed me through Brian's illness and Sheila's death; and the enduring influence of the values I absorbed at La Salle.

When I walk up the first fairway on Killeen or Mahony's Point wearing the Captain's crest, I carry many people with me in my heart: my father, proud and practical; Sheila, full of laughter and warmth; my sons, who have walked through more than their share of grief and grown into fine men; my brother Brian, whose life was renewed; and my La Salle friends and mentors, whose belief in faith, service, and community helped lay the foundation for it all.

Faith on the Fairways

When I look back across the years - the championships won and lost, the nights in Philadelphia, the phone calls from hospital corridors, the funerals, the celebrations, the early-morning rounds and late-night committee meetings - I see a pattern I couldn't see when I was living it.

La Salle did not simply educate me.
It formed me.

• Faith taught me to trust in God's presence even when the road turned steep and dark.

• Service taught me that our greatest moments often come when we give of ourselves - to a brother in need of a kidney, to a family in grief, to a club in need of leadership.

• Community taught me that none of us carries life alone, and that friendships forged in youth can sustain us across oceans and decades.

Those values have accompanied me in every chapter:
when I left Killarney at nineteen,
when I stepped off a plane in Philadelphia,
when I walked into Beaumont Hospital,
when I stood with my sons at Sheila's grave,
and when I was asked to lead Killarney Golf & Fishing Club into a new season.

My life has not always been easy. But it has been full - full of love, challenge, loss, hope, and grace.

And through it all, on fairways from Philadelphia to Killarney, one constant thread runs quietly beneath the surface:

Faith on the fairways.
Faith in the classroom.
Faith in the hospital corridor.
Faith in the goodness of people and the God who walks beside them.

Those are the lessons I took from La Salle.
They remain, to this day, the compass by which I still live.