The Day Time Became Precious
Updated: Sep 11
I was twenty-one years old in the summer of 2001. A young Irish athlete in New York on a summer student visa, spending my days working, training and dreaming about what might be possible in sport and in life.
I had just finished my undergraduate degree and, like most people at twenty-one, I imagined I had all the time in the world.
On the morning of September 11th, my Uncle Michael and I were taking the A train towards Fulton Street. He ran a bar and restaurant called John Street Grill, just around the corner from the Twin Towers.
The plan was simple. I would leave some of my bags with him for ten days before flying to Chicago to train with some of the top US handball players, collect them on the way back and then fly home to Ireland.
I had spent the summer preparing for the delayed All-Ireland Championships, which had been pushed back until October because of the Foot and Mouth outbreak earlier that year. Chicago was the next step towards a dream I was convinced would last forever.
The Howard Beach platform was quiet that morning, with only three or four people around, when someone mentioned that a plane had struck one of the towers. Minutes later, as the station became busier, just as we boarded the train someone else said the other tower had been hit too.
None of us yet understood the scale of what was unfolding.
When we surfaced in Manhattan about a block from the towers and heard that the Pentagon had also been hit, the feeling changed from curiosity to unease. Then to something far more primal.
I asked my uncle if we could quickly drop my bags at his restaurant. As we walked around the corner, just out of sight of the towers, there was a deep, thunderous roar unlike anything I had heard in my life.
Instinct took over. I dropped my bags and sprinted into the nearest store, covering my head. When I reached the back of the shop and turned around, I saw a wave of people running past the windows, followed by a massive plume of smoke.
My uncle followed moments later and, within minutes, the shop was filled with people covered in dust, choking, terrified and unsure whether we were trapped beneath the debris.
For a few brief moments I genuinely wasn't sure how this was going to end. My thoughts were simple: I need to get out of here. I need to get home. I want to survive.
When the dust finally settled enough for us to see outside, we emerged into a transformed world. We were covered in dust and my throat felt as though it had hardened.
I tried once more to leave my bags at my uncle's restaurant — everything I owned was in them — but the vendor on the ground floor of the building had already locked up and shouted at us to get out, as he ran off.
So we carried everything and started walking through the Manhattan chaos that I still struggle to put into words.
People were crying, praying and running, often with no idea where they were going. And all the while the same thought kept returning to me:
I have no control over any of this.
We crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and, halfway across, heard another now-familiar roar. The second tower fell in front of us. Bags were dropped. Most people simply stared; some screamed. And still, we kept walking.
Hours later, in Williamsburg, a group of strangers drove us out of the city. I will never forget their kindness.
I eventually made it back to Ireland about a week later, but a part of me stayed in New York that day — on that street corner, in that shop and on that bridge.
In the months and years that followed, anxiety crept into my life in ways I didn't initially understand. Six weeks later, when I returned to Atlanta, Georgia, chasing my lifelong ambition of qualifying for the professional handball circuit, I had my first panic attack. Perhaps I hadn't really given myself the time to process what had happened before returning so quickly to the US.
But perhaps the most lasting impact of that day was not simply the memory of what I had witnessed. It was the loss of certainty — the realisation that everything we take for granted can change in a matter of moments.
And that changed the way I looked at time.
Not dramatically, and not overnight, but gradually a belief took hold that stayed with me throughout the rest of my twenties and beyond: tomorrow is never guaranteed, so don't keep postponing the things that matter.
This doesn't mean living recklessly or pretending every day has to be extraordinary. It simply means recognising that the people we care most about, the opportunities we have, and even the lives we are building are not guaranteed to remain exactly as they are.
Sometimes we are so focused on what comes next that we forget to appreciate what is happening now.
That also became part of how I approached sport.
When I trained, I wanted to make the most of the session in front of me. When I competed, I wanted to compete fully, in the moment. I didn't want to look back at an important match, a championship or a time in my career and wonder whether I had held something back because I thought there would always be another opportunity.
I wanted to go after each opportunity with complete conviction.
We tend to believe there is always another training session. Another match. Another season. Another chance.
Until there isn't.
For me, September 11th brought that lesson into sharp focus. It changed my relationship with time and, in many ways, became part of the philosophy I carried into the rest of my sporting career:
Commit fully to the shot when big moments arrive - No regrets.
I survived a day that changed the lives of millions and took the lives of thousands.
I don't pretend there was some neat lesson to be taken from something so terrible. But I do know that I was given the privilege of walking away from that day, and with that comes a responsibility to make something of the time that followed.
Tomorrow is never guaranteed.
That is why time became precious.
And perhaps that is why, all these years later, I still try to live as though the opportunity in front of me may just be my last.
An Ode to Uncle Michael
My Uncle Michael — or “Mike Lynch” as he was known to his friends — was, in many ways, more than an uncle to me.
His influence on me extended far beyond the amount of time we actually spent together, and many of the conversations we shared stayed with me long after I left New York.
From my first visits to New York as a young athlete, I always made sure Uncle Michael was one of my first stops, and on some occasions in those early years I stayed with him for weeks at a time — probably more than he may have liked! Even when my visits became shorter, I would always make a point of seeing him before I left NYC.
It was during those many visits, particularly the late-night conversations in his basement or back living room, that our relationship was really formed. We talked about Ireland, sport, family, American politics, life and, inevitably, what direction I should take with my own. He had plenty of advice to share and beneath it all was a genuine desire to see me make a good life for myself.
Uncle Michael was part of a generation of Irish immigrants who left home for New York in search of a better life. They came to work hard, earn an honest living and create something for themselves and their families. He did exactly that, while remaining a remarkably kind, generous and humble man.
What stayed with me most after my visits wasn't just his advice, but the example in the way he lived. He was quietly wise, and he had a warmth that made New York feel a little less like a concrete jungle and a lot more like home.
Sadly, Uncle Michael passed away in March 2025. I think of him often, and I miss him greatly, but I feel incredibly fortunate to have had all those conversations with him and to have carried some of his wisdom with me into the years that followed.
He was there for one of the strangest days of my life, but he was also part of many of the good ones.
His memory lives on in his family, in those who knew him, and in me.
Rest easy, Uncle Michael. Thank you for everything.
