by
Séamus Morris

For what seems like an eternity the hurling world has lived with the concept that there was no other day like it. In some souls’ minds, this day even outshone the All Ireland Final ! The bluster and hype were beginning to grate on those unfortunates not chosen to be from the southern province.

Ha! Yesterday the Munster Final put on its best suit and paraded its wares to an astonished public. It seemed as if the day itself felt an obligation to silence any remaining doubters about its place in Irish sport. When time was called yesterday, nobody wanted to go home. What was served up in Semple Stadium will keep many a hurling appetite satisfied for years to come.

Everything about the day was perfect. This WAS a Munster Final day. The venue was as it should be, hallowed ground that Thurles is. The weather, whilst threatening otherwise, was obliging. The sun split the clouds so that it might gain a glimpse of what was unfolding down below. The fans. Both sets were animated, fuelled by pride and passion. The Rebels turned their patch into a blood red sea, whilst the Déise splashed white wherever they congregated. The contrast was perfect.

The match. Where to begin ? It would be somehow inappropriate to attempt a dissection of the unfolding drama, for magic should never be explained. All that can be done is to speak of a contest that was utterly unrelenting throughout, refusing to draw breath for fear it would collapse dead on its feet. The action became a blur of scores and misses, of blocks and clearances. We watched it all in awe.

The goals came, interrupting a flow of points. Some of the scoring was breathtaking. Others concocted through hard graft. Hundred yard efforts were nonchalantly placed as if they were the order of the day. At one stage, it appeared that an unseen hand was at play, the scoring was that good. The O’Connor twins created a point of such brotherly love it took the breath away. Dan Shanahan bothered the netting once again, Paul Flynn did a Ronaldinho, and we looked on, astounded at the perfection of it all.

Back and forth it went. Surely the pace would relent. Somebody had to call a halt to this madness. But no. This Munster Final was feeding on its own legend, drawing from a history of classic matches, a reservoir of memories. It was as near to heaven on earth as many people will get.

John Mullane may be the only person on this planet who will wish to forget the occasion. His red card threatened to puncture the air from the contest, threatened to end what had up to then been a mindblowingly enjoyable match. Instead the game turned up a notch. Waterford played as men possessed, attempting to hide the fact that they had jettisoned one of their star performers.

The spare Corkonian, Diarmuid O’Sullivan, was now alone. The Cloyne man seemed unnerved by the absence of an opponent to shadow. Focus left his game as his only purpose became that of a target for Donal Óg Cusack’s puckouts. When Mullane left the scene, he took a bit of the Rock with him.

Towards the end it got ridiculous. The pace was maintained, the scoreboard kept ticking over. Eyes were transfixed on a white object, flying around at an astounding rate, that had assumed an importance far outweighing its size.

The whistle went. One point ! After seventy minutes of battering each other with skill and substance, only one puck of that sliotar separated the contestants. As a neutral it was tempting to ask for five more minutes, pleaaaase, just to see if Cork could snatch a draw and we would all return for a rematch, to watch the gladiators one more time.

That was it. The ground was shaken, dazed with the wonder of it all. Somehow the Munster Final had managed to surpass itself. Somehow the reality had exceeded the hype. If days like this could be bottled, they’d sell by the gallon.