by
Seamus Morris

De Scribe is still trying to take it all in. The sheer force of the occasion was breathtaking. The passion was unavoidable. A contest of sheer theatre was played out.

De Scribe had been stating all week that if Clare had won this match it would be one of their greatest victories ever. Yes, it would have surpassed the joy of ‘95 and the drama of ‘97. Treachery ? Let me explain.

Cast your minds back to that day in May when the Déise waltzed through the Banner men, barely having the time to say “goodbye, thanks for all ye’ve done”. That day, many felt that the death knell for Clare hurling had been sounded. Nineteen points! Those last twenty minutes were perhaps the hardest De Scribe has had to watch, even worse than the massacre of ‘93 in the Gaelic Grounds. The slaughter of the innocents was brutal.

It is safe to assume that we, the Clare GAA public, were in a state of shock in the weeks following that slaying. Talk centred on whether Daly was up to it, that Baker, Jamesie and Lohan were finished, victims of Old Father Time. Sure, some did speak of giving it one more lash, doing it for old time’s sake. But deep down we feared that a return to the bad old days was imminent. Dark were the GAA minds in the Banner county.

“So”, I hear you ask, “how can you say that a win on Sunday would have been superior to almost any other Clare day ?”. Well, let the case proceed.

1995 was a voyage of discovery, a time for new experiences and territories. Each new chapter was almost an end in itself. Victory was garnered amidst an innocent euphoria. Expectation had been an unknown phenomenon during the campaign.

1997 was perhaps sweeter, as the Old Enemy was snarled twice, with both victories resplendent with moments of sheer drama. Yet we were still seen as the new kids on the block.

It’s not necessary to regurgitate the controversies, the highs and lows of the years following ‘97. All that matters is that Clare were still hovering around the big boys table, snatching at morsels, semi finals reached and controversies aplenty. Then He left.

Loughnane going took away a monumental facet of the whole set up. The eye of the storm had been gouged. Who now would regale us with tales of conspiracy and controversy. It wouldn’t be Cyril Lyons.

It’s not Cyril’s fault that we couldn’t love him the way we loved Ger. Cyril was “nice”, provoking neither ire nor adulation . Rather, he was “liked”. The bandwagon was derailed when Cyril took over, something of the sheer madness and abandon was lost. We became ordinary, almost boring.

Reaching the final of 2002 almost felt false. When compared to the finals of ‘95 and ‘97 that day two years ago was like a different world. The supporters were now not in a state of frenzy but rather observation. It was as if both team and fans were waiting for the other to give the cue to start the show. Nothing happened.

Last year saw a mini revival, but ultimately neighbours Galway shoved past us. Cyril was gone.

De Scribe is certain that every man, woman and child in the county received a lift when Daly was given the Bainisteoir’s bib. We felt that somehow, the sheer joy and passion of those halcyon days could be revisited under the Clarecastle man’s guidance. A county held its breath.

Deflation would be one word to describe that day in Thurles two months ago. Christ, could this really be the end for us ? No disrespect, but Clare’s championship was still-born until last Sunday. Laois and Offaly were both mismatches, provoking little or no reaction in the county. We dared hope that there may be one more big day left in us….

We have all experienced those matches as a spectator when something happens, even before throw in, when you know that what you are about to witness is going to take complete control of you and basically turn you into a raving lunatic for seventy minutes. Forget league matches or nonentities of mismatches. When the occasion is perfect, as it was last Sunday, something special occurs.

Croke Park may only have been half full, but it sounded as good as it does on its showcase days. The Clare support seemed to sense, from the very off, that what was needed was complete and utter commitment. The players sensed this too. To witness both team and fans work in tandem to such a degree was awe-inspiring. From somewhere deep within itself, a county found its spirit, its sense of pride. The gutteral roar of “Clare, Clare, Clare” reverberated around the ground, sweeping the stadium in a wave of emotion. For seventy minutes HQ rocked to the beat.

We watched and hoped. Would the old warriors have one last battle in them? Many of us have grown up with this team. The county was given a new lease of life, an increased confidence in itself, when Clare made the breakthrough in ‘95. When you met strangers and they heard your county of origin, almost immediately the topic of conversation would be our hurling team. Now, on this day, we wondered whether the last vestige of the old guard would be defeated.

What we witnessed at Croker was heroic. It would be unfair of De Scribe to not include Kilkenny in that category. For to survive the last half an hour with fourteen men took courage and fortitude. DJ was effective rather than spectacular. Shefflin was a constant menace to Clare psychologically. The drama was unrelenting.

When the Dalcassians went five points down, the end seemed to be in sight. With Jamesie, Baker, Lynch, Lohan, McMahon and Fitzgerald on the battlefield, it felt as if we were witnessing the end of an era. De Scribe thought of the utter cruelty of it all, how could the sporting gods be so unjust. Surely our men deserved more ?

Somehow the deficit was obliterated, and then the task became a new one. Not just parity, but victory. This new hurdle seemed too high, almost unattainable. When Clare drew level, Kilkenny tapped on two more overs. It took Gilligan to bring us back level with the Noresiders. The tension was increased to a level De Scribe had rarely known existed before.

Time is ebbing away, the long whistle is not far off. A long ball is played towards the Clare goal. De Scribe cannot believe what is being presented before him. The Clare defence has left the door ajar, and Henry Shefflin is about to run in and condemn us to our “rightful” place in the hurling world. Images of a bulging net, complete with an inconsolable David Fitzgerald, cross our mind. Time seems to almost stop, the stadium is glued to the small acre of Croke Park in which the hopes of two counties are now resting. The Cat is denied his prey.

For a split second, it seems as if we have escaped. Then comes the punchline. Penalty! It was akin to getting a pardon in the last minute on death row, only to be called back to the chamber for another offence. Clare were now naked, vulnerable to the whims of Henry Shefflin. Many among the Saffron and Blue, I am sure, prayed that he would go for goal. It was an almost surreal experience, wishing for the opponent to go for the jugular, in the faint hope that the risk taken would prove unsuccessful. Henry played it safe. Damn. Time was up. A county feared the worst.

How sweet the equaliser was cannot be fully conveyed. In that final move, Clare drew on strength of will, experience and guts. As the sliothar was being transferred, seeking a willing executioner, this Clare team was playing its last card. Its lifeline was expiring, the final act was upon them.

Enter Jamesie to steal the show. The encore for this team should be something else.