Thurles was emptying its bowels of its customers, the show had concluded and all were exiting, embracing victory or defeat as best they could. De Scribe was amongst those tasting the bitter pill of the latter. We felt it incumbent on us to hang around, for some reason feeling it essential to remain at the scene of the crime, our championship season stolen away from us.

It was a strange scene outside the Old Stand in Thurles. There sat the Clare team bus, slowly filling with disconsolate figures. We saw them leave the dressing room, polite applause breaking out, nobody quite sure what to say to them. Groups mingled, drawing every last drop from the post mortem, almost refusing to acknowledge that this was it, the end of our season, the end of our dreams. Daly looked composed, signed something for a young fan, and was then accosted for another interview by the media. Nobody seemed to be sure of where they were going.

Cyril Farrell appeared, as such, and discussed the day’s events with Ian O’Riordan of the Irish Times. De Scribe lent an ear so as to pick up a morsel of punditry. The slow trickle of Clare players continued towards the bus. Some embraced loved ones; perhaps relieved that the strains of a punishing season had been concluded ? Fr Harry looked dejected, wearing the face of a man who had never truly conquered the art of winning big games in Thurles.

These occasions, watching the losing competitors leave the scene, are always difficult to watch. There is an overwhelming desire to commiserate with the vanquished, to give thanks for the months, and years, of toil. But something always holds one back, not wishing to impinge too much on another’s private grief.

The replay, as is so often the case, failed to scale the epic heights of the drawn game. Kilkenny sprinted into an early lead, forcing Clare to chase the Cat’s tail. The pursuit was fruitless. True, Clare did force Kilkenny out of their stride, containing the Cats with a play of physical intensity. How many times will a team concede just 1:11 to Kilkenny over seventy minutes ?

The fault line for Clare was in attack. Cohesion was an alien concept, scores were achingly difficult, every one was worth its weight in gold. It was hard to believe that Thurles had witnessed a score fest of hurling just six weeks previously in that Munster Final. This time we witnessed a battle. Unfortunately for the Banner, they lacked a killer touch.

Nobody argued with the final result, yet there was a gnawing feeling that we had the Cats rattled. If there had been a consistent performer in the Clare attack, a player on form and banging them over, then maybe, just maybe, the result would have been different. But it’s not, and the Cats prowl on.

One dark cloud though threatens to burst and pour sorrow on this season of fine hurling. The Gerry Quinn/Henry Shefflin incident may take on the same controversial sheen as Lynch in ’98 and Quinn’s broken hand two years ago. Was it an intended stroke, or just sheer misfortune ? De Scribe, in all honesty, cannot pass a definite verdict. Watching the incident on television, it is difficult to tell whether Quinn was malicious. Of course those of us from the Banner wish he were innocent, and those from Noreside may believe that he sought to slay King Henry.

Hurling is a manly sport, as we are continually reminded. The olden days of “Hell’s Kitchen” are recounted with glee and reverence by those lucky enough to have been around to witness them. When players take to the field, they are cognisant of the fact that they have the power to do brutal things to one another; it is a fine line between foul stroke and fair. However, it is due to the skill and honesty of the majority of hurlers that rarely do we witness any truly vicious act on the filed of play. When it does occur, the perpetrator is rightly condemned and finds it difficult to re-enter the bosom of the hurling family.

De Scribe is not stating whether Gerry Quinn is guilty or innocent; all that we can do is trust that the player has enough integrity to not even consider such a deed. It is to be hoped that Henry does play on Sunday, a wish I know that all true Clare fans will have. The world of hurling is small, the pool of competitive counties miniscule when compared to the game of Gaelic football. This makes it even more important that we protect our star performers. It is a travesty that hurling has already lost Setanta O’Hailpin. Were Shefflin to miss an All Ireland semi, it would rob the ancient game of another of its star attractions.

We may only have three Championship contests left to us this year. The debate should be about who is going to win, not who is going to be suspended. We should appreciate what we have left of the season, take joy from the contests and emphasise the positives. Games of exceptional skill and style have been played; deeds of amazing artistry offered to us for grateful consumption. It is to be hoped that the focus of attention will remain on the field, rather than off it.

When Liam is lifted by the victorious captain in September, when the fields have been cleared and the balls stacked away, the talk should be of heroic deeds, of manliness and guile. Sitting by our firesides on long winter nights, we Gaels should gossip about the games that were won and lost, the scores that were scored and the misses that were missed. This is our ancient, native game, we must remember. It is an intrinsic part of what we are. It is incumbent upon us to pass it on, unsullied, to future generations. Roll on another Sunday.