by
Seamus Morris


It’s akin to the week before Christmas. All through the land they wait, expectant, hopeful. The day itself cannot come soon enough, but when it does it escapes all too quick. It must be savoured, every last bit devoured, every semblance consumed.

All Ireland Hurling Final week, and the butterflies are taking root in Kilkenny and Cork; the rest of the world sits back, awaits the warriors to enter battle, decide who really is the real deal, the real superpower. Neck and neck in titles to their name, Sunday should see one of them nudge ahead.

This is the biggest week of the year for hurling people, a time when the focus is on two teams, one venue. The scene is set, the film set to unreel at 3:30 on Sunday. Press play and enjoy the drama.

There has been much of that, drama. The old ground has housed many a fine act down through the years, many a twist and turn. Each new year a chapter is added to the myth, feeding a frenzy of heightened expectation, creating fresh memories, fusing the imagination.

As a child you know nothing of the history of the event, all you comprehend is what is in front of you. As the years roll by, your mind houses the contests, ala books in a library, for easy reference. As the library becomes fuller, so the importance of the event also increases. Each year seems to pass more quickly, each final becomes more appreciated, the rituals are observed, the myth stoked.

What happens to the goals? The points? The saves? When the drama is concluded, the crowd has gone and the curtain drawn, what happens to those moments of pure inspiration that have taken place. Where is Eamon Taffe’s goal in ’95? Who houses it now? Maybe some Clare native, no longer of this land, perhaps in some strange foreign field, pulled that goal out of his “library” and replayed it this week, over and over, as the anniversary of the event passed.

1988. Noel Lane scutters a goal of such ugliness that it had to be loved. It won for Galway a second consecutive trip up the Hogan to carry Liam West. Perhaps some guy in Athenry has recently played that moment in his mind again.

2003. They lost, but Setanta won, in a way. He delivered on the big stage, goaled and caressed the Rebels in Croker into a monumental ecstasy for a brief few moments. You can be damn sure that this week, in the land of the Wallaby, that Setanta has plucked that moment from his own, personal library, and played it, cradled it, wished that he could finish the job off on Sunday. Like the rest of us, he can only watch.

1997. John Leahy has the All Ireland in his grasp. Already that summer he passed up the chance to grab Munster Final glory. Now he was back in the same scenario again, same opposition, same Davy Fitz. Clare supporters on the Canal End were hinged, waiting for their fate to be decided, win or bust. Bust went to Leahy, he shot for goal, his number didn’t come up. Surely this week, when the hype is about the Final, he will return to that day, wonder if he did the right thing, regretting not taking the safe, sensible option?

1994. Where are those crazy last five minutes now? Scattered around the world, burned into the minds of those form the Faithful and Limerick. A dream or nightmarish few minutes, depending upon one’s ancestry. In Limerick hearts, those five minutes won’t stop until Liam is back in the Treaty City. Those scores are still going in, breaking Limerick hearts.

We all have our own collation of images, of saves made, scores missed. When Final week comes around, they will be taken out, dusted off, replayed. For those counties participating, they will fall back on past days, garnering hope and confidence, wiping out any negatives. Come match day, defeat will be an alien concept.

80,000 people will be honoured to be there, to taste the day in the flesh, experience what it means to bear witness to the biggest day in our national sport. Others will gather together, be it in public or private house. Abroad, the diaspora will be drawn, focusing on home for a brief few hours. It’s an annual thing, a ritual that seems to be getting stronger each passing year.

Some will be witnessing their umpteenth Final, others will be less experienced. For seventy minutes, all will be together, transfixed on the battle, appreciating every last drop. It will be over all too soon.

The aftermath will be discussed, dissected, some would say distorted. “We could have won it”, “If only we had”, “The ref screwed us” will be refrains of the losers. The winners will savour their day, pouring every last drop from it, not wishing to lose a second of it.

Monday hits. Realisation dawns. It’s over. The Monday after Final day is always a bit anticlimactic, the overriding realisation hits that the Championship is over. No more bouts of anticipation for the next game, the next contest. Winter is round the corner. The clash of the ash falls silent. The morning after the season before….