The days have moved on since the end of the drama...

Final whistle and on comes that anthem from the Special Olympics of two years ago – you know the one, featuring Ronan Tynan. “May We Never Have to Say Goodbye” – that’s the main line of the song, it’s played after most big matches in HQ. This time it was apt – we didn’t want to say goodbye, we didn’t want to believe it was over. Stunned, rooted to the spot, drained of all emotion, we just stood around, saying nothing, listening to Ronan belting out that line again and again – it was so apt.

De Scribe has never felt so tense throughout a whole match, never felt so disappointed at the eventual outcome, as he did last Sunday. The seventy minutes had been eagerly contested, battles were fought in every position, some won and some lost. Passionately, and with great intensity, Clare stood toe to toe with the champions. There was a period in the second half when the Saffron and Blue literally overpowered the Rebels, at times almost blowing Cork men off the ball such was the intensity of the contest. Then they faded - spent, shattered.

You knew that when Cork got in their stride, knocked over a few points, that Clare would have to stand their ground, be strong mentally. With twenty minutes to go the tide turned, the onslaught began. In a blaze of red the attacks came, supported by thousands of Rebels in the stands who knew that now was the time for their team to show the stuff of champions. Each point was greeted by a roar from the Cork fans that sounded ravenous in its intensity. Their blood was up.

Clare had nothing left. Exhausted from their effort to build a six point lead, they now watched as those six points were reduced with clinical efficiency. It was akin to watching a marathon runner lead for most of the race, yet just as the line approaches he is chased, and can do nothing more but will for the finish to come and bring him home.

The pure passion that Clare brought to their play, the hunger and determination – not just on the field but in the stands - just fell short. As Cork equalised, and then went in front, it all seemed so cruel. But this is what top class sport is all about. Beautiful in its honesty, it asks the tough questions that winners have to answer. There is no place to hide, no chance to shirk responsibility. You are laid bare, exposing your character in a manner that few of us will know. And we love it.

Who of us would envy Colin Lynch as he stood up to that last gasp chance to equalise? De Scribe was sitting right behind the shot, saw perfectly the angle. What must have been going through the Lissycasey man’s mind as he looked up and chose to shoot? Did he consider that he had missed five more efforts in the previous seventy minutes? Did he feel the fear and collapse beneath it? No. When the chips were down, he took it on, had the balls to take that chance. Sure, he missed, but in going for it, in being brave enough to take the responsibility, he answered any questions that were asked of him.

That was it. Game over. No late comeback such as Tipperary ’99, Galway ’99, Galway ’02 or Kilkenny ’04. This time the sporting gods looked a different way when Clare were seeking redemption.

That’s the way sport goes. Dublin got their break the day before, Clare didn’t. It could have been different another time. It’s still hard to stomach though, will wrangle in Clare minds for months to come. A six point lead gone, erased, made worthless. The question has been asked since whether it is better to get hammered or lose in the manner of Sunday. Sunday any day, for it was a performance of pride, passion and guts.

So to the future – will the good ship of Clare hurling lose many passengers? Probably Brian Lohan will choose to leave, but at least if he does it will have been on his own terms. On Sunday he rolled back the years, elevated the occasion with every catch, every clearance, every block. It was awe inspiring to see this man, written off and ridiculed, produce such a herculean effort. Going hip to hip with Brian Corcoran beneath the Hogan Stand, refusing to be beaten, was a moment that will live long in the memory of those of us there to witness it.

The end result of the contest may have been cruel, robbing what would have been a perfect day for Clare people. Yet, the previous seventy minutes should be savoured, locked away in our minds for those winter nights when the warm days of championship will be recalled. It was a pleasure to be there, to witness the event, the struggle, the battle. Clare may have lost the game, but they won so much more. It was a day when Clare hurling proved itself, showed that it still has a pulse and is far from expired. For that we are grateful…