We’ve been here before, haven’t we? Us Clare folk, reared on years of ignominy and disappointment, long trips home, wondering when the big breakthrough was ever going to come. Hammerings received here, there and everywhere by everyone it seemed. I remember as a 10 year old leaving Thurles in the pouring rain after we got the arses beaten off us by a Cork team that was going in reverse. The only thing was that we were going back faster.

The glory days did eventually arrive, ‘95 to ‘99 were years when we had drama galore – did we really win three Munster titles and two Liam McCarthys in that period?

Then it stopped. The rot set in at the turn of a new century. Ger Loughnane surveying a Clare team for the last time as Tipperary made mincemeat of us in Cork. We’ve had a few highs since – getting to the All-Ireland Final in 2002 was nice, but it felt different to ‘95 and ‘99, less exciting, almost as if we had stumbled our way to a party that we weren’t really invited to.

There were the heroic performances in ‘04 and ‘05 when Kilkenny and Cork felt the breath of a Clare team on their backs and nearly buckled. But heroic performances only get you so far, and last year was the lowest point for many a day when we were convincingly beaten by our neighbours Limerick in a quarter-final that put Clare hurling in a very dark place.

Clare hurling and dark places have been soul mates on many occasions down through the years – moments of brightness have broken through, but the majority of our hurling history has been made up of defeat. That was why the breakthrough in the nineties was welcomed with such passion and joy. That was why we never took anything for granted, always feeling that, just like Cinderella, when the clock struck 12 we would return to our “rightful” place among the peasants of the hurling world.

All this serves as a backdrop to the state of Clare heads as we entered this championship season. Unsure where we stood, you would have found Clare fans split down the middle ahead of our opener with Waterford. I myself declared confidently the night before that we would take it – but this was probably more to do with the fact that I was at a wedding and under the influence of a quantity of alcohol.

But we won, celebrating only our second victory in the Munster Championship this century. What joy, what a pleasure it was to watch the Sunday Game that night and hear good words spoken about our men.

On to Limerick, and our first Munster Championship encounter with them since that day in ’96 when Ciaran Carey broke Clare hearts with a wonder-point. We played to our strengths, garnering four goals and plenty of confidence, defeating a side that had been in an All-Ireland Final the previous September. There was a bit of momentum behind us now.

The Munster Final and a cracking atmosphere at the Gaelic Grounds as Tipperary stood between us and a first Munster Championship in 10 years. Alas it wasn’t to be, the only bright spot being a mini-comeback in the second-half when Clare knocked over seven consecutive points to show they still had fire in their bellies.

Where am I going with all this? I don’t know, maybe just to serve as a brief picture as to the state of mind of Clare people as they headed to the Mecca of hurling last Sunday. Firstly, it has to be said that we witnessed a memorable afternoon of the ancient game, two compelling contests that could have went either way. The 37,000 in attendance (ahem, we’ll say no more) were well served.

But…I haven’t watched a re-run of the match yet, maybe I will before the week is out. Two points - two bloody points, scoring 2-17 and still losing! Playing out of our skins in the first 35 minutes. Blowing Cork out of it, building up a nine point lead. But…

Tradition is one of the strengths of the GAA – it brings us back to who we are. There is no transfer system, no franchise that will move your team to some other part of the country. It’s about heart and soul. Clare is Clare, Cork is Cork. The players play there, work there, and most live there. They are one with the people.

No matter where you go with your life, your county goes with you. You will always be of your place for as long as you live, and the best way we have of expressing that sense of place is through the GAA. I have said it before and I will say it again – you won’t get thousands of Clare people together expressing support for their county at any occasion other than a major GAA match – it’s the same for most counties.

But I digress – tradition. Why was it that I was still nervous with my county nine points up? It’s funny, but just before half-time I remember thinking to myself that the next score would be crucial, that if Cork got the last score before the conclusion of the half they would have a psychological advantage. Which if course they duly did, and I was full of trepidation, Clare sitting on an eight point interval lead that felt like one.

Tradition – it’s tough to shake off. I couldn’t stop thinking about 2005 and how we saw a six point lead melt away in the final 15 minutes as Cork chased us down like a greyhound after a hare. That day in Croke Park was one of the worst days I have had supporting my county – we deserved an appearance in an All-Ireland Final, and to come up just one point short was galling.

The start of the second-half last Sunday was akin to a boxer being pulverised on the ropes. Cork came out and ran aggressively at a Clare defence that was magnificent during the first 35 minutes. They banged 1-2 on the scoreboard in the blink of an eye, and suddenly what had been a nine point lead was now down to three. That first goal will haunt Philip Brennan for a long time – a weak shot that he usually deals with comfortably, it gave heart to the Cork masses, throwing the momentum into their corner.

And all I could think of was ‘05, and how Cork had twisted the path of the contest in their favour. Even when Clare grabbed their second goal on Sunday to go five points in front, there was still a sense that the Rebels would launch another assault on the contest – which they did. Working in unison, the Cork team and supporters closed in on the deficit, and eventually drew level. In a strange way it was almost a relief when the scores were level – for what had we to lose now? We were on equal terms, the greyhound had caught the hare, how bad could it be?

The final 10 minutes were played out in a chaotic atmosphere laden with tension. It was telling the way that Cork’s older heads kept their composure, finding their man with simple balls, looking confident as the clock ticked down. We were on our feet, the ferocious endeavour of the first half taking everything from us.

And yet – we had two final chances to level it, but lacked the composure to get the one score that we needed. Just to rub salt in the wounds Cork picked off the final score nonchalantly.

Why we lost I still don’t know – did we somehow feel deep down that Cork would come back eventually? Did we not believe that we could actually beat Cork? Or was it a simple case that the Herculean effort of the opening half sapped our energy reserves for the latter part of the contest?

Who knows?

It was a pleasure – and a pain – to witness such a contest. We’ll be back next year trying to undo tradition once again. For now all we can do is think “if only”…