And so the five in a row was not to be, the dream ended by a rampant Tipperary who produced what many have said was their finest All Ireland Final display ever. On a wet first Sunday in September the men from Munster served up an exhibition of the native game that rocked the very foundations of GAA HQ.

It is rare in this modern world of hype that the reality matches, let alone surpasses, the expectation. Last Sunday we were served a contest that was beyond our wildest dreams – forty scores, 21 to the victors, 19 for the defeated. What more could one ask for?

This writer had a perfect viewpoint of proceedings, seven rows back from the front of the Canal End, an almost worm's eye view of events. At that level one gets a sense of the sheer scale of Croke Park, the three stands seeming to engulf the goalmouth, the goalkeeper a lonely man among tens of thousands.

The netting that was in place behind the goalposts didn't prove to be too much of a hindrance once one's eyes were adjusted to its contours.

There was a crackle in the air as the two sides marched behind the Artane Band prior to throw in. The darkness of the sky only served to contrast with the colour of the occasion. Tipperary definitely had the larger, and more vociferous, support, but Kilkenny fans seemed to realise that the occasion required extra intensity on their part also.

Once the ball was thrown in there was no let-up in proceedings. In most contests there is usually a period where the battle loses some of its intensity, a brief lull falls over events as the combatants recharge their batteries. That wasn't the case on this occasion. Seldom can a match have managed to remain so fully charged for the full seventy minutes, holding one's attention right up until the final whistle.

Tipperary realised that nothing but 100% effort would dethrone the men from the Marble City. Tackles were delivered with savage intensity. There was a rawness to the proceedings that could almost be tasted. In the heat of battle a sure first touch on the ball was required, for players knew that in an instant they would be surrounded by a swarm of opponents. Passages of play swept from one end of the field to the other, free from any unnecessary interruption from referee Michael Wadding. It was such a pleasure to be there, sat amongst the thousands, sucking in the glorious intensity of the occasion, wishing that it would never end.

Henry Shefflin's departure was greeted with regret by both sets of supporters, and it was heartening to see one of the greats receive due recognition as he left the field with a little over ten minutes elapsed. The fickle hand of fate would decree that King Henry would retire early, while John Tennyson, suffering from a similar ailment, lasted the full contest.

This match will surely rank among the greatest finals of all time. It was hard fought, manly throughout, and there were no hard luck stories or controversial decisions that could be blamed for the final result. It was pure hurling, and oh how the almost 82,000 in attendance loved it.

The stadium shook when Lar Corbett grabbed and rocketed to the net with barely ten minutes elapsed. All around the stadium Tipperary faithful realised that this was the sort of statement they were missing from last year's final. Goals have not only a numerical importance, but they also psychologically damage opponents. There is a pause in play as the conceding team composes themselves, gathering their senses before resuming battle. PJ Ryan was to experience this four times on a mad afternoon in Croke Park.

To their credit, Kilkenny did make a massive effort in the closing stages of the opening half, turning over at the break just one point in arrears. Richie Power was coolness personified as he clinically dispatched the sliotar beyond Brendan Cummins. Tipp must have felt like Foreman against Ali all those years ago in the jungle – they had thrown so much at Kilkenny, yet had little to show for it as they trooped off at half-time.

When Kilkenny levelled shortly after the break (a superb sideline puck from TJ Reid) it was, to coin a phrase, “game on”. The ebb and flow of the contest left one in a state of bewilderment, not knowing which way the tide would turn.

The wave came in the period between the 41st and 44th minutes, when Tipperary blasted 2-1. Lar Corbett bagged the first goal following a sublime hand pass from Noel McGrath, while two minutes later McGrath himself plundered a poacher's goal that had Tipperary supporters in a state of euphoria.

The Cats, to their credit, fought back and pulled the deficit back to three, but that was as close as they were to get. Try as they might, Brian Cody's men would never lead their opponents in the 2010 final.

In injury time, and with the thousands of Tipp men, women and children barely believing what they were witnessing, Corbett put the icing on the cake with an exquisite finish to the net. It was Tipp's 21st score of the afternoon, and clinically announced that the throne had been passed to the challenger.

Enough – we stood, exhausted, to acclaim the two teams that had gone to battle for an hour and ten, neither side letting themselves down. There was much for Kilkenny to be proud of, for they lost no honour in such a defeat. To score 1-18 and still lose by eight points illustrated the sheer outrageousness of the proceedings.

The presentation of Liam McCarthy to Eoin Kelly took place without the traditional mass of supporters on the pitch. Operation “Thou Shall Not Pass” proved a success for the administrators. The nine foot perspex fence, phalanx of stewards, orange mesh and the ludicrous decision to hold back 700 tickets from Hill 16 meant that Christy Cooney and cohorts had their wish.

At least there was the rendition of the Galtee Mountain Boy and Slievenamon to ensure that some sense of authenticity remained with the post-match presentation.

Ultimately, it was impossible to sanitise such an afternoon of hurling – organised chaos, just the way we like our national game...