An epic win for the Banner

Cavanman's Diary

If there’s one thing the GAA does exceptionally well, it’s pageantry. Prior to the All-Ireland hurling final, it was on full display. The red carpet for Michael D, various military-types in ceremonial garb, the Artane Band (‘Boys’ was dropped from the title 20 years ago, I discovered recently) in their pomp. It all added greatly to the sense of occasion.

For the first time, the hurling final was being shown on BBC television and any casual viewer tuning in across the water would have been left in no doubt that this was an event of major national significance. And that’s as it should be.

Now, the contrarian in me finds hurling snobbery a complete turn-off, just as with rugby. I still haven’t fully gotten over the beautifully-shot but hilariously overwrought hurling documentary aired on RTÉ a few years ago (sample quote: Hurlers are “the dead who live forever and the living who shall never die”).

I’d like to make up my own mind on a sporting event and not constantly get told the players are warriors and manly and immortal beings and all the rest of it.

And, to be fair, I did just that a couple of weeks ago. I arrived home just in time to watch the last 20 minutes of the Limerick v Cork semi-final and it was, in fact, all of those things (bar the immortal bit). It was brilliant; it reminded me of what football used to be like. You couldn’t take your eyes off it. It was physical, fast and nerve-jangling. Both sides went for it.

So, I sat down to watch the whole thing Sunday and, from an hour before throw-in, it was enthralling. I was invested in it anyway; for this day, I was a Banner man.

My grandmother is from Corofin, Co Clare, so my colours were not in doubt. For the record, her uncle, John McNamara, played wing half-back on the Kilkenny team who won the All-Ireland Junior Championship in 1928, alongside such notables as Jack ‘Sag’ Carroll, Martin ‘Wedger’ Brennan and Paddy ‘Skipper’ Walsh.

There was one Corofin man playing – corner-back Conor Leen – on Sunday and I took this as an omen. The village is not known for churning out top hurlers, although I did see in the Clare Champion last week that their U14s won the county ‘A’ title for the first time.

Plus, there were half a dozen handballers on the Clare squad, too. I played one of them a few years ago in a tournament in Kingscourt, the brilliant Mark Rodgers. Before you ask, I’ll tell you: Mark won – by a few marks. But I was rooting for him here for sure.

And the feeling was strengthened when I saw that great man, Ger Loughnane, in the crowd, videoing the scenes around him on his mobile phone. Loughnane was once the man in the arena (who can forget half-time in 1995 and “we’re going to do it”?) but here he was in fan mode. It was lovely to see.

Loughnane is my all-time favourite GAA figure. He suffered countless bad days as a player – “I will never, ever forget the feeling of dejection,” he once said, referring to the 1978 Munster final loss to Cork – and he took them all personally. Malachy Clerkin of the Irish Times produced the best line of the year at the weekend when he referred to Loughnane the player as “Sisyphus in sideburns”; just perfect.

Anyway, when Loughnane got the chance as a manager, he righted those wrongs. He was defiant and had a drop of a madman in him. To see him here, clearly giddy, really added to the whole thing.

RTÉ get plenty of flak, much of it deserved, but this was an outstanding production. A few minutes before throw-in, Joanne Cantwell turned to Anthony Daly and Donal Óg Cusack.

“You’re both pumped up,” she grinned.

“Ah, I’m not too pumped up at all!” Daly replied. But he was – and it was hard not to be. This game between two sides who have been in the doldrums quite a lot felt novel. It was impossible not to be engaged.

The game threw in and in a flash, Cork were seven points up. The old saying that Cork can grow hurlers overnight, like mushrooms, sprang to mind. Surely the Rebels, chests out, would kick on, boy.

But by half-time, it was level.

“Cork and Clare are giving it absolutely everything, giving it socks,” announced Marty Morrissey at the start of the second half. Every now and then, the cameras would cut to scenes from Cork and Ennis, where the ticketless thousands had gathered to watch the game on big screens. The excitement was growing into a frenzy as the clock ticked down and, still, nothing could separate the teams.

Shane O’Donnell (30), who recently told reporters he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up, was down injured at one stage.

“O’Donnell is hurt!” noted co-commentator Michael Duignan.

“He’s up again but he’s holding his shoulder… There will be deep concern in the Clare dug-out if anything was to happen to him,” Marty replied. And the concern, as I can testify, extended to living-rooms in Cavan, too.

There followed a lull, several wides. There was half an hour left.

“This is pressure, this is why you make these mistakes, the All-Ireland final is different to any other game,” Duignan, a veteran of them, astutely commented. This was one of those matches which seemed primed to detonate at any time and, then – boom!

“Incredible! Incredible goal!” yelled Duignan.

“Tony Kelly, the magician from Ballyea!” replied Morrisey.

Duignan: “What a game we have on our hands here!”

Morrissey: “An absolutely marvellous All-Ireland hurling final.”

The combat was intense; even the ref got his head split open. It went to extra time (shamefully – the GAA need to sort this, although given Cork were among the main advocates for the split season…) and there was time to breathe again.

On the telly, Damian Lawlor collared Cork great Seanie McGrath, who has been at a game or two.

“That’s the best match I’ve ever seen,” said Seanie.

“Go off and get the blood pressure checked,” said Lawlor.

“I think I’ll get a few pints for myself,” McGrath replied, “and I don’t even drink!”

By now, I was convinced Clare had missed their chance. A text landed from a friend in a GAA clubhouse in the real capital. “Cork will win. Fitter.” I had to agree.

Then, O’Donnell went off and it reminded me of when a shirt-priced favourites falls in a big race. It’s a major incident but there is so much happening that the commentators haven’t time to dwell on it. The thoroughbred may have fallen but, somehow, Clare managed to jump the last and keep their noses in front to the line.

I jumped with joy, a born-again hurling fan (so soon after my Damascene Taylor Swift conversion, I didn’t see this coming).

Up the Banner!