The simple joy a county final day can bring a parish

It was the culmination of a beautiful summer when the ground was baked hard on fields and the grass verges along the roads that led to this border town were turned to a russet shade of brown.

They climbed ladders high to hang bunting from streetlamp to streetlamp up the Holborn Hill, past the Orange Hall, the Canon’s House and on out as far as the entrance to the football field that Big Paddy patrolled for fear that any dog or other might cross the threshold of the freshly mown field.

Cavan hadn’t yet known that infamous Ulster Final under Martin McHugh, as the sweet taste of success lay but a game away and the maroon and white festooned the town.

They were free and easy on the cusp of a wave, a band of young men, some in their teens, others in their twenties but for one or two who had just turned thirty, carrying on their shoulders the hopes and dreams of every man, woman and child about the town as old men in peaked caps stood along the fence in the shadow of the high reservoir on sunny September evenings to watch them train in the light of the dying sun.

Young men, full of life, some county minors and under 21s of families whose fathers before them had not known the joy of such a day; for it had been 1937, near sixty years before since the Rory O Moores had lifted a Junior Championship winning cup and, in the days to come, there was the chance that such a joy might visit the town again.

Names like Percy Seagrave, Eamon McDonald, Jack Stewart, Ben McGarrigle, Hugh Fitz and Myley Burke lingered long in folklore and conversation about the Diamond. Teams came and went in the interim in a town scarred by emigration and the Troubles along the Border.

But this was a new era, talk of a new bridge at Aughalane and peace in our time. Men, young and enthusiastic, with a passion for the game, bearing names that resonated in the minds of those who had long left these shores - Minogue, Lawlor and McDonald, printed in columns of The Anglo-Celt, retelling the battles of preceding games.

It was a day that a town and a parish had so much longed for, sixty years in the making, flights booked from England, America and Canada, all to join in the fervour of this county final day. A young lad writing to the Dean in Maynooth after the semi-final, asking for permission for a night away from the seminary (how times have changed), in the hope of joining in an evening of celebrations up and down the town, a lift that morning to the Lavey Inn and another the short distance into Breffni Park.

Oh, the excitement that filled the hearts of those hordes of people, in head bands and scarves, carrying flags up the Broad Road of Cavan and down the sideroad by the red bricked houses of Owen Roe, entering in by turnstiles on that bright September day to reveal the vast abyss of Breffni Park that lay before us, an amphitheatre of dreams, scorched by the summer’s sun.

There in the crowd, Alan Henderson and Tommy White home out of Toronto, the veteran Jack Stewart, Mrs Hugh Fitz - all shaking hands along the rows as they manoeuvred their way to their seats. Faces intent, filled with anticipation, as the spectators looked to their programmes for the names of opposing players who warmed up before us, in readiness for the throw up of the ball.

People who hadn’t sat in Breffni Park for many a year, savouring the sweetness of this County Final day, each and all, both young and old, joy filled, as my mother waited eagerly at home listening to Michael Tynan on Northern Sound, a candle burning beneath the Sacred Heart; while another mother Mrs Reilly from Knockbride, in her red and green, cheering on her three fine sons while entertaining all of us who sat around with her quick wit and banter.

And what of the game; points from play, beautiful passing, two goals from Jayo but a kick of the ball from Larry Reilly into the back of the net and it could have all been level but no at the final whistle, it was to be our day after all the years a waiting. It was a day that we wished would go on and on, the simple joy of a community bound together in sheer exhilaration by a game hard won, played out in two halves.

And so it is, after thirty years, we meet again in a Junior Final, The Rories and Knockbride. Many of the faces that filled the stands that day are now gone to God and those who have taken leave of these shores are now in Perth, Sydney and Dubai. Those fresh faces that made up the teams of that day in 1995 are men now in middle age, some of whom have sons of their own playing on the present team. Their names are still strong in Gaelic football, instilling in their sons and daughters that sense of belonging, that sense of pride in the jersey that they wear and in the community of which they are part.

The Manager of the team remains the same after all these years, a little older, perhaps not much wiser, but still with the same passion and enthusiasm as first he had; rousing dressing room speeches, lots of f’s and blinds but of course all in pursuit of a common cause.

And so it is that whatever life may bring along the road we travel, these are days which stand out in our collective memories, days that inspire young boys and girls to kick a ball and be part of something greater than themselves, a community of people bound together with a common goal, of ensuring that which we have been handed down may continue on and on, bringing communities together in the hope of one day, someday, experiencing the simple joy of a County Final Day.

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