My trip to see Tipp
So with honour on the line, I committed to my Committee Room declaration… my trip to Tipp was on!
That said, the opportunity to finally indulge my curiosity and head south to experience a Munster hurling final in the flesh is hardly a penance. So my uncle’s 60th birthday party was cut short on Saturday night in order to ensure optimum match fitness for my long day ahead. You can say all you want about Bertie, but if nothing else he left behind him a fairly decent motorway network, and the drive to Cork was fairly straight forward as we parked up just shortly after three bells, about a 20-minute walk from the ground.
With no pre-match meal on board (schoolboy error), the hunger pangs steered me towards the delights of ‘Bob’s Burgers’ on the tree-lined avenue leading towards Páirc Uí Chaoimh. Protein, fat, carbohydrate; all my macro-nutrient requirements were catered for! Our tickets were for the uncovered stand, and with the weather holding firm, it was as good a seat as any. That said, it’s fair to say that space is very much at a premium in Páirc Uí Chaoimh, and each vital statistic is under intense scrutiny as you try to negotiate your way from the turnstile to your seat.
The now obligatory helmets don’t make a rookie’s job any easier when trying to identify the key protagonists (Note to self; Dragon’s Den idea #47 — personalised hurling helmets — leopard skin, racing stripes, floral print, etc), but after a few minutes cross-referencing the team sheets and photos, I had identified the main men.
Straight away I was taken with the athleticism of the Tipperary hurlers. Tall, lean, fast, they looked like thoroughbreds as they angled across the pitch. One player, in particular, caught my eye; Paraic Maher. For a man of 22, he commanded his position with consummate ease and economy of effort. He looked like he had barely broken sweat by the time he made way with five minutes to go, having completely dominated in an imperious Tipp back line.
It is only when you see hurling live that you appreciate the intensity and skill level on show. What else stood out was the manner in which players conduct themselves and how the referee officiates proceedings. Recognising that a degree of physicality is not only unavoidable but wholly necessary, frees are generally only awarded for blatant fouls (such as decapitation) and there is little debate.
The referee is also helped by the approach of the players, who at all times attempt to keep playing and never play for frees. The manliness that Cyril Farrell et al constantly refer to has to be seen to be believed. It gives us big ball aficionados plenty of food for thought.
Both players and supporters of the small ball game strike many variances with their footballing counterparts.
My most vivid memory of championship hurling was going to see the great Clare team from the mid-Nineties play against Galway in Croke Park. Perched in the upper tier of the Cusack Stand, the match itself didn’t stick in my mind, rather the company. Seated directly beside me was a young Clare supporter, no more than 12 years of age, was attending the game with his father. Between the two of them they easily put away a 20 box of Major over the course of the match, between intermittent squeals of “Gwan Lohan Boi” which echoed out from the thick haze engulfing them. These are a different bread, I thought to myself, and in fairness, the hurling fraternity generally is. With most of the principal counties having a tradition/period of success at some stage, an air of supremacy and confidence exudes from the supporters.
Seated within the Tipp crowd last Sunday, I got to experience this confidence first hand, with their team’s performance giving them ample opportunity to express it.
Shane McGrath’s complete dominance in the opening exchanges set the tone. Then enter Lar Corbett from stage left… bang; you’re dead. I’m a sucker for an underdog, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Waterford. A beating like that, especially in such a high profile game like a provincial final, is a lonely experience. We got a touch of it against Tyrone in last year’s Ulster final. Such are sport’s breaks.
Wanting to get a good jump on the traffic, we stayed just long enough to observe the hilarious intercom pleas for supporters to stay off the pitch; they poured on in their hundreds, young lads with their hurls and sliotars in tow.
Back in the car park dozens of fellow journeymen were tucking into their foil-wrapped sandwiches and flasks of tea. Roy Keane would have been disgusted with my lack of preparation; I’d have taken a spot in the Waterford full-back line for a cup of tea at that stage. Whilst it may have been my first Munster final, it certainly won’t be the last, and as many during the day had told me, you need to experience the occasion in Thurles before you can say you were really at a Munster final.
That said, hopefully I won’t be free at this stage of the summer for the next few years at least. But if the opportunity does come along, I’ll be filling a thermos flask and packing some sandwiches in preparation for another, trip to see Tipp.
