Mundane it may be but Munster magic is still there
Is it that Kilkenny have swerved into the winners’ road? Or have these troubled times dulled the shine on everything we held dear?
Whatever it was, not much about Munster final day felt authentic.
Traffic was light. Parking was handy. On the walk down, the Páirc didn’t stretch maddeningly away from you, as it does on those days when anticipation is keenest.
Along the way, the chips didn’t smell quite so insistent. The hats, scarves and headbands got a soft, hopeful sell. A few quibbled over the price of knotted wool. It was as heated as things would get.
Inside, the unique aroma from the bowels and kidneys of the storied arena wasn’t as pungent as usual. Upstairs, the seats didn’t seem as tight.
On the field, it was a grand game. But just a game. Tipp gave you the impression they could run through for goals as they wanted, but never really did. Waterford hinted they might catch fire, lose themselves in indignant defiance at any moment, but never really did.
Eventually, everyone seemed to accept Shane Bourke’s goal had brought the curtain down on it, though there was time enough to stage three or four more encores, if anyone wanted the stage enough.
The final whistle let what air was left in it hiss silently into an unpromising evening. Most internalised the moment of victory and defeat, but a couple of Tipp lads hesitated, then frolicked in slightly self-conscious celebration, maybe in case anyone accused them of presumption.
Traipsing out, you wondered if you knew the day that well any more. But there was, at least, solace in some familiarity. Thankfully, the usual chorus line had been present in the stands.
The Insider had been first to announce himself via the customary nudge in the ribs. A man with ways and means, perhaps via a neighbour’s uncle’s butcher.
The mutter signalled information too priceless to bottle, but too sensitive to spill. “Lar will go in the corner.”
Inconveniently, the positional merry-go-round favoured by Tipp and others threatens to discourage these intrepid news-gatherers, but for now they truck on, nudging and muttering proudly. As it happens, Lar didn’t go in the corner at all. But by then, our mole was muttering to another fella that Kelly was injured and would play no part.
Then there was The Secretary. No, there were hundreds. The desperately sad day will soon arrive when iPads and apps and Twitter will have made him redundant too, but for now at least, every few rows still harboured a gentleman with a neatly-folded match programme, a pencil and unswerving diligence, religiously recording the individual tallies of every player.
“What did O’Brien score?” a lad two rows down enquired at half-time of his nearest correspondent. The matrix was consulted. “Wan-wan.” Information you still won’t get off RTÉ most days.
The Theorist was quiet enough Sunday. These boys look at the bigger picture. In particular, antennae are fine tuned for evidence of The Stroke — the day’s big ruse around which they’ll be able to retrofit any possible result when holding court in Mulligans after.
It might be a positional switch or a tactical manoeuvre or a decision to hold them in the dressing room at half-time to “let the other crowd bake”.
All they had on Sunday was Waterford’s early bolt from the parade. A sign of Tipp’s extra composure, we had settled on by the finish.
There are also, of course, The Critics. Temperamental enough souls — early admiration for their favourite forward can quickly spill into loathing after a careless wide off his good side. On Sunday, Tipp fell foul several times of The Critics’ biggest bugbear; seeing a shot at goal saved. “Will ye take yere effin points,” was the day’s most frequent entreaty to lads who stuck seven goals last year.
Of course we can’t forget The Few Apes. There was no minute’s silence to allow them the big stage they crave, but some yahooing and smart talk at Lar’s expense drew weary rebuke from The Secretary. “There’s always the few apes.”
Thankfully, counter-balancing them are the Great GAA Ambassadors, for whom action on the pitch must not impede the quest for camaraderie. Every rival score is applauded. Every opponent is a great yoke. At the whistle, there is a sign of peace for any opposition colours within reach. While we still have these lads, this day will always be a little bit special.
