Arena built for heroes, built also for their slaughter
On days such as we had last Saturday when the forecasters of doom turned out to be all too right, we see only your bad side, your hard side. Six days previously we saw you at your best. Down on your pristine, millimetre-perfect pitch, nearly 60,000 of us witnessed two evenly-matched teams of gladiators locked in a death-match.
Not this time. Not this day.
The old Croke Park was a place where men became immortals, where legends were written. Many of those legends were from Cork but Wexford has also had more than its share. The Rackards of Killane and Rathnure grew magnificent in Croke Park, as did the Quigleys from the same club. Mighty Tony Doran with the hand of steel, a hand that took many a full blow from the best of Cork/Kilkenny/Tipperary ash, and came out on top.
This new Croke Park has a new dimension. It is a modern Coliseum, a vast arena ringed now by seating that soars ever-skyward, seating that offers perfect view from every point. Down on that new pitch, huge, wider and longer than its backyard predecessor, there is no place anymore to hide.
Oh, legends will still be written here, men will still become gods. Nearly 47,000 came again to GAA headquarters to see what they hoped would be another titanic struggle. What they saw instead was a slaughter, new Cork heroes emerging Phoenix-like from the ashes of the scorch-and-burn end to last season. The Ó hAilpín brothers Sean and Setanta soaring to new heights (though the younger will have to perfect the art of parting with the ball if he's to match the exploits of a previous Cork hurling god, Ray Cummins), flying Ben O'Connor cutting Wexford to ribbons, Ronan Curran growing by the outing, Wayne Sherlock retaining his stature as one of the premier defenders in the game.
And what of Diarmuid O'Sullivan. This guy is a soldier, a battling purist who, when he dons the red-and-white of Cork, or the black-and-red of his native Cloyne, becomes transformed. Primal, a reincarnation of the warriors of old, as he thunders out of defence, the very earth seeming to shiver with every giant stride, one glare from him at the enemy alongside, and you know that they know. This guy does not take prisoners.
He was colossal last Saturday.
He started in the corner again changed to his familiar spot in front of the goal after just three minutes with Pat Mulcahy going corner. The change was all of his own doing,
"We picked the team, said we'd see how things go, but they switched themselves, I didn't give them any instructions to switch when they did", Cork manager Donal O'Grady honestly admitted. "I think they felt more comfortable themselves in those positions."
Comfortable? As Mulcahy grew in confidence, O'Sullivan just grew. Grew to cover the width of the Croke Park pitch, massive centre-piece of a wall which, after two early slips, Wexford could never again breech.
"Comebacks always start in defence", reckoned O'Grady. "We gave away two goals again, struggled a little after that but this team showed great character to lead by five points at the break. Very courageous display, that was the platform we built on."
So it was, but even as Cork built, even as so many of their men took several strides to immortality, this new Croke Park bared its fangs, showed its new snarling side. And one by one, several Wexford immortals became fallible.
Larry "The Brother" O'Gorman, hero not just of '96 but of so many great and not-so-great Wexford days; started well, caught a couple of gutsy balls, set up the second Wexford goal, but was hounded down eventually by the ferocious young Cork pack. He walked ashore in the 41st minute.
Paul Codd, team captain, the striking saviour for Wexford on so many occasions was off-target on this one, off-kilter, off the pace. The long, lonely utterly-exposed walk arrived in the 50th minute.
And Dave Guiney, the great romantic tale of this season, of almost any season, who fought his way back with unquenchable courage to the top was swamped by the younger Ó hAilpin. Even Cork fans couldn't help but feel for the beaten figures on this field of broken heroes.
All round, on the field and off, Wexford heads gradually dropped, shoulders drooped. This was a beginning, but it was also an end.
Down in the bowels of the stadium afterwards, where these teams prepare for battle, then go to celebrate or to recover, even doughty Wexford manager John Conran, gallant as ever but gaunt now, was a forlorn figure as he made his way back down the corridor from the media-jammed area of the Cork dressing-room to his own almost friendless era, fingers trailing idly along the wall, bemused, shattered.
Another bitter Croke Park lesson for his treasured county, and in a province where one team, Kilkenny, is far too dominant, Wexford have had too many days like this over the years.
What of Cork? What did they, what does O'Sullivan particularly, think of this new arena? How does it compare with Thurles, the legendary ground of Munster? "How could you compare? Two very different arenas. I suppose all Cork hurlers have a bit of a grá for Thurles but the way we hurled out here, we won't be long getting attached to this place! Coming up here to play is just a fantastic feeling, a fantastic place to play hurling, that's what it's built for, hurlers."
Built for heroes. Built also for their slaughter.
