Don’t fence me in: Croker out of touch

AT Wimbledon, they eat their strawberries and cream and quaff their glasses of Pimm’s and ice.

At Augusta, they stand in reverential silence as a golfer lines up a one-foot putt.

In Croke Park, when Tommy Walsh catapults himself into the clouds and plucks the sliotar from the sky, the Kilkenny supporters scream like members of Hamas at a political rally. Their team might be trouncing Cork, and the game may well be over as a contest, but Tommy does that to them. They can’t help themselves. Tommy stirs the senses.