’Never forget this day’

They say that with lakes and protestants dominating the county, there isn’t much of a footballing pick left in Fermanagh.

Such logic makes you think that every hurler in the county must be here in front of you and perhaps it’s true as, depending on who you ask, there are either one-and-a-half or two-and-a-half clubs in the place. Between the adrenaline-riddled cocktail of nerves and excitement, no definite answer emerges.

It’s 8.30 on the morning of the Lory Meagher Cup final and the team is sitting in the breakfast room of the Regency Hotel near Croke Park. In the corner, the joint managers are telling tales of days out with the county, good and bad. “We won a junior All Ireland in 1994 in Ruislip,” recalls Seán Duffy, then a player. “It was 100 degrees. Ireland were playing in similar heat at the World Cup the same day but at least they were getting paid for melting.” “It’s not all glory though,” laughs Seamus McCusker. “A few years ago we played a minor game in Donegal. We only had 14 and there was one guy there with us, in his mid-20s, just out of prison and we said we’d try get away with it. No one noticed but he was the worst player on the field.” Such memories make today all the more special.

They finish what they hope will be the breakfast of champions — rashers, sausages, pudding, the lot — and along with most of the players, head back to their rooms, all the while talking about their last encounter with today’s opponents Tyrone. It was a league game in Strabane a year ago and a scoreboard error threw off the referee and cost them the win. As the room slowly empties, that conversation follows them out the door but one group of players stay put and the chatter turns to the night before.

“What time was that Scottish lad roaring at last night?”

“It was like a rave. He was talking to himself, then the headboard started going.”

“Over our corner there were cats outside screeching till all hours.”

“If we’d had two or three pints we’d have slept no bother.”

“Aye, but then you’d have got a taste for it.”

“Tell you what, if we lose it’ll be some journey back, be better off hiding somewhere.”

“Is T na G covering it?”

“They are in their fuck.”

“Donnelly said his tickets were all premium.”

“They are in their f**k.”

Soon after, the squad fills the car park, pucking about. A lone Chinese man stands outside the hotel door smoking a cigarette and he watches on both bemused and fascinated. Few others take notice although a passing taxi driver finds the sign in their bus window more than amusing. It reads: ‘Fermanagh Senior Hurling Team’. They don’t even see him though. Instead, their minds are already focused and while this may mean nothing to anyone else, it’s enough that it matters to them and it’s what they’ve been training for three times a week all year, with some making those journeys from Belfast.

By 10.20, they are on the bus and there’s a warning from the management. “Right lads, phones off. We have a job to do so the messing is over. Remember who we are. We are Fermanagh.” It goes quiet but McCusker breaks the tension when telling them all to look over at Quinns pub as it’s covered in green-and-white bunting to salute their big day. It isn’t. “Got ya,” he says. “Have you been here before by the way,” asks Duffy. “Aye, well maybe you can show us how to get to the dressing rooms then.”

But there’s a way to go first as the bus parks up outside the Cusack Stand and with a steward worried it won’t fit under the stadium, the team walk to the Hogan Stand side and their lodgings for the next couple of hours. The compensation is that those lodgings are spectacular.

For a few minutes players go from one room to the next in the changing area, in awe of what they see. The poke their heads around every corner, into every nook and cranny. Francie McBrien is the first to take advantage of the warm-up room. “How many hurls did you bring?” he’s asked. “Just the one. I only need the one.” A steward warns them they aren’t allowed onto pitch until just before throw-in. An old man arrives in with a box of programmes which quickly empties. A selector tells them to wear the jerseys as per programme. McCusker mutters to himself. “I’ve been here for the last 22 All Ireland finals but to lead out a team means more than the lot.”

The place is a hive of activity. On one side there’s the physio room. On the other there’s the dressing rooms. In the back room the doctor gears up. In another the water boys are given their orders. “Where will we be filling up,” they ask. “The man said in the Liffey,” comes an answer from a passing player. They look confused but as time ticks down, they are all called together. “We are good enough boys,” roars Duffy. “We are going to win this. It’s just a question of doing it out there, of bringing it from Cavanacarragh to Croke Park,” he continues referring to the home pitch of Lisbellaw who have won 19 of the last 20 county championships. “It doesn’t matter if it’s Croke Park or Brookeborough or the Bridge boys,” adds selector Anthony Teague. “You are men for Fermanagh in Croke Park. Get out there, get it done and bring it back.”

Then steps forward McCusker. “Last night this is what I took of Croke Park,” he says pulling a clump of grass from his pocket. “And this is what I took of Cavanacarragh last week. The same grass. So it’s in the heart that it counts boys. I rang Tyrone for a challenge match at the start of the year. ‘No way,’ they said. ‘Youse aren’t at our level,’ they said. We’ll show them what fucking level we are at right now.” Those words in their heads, they charge onto the pitch and they do show them what level they are at. McBrien does only need the one hurl, Declan McGarry has hands like buckets, Seán Corrigan is deserving of the baby-faced-assassin nickname.

A little over 40 minutes later they are back in this room, only two points down after three first-half goals. The joint managers disappear into a side room before reemerging with one more rousing speech. “We are only getting started here. Jesus Christ we are in this and we are going to lift this thing again. We can do it. We have to do it.”

They nearly do it. Across the second half an elderly steward sitting in substitutes area gives a running commentary to a colleague and unknowingly, everyone else. “He won’t put this over, he’s no Henry Shefflin, hah?” he says of a free but Corrigan does put it over.

“That lad is the weak link, being cleaned out, hah?” but Mark Slevin wins the next couple of balls. “Would you look at the head on your man, hah?”

Well style is a matter of opinion but by the end even the steward has been won over. “Not a bad match, Jaysus with the two counties in it, I’ve seen senior matches here worse, hah?” It is good and it’s little wonder given the standard that the Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh line about neither Fiji nor Fermanagh being a stronghold of the sport annoys this group so much.

The subs in front of him get nervous as Shea Curran goes for goal in injury-time when a point would have won it and in extra-time they take a decent-sized lead with Ryan Bogue shouting into empty stands with every free won and with the bench standing and shouting back ‘Go on Mullane’. But they can’t hold on. If there were a three-knockdown rule Tyrone would have been stopped but they keep getting back up and go ahead by a point at the death and it’s all too much as McGarry and Curran are sent off out because they can’t handle losing this. They head straight for the dressing room as Tyrone head up the steps of the Hogan Stand and a group of kids in for the next game ask one of their players for his jersey.

“Not a hope lads, this means the world to me now.”

But down in the cavernous bowels of Croke Park, this means the world to Fermanagh as well, although they wish it didn’t. “I’d talk to you,” says McGarry, “but I think I’d cry.”

When you are a hurler from his part of the world it’s dangerous to leave it behind because you might never be back again. That could easily be the final thought left echoing around the place but there’s one more speech to be made as management isn’t just about picking players up for a game, sometimes it’s about picking them up after too. “If youse give us your backing we are willing to take it on for another year but it has to come from the players,” sighs McCusker. “If we have any guts we’ll remember this and drive into it next year, never forget this day,” is the ringing endorsement from the players. There’s clapping as McCusker speaks again and it’s his words that draw the first smiles in what seems an age. “You know what, lads. There’s only 52 weeks to go until the championship.”