Heart is gladdened by taste of Páirc life

The Irish immigrants who settled in Syracuse, New York’s Tipperary Hill and named it after the county they’d left behind were a notoriously sentimental crowd.

So much so that they had a habit of smashing a set of traffic lights at a busy junction, demanding precedence for the colour green.

They won a battle with City Hall and now Tipp Hill is the only area in the US (and maybe the world) which has a set of upside down traffic lights, green on top.

During the dead of last winter, I travelled north to Syracuse with a couple of friends who this past weekend got married and, more importantly, got me back from New York for the Munster semi-final.

I had been willing Tipp on against Limerick knowing that a win for the latter would mean the Rebels playing in Thurles instead. Great for everyone else, the players and the fans, but not for me who needs an easy life, not to mention a stroll down to the Páirc and all the scenery which that brings with it, a perfect chance for a splurge of the emigrant’s sentimentality.

Even better, a few of the more raucous members of the Tipperary side of my family were in town, my uncles Fonsie and John and my cousin Rachel. My uncle Fonsie was a Harty Cup winner with the Abbey CBS in Tipp town just over 50 years ago.

He was a promising centre back who opted for the seminary instead. That meant the family farm just outside Lattin went to John.

As soon as my father was accepted into the family, a lifetime of Cork-Tipp rivalry and arguments lay in store. That was the pay-off for all those happy days spent at their hilly, idyllic slice of the Golden Vale.

One night in the bar of the Blackrock Hurling Club, my father, Fonsie and I went at it like Cathal Naughton and Padraic Maher before throw-in.

The argument was over what the “Home of Hurling” really meant. And where it could be and who could justifiably claim it. No one was making any sense.

There have been other great moments too where Fonsie’s wild side has been dredged up by Tipperary heartache. Like when he brought us over to the Blackrock End goalmouth after a Munster championship game against Clare in search of a divot that had caused John Leahy to miss an easy chance.

“We grew up winning,” my mother often tells me, and within minutes of me coming in the door last Thursday to be reunited with my parents after an eight-month gap, all talk turned to yesterday’s game.

“We used to stand at the bottom of the hill and wave at all the Cork fans going back from Thurles. We were used to winning. We grew up winning.”

“Yeah but ye got old losing,” my father responds as quick as a flash.

That’s when you know you’re home.

I did the same thing whenever I was up at the farm as boy, watching the Cork fans tearing down the road on the way back from another Thurles setback. I came of age when the famine ended, my first Munster final being the draw up in Semple Stadium when Lattin-Cullen’s Nicky English kicked the sliotar past Ger Cunningham. Jimmy Barry-Murphy had just retired. It felt like I was arriving at the wrong time.

I suffered in 1988 too, 1989, 1991. And that was before things got really bad. 1990 was a rare glimpse of what older generations had enjoyed and what my mother was boasting about with her upbringing on the other side of the border.

I don’t hang my emotions on Cork victories as much these days but being in Páirc Ui Chaoimh yesterday was a huge privilege. Walking along Church Road and down the Old Blackrock Road with my parents, my uncle and Mick O’Mahony to take our cramped seats just behind the Cork management team.

It’s always the way isn’t it? You need to go away to notice how beautiful your city is. The longer days, the unique blue of the early morning twilight just before dawn. The green of the Marina and the northside across the river as everyone turns to the flag for the national anthem.

The newly hitched O’Reillys, Niall and Una, celebrated at the Innishannon House Hotel on Friday. The weather went their way and all those amazing greens were on top, reflecting off the River Bandon and making me all the gladder to be home. You need to be away from home to be able to soak that up properly. But no one needs me to tell them there’s nothing better than seeing those primary colours on the hurling pitch: the red, the blue and the gold when June brings the Munster Championship bubbling up to the surface.

Premier colours might have been on top on this occasion but last night I enjoyed another pointless argument with my uncle and my father back at Church Road. That’s all that really matters.