A knot in the stomach and a boulder beside us...

THEY dragged their legs wearily out of Lansdowne Road, an all-too-familiar knot embedded in the gut. Red eyes betrayed the ones who were unable to hide their emotions, while others made weak jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.

As ever, it had been a wonderful occasion, the atmosphere surpassing that of Twickenham 2000 and Cardiff 2002, while the match itself was crammed full of incident and intrigue.

The papers, both Irish and English would lavish praise in the morning, what a courageous team, what wonderful fans, what a thrilling contest but, at 5pm yesterday, what did it matter? There is a story in Greek mythology of a prince, Sisyphus, who betrayed the secrets of the gods and was severely punished by the god of the underworld, Hades.

In the realm of the dead, he is forced to roll a giant boulder up a steep hill, which tumbles back down the other side when he reaches the top. Then the whole process starts again, lasting all eternity.

Although, the supporters continue to believe that their day will come, yesterday evening they felt as though a higher power has decreed that Munster are destined for a life of hard labour with no reward.

It had all looked so different beneath the cheerful noon sun.

“A hungry feelin’ came o’er me stealin’ ....” All along the banks of the royal canal, red jerseys streamed towards the ground.

Four Munster lads in their teens bounced along by the water’s edge, babbling away merrily to each other. “Yer man looks very lonely,” said one, indicating Patrick Kavanagh’s statue on the opposite bank. “He probably couldn’t get a ticket,” came the reply.

“That’s Paddy Kavanagh the poet,” the youths were informed by an elderly gentlemen who was reading his paper. “Let’s hope Lansdowne Road is stony grey soil for Wasps today, eh?”

Some time later, and Ballsbridge was a teeming mass of red, offset by a sprinkling of black and amber. Public houses spewed fans out onto the streets where they formed a human road-block. Then the Munster bus loomed in the distance and a huge cheer went up as the red sea parted for the promised land-mobile.

Necks craned to see their heroes. Donncha O’Callaghan had his headphones on, his face a mask of concentration while others waved to their supporters. Rob Henderson supplemented his wave with a cheery grin.

In the stadium, the Guinness signs which normally adorn the East Stand had been covered up so as not offend the tournament sponsors. However, there was no such diplomacy afforded the in-house DJ. These people had come to cheer and to sing, so the manufactured atmosphere of pervasive pop, which frequently pollutes modern-day rugby, never stood a chance.

The roar which greeted the teams into the arena needed no musical accompaniment, and surpassed anything previously heard at IRFU headquarters. It was a refreshing re-affirmation of the power of a committed audience.

The game passed in a blur. Any hopes that Wasps would be rattled by the occasion were extinguished within the first five minutes. Their defence looked impregnable and, every time the ball was flashed out by Alex King, the red supporters held their breath.

The deathly silence of Thomond Park was never going to be fully replicated in front of a crowd of this magnitude, but when Ronan O’Gara lined up his first kick it was still possible to hear lone voices and mobile phone ring tones from the far side of the ground.

Wasps’ fans were magnificent. Completely outnumbered, they could never hope to match the decibel level of their counterparts but they made enough of a racket to put extra zip into their team’s legs whenever they appeared to be flagging.

This match had everything, plenty of tries, a couple of dust-ups, mistakes and magic. There was also some thunderous tackling to admire, one effort by Marcus Horan on the enormous Trevor Leota was Dennison-esque in its ferocity. Stephen Keogh is not yet 22, and must have been terrified going into this contest, yet he never shirked a thing all day and his break which led to the try for Anthony Foley will stay with him forever.

We also had the rebirth of Christian Cullen. He still has it. Early in the second-half, when retrieving a kick close to the touchline, he spun away from the despairing clutches of Wasps replacement Ayoola Erinle and scorched down-field for 50 metres. Every time he touched the ball subsequently, the crowd hummed in anticipation and he did not disappoint, looking threatening on each occasion.

So, knots in guts notwithstanding, there is a glass half-full scenario.

Let us not wallow in defeat. Defence and discipline let Munster down but there was Wallace’s chicken pox and the removal of Ronan O’Gara to contend with.

Five semi-finals, two finals and no trophy. Munster are at the bottom of the hill with sore backs and a boulder alongside them. But who says the prince never rolled it all the way to the top? That’s only a myth.