Times Like These

It was as good a 53 seconds as there has been for a long, long time. The ground was still shaking after Patrick Horgan rattled Nicky Quaid’s net. However, in the midst of the unbridled euphoria, there was still the threat of the draw, the threat of it all been taken away from us before we even had a chance to appreciate it. That fear dissipated when Cork won the resultant puck out, and Darragh Fitzgibbon passed the ball to Shane Barrett who was then fouled by Cathal O’Neill, giving the moment a chance to crystalise.

That 53 seconds between Barrett being fouled and Horgan hitting the free gave everybody a chance to soak it in, to think about it. The noise had been incredible all evening, without doubt the best atmosphere since the redevelopment of the Páirc, and as good as anything that I can remember, anywhere. The roar that echoed into the dressing room as the players departed at half time was visceral, as grief and despair began to drown under a wave of pride and defiance.

As Pat Ryan whispered some sweet nothings into Horgan’s ear, the stadium danced. The 4 minutes were up, we knew it was over and we were just waiting for the great man to put the ball dead. What followed was the sweetest of cherries to top things off as he drilled the ball into the corner where Brian Hayes applied the perfect full stop both to his own breakout performance, and to the occasion in general.

What a night it was. The type of one that stays with you long after it’s over, the type night that leaves you stepping a little bit lighter no matter how hard you celebrated it, the type of night that leaves you thirsting for more, dreaming of more, demanding more.

The first half was intoxicating, mesmerising, phantasmagorical. A kaleidoscope of blurred red jerseys racing past sedentary green ones, of goals, goal chances, and saves. Yet for all of the brilliance that unfolded before our disbelieving eyes, perhaps it was Pat Ryan’s showdown with Paul Kinnerk and John Kiely that best summed up what was happening. The die had been cast.

In between the white lines, the response to Limerick’s goal showed that everybody was singing in harmony. Diarmaid Byrnes had a little nibble off Séamus Harnedy after Flanagan’s goal. When Harnedy got back up, Byrnes waited for him to come back at him. Instead, Harnedy went hunting for Patrick Collins’s puckout, claimed it and set up Barrett for goal number 2. Yes, Cork was playing with fury, but they were keeping their emotions in check too. The alchemy was perfect.

I still can’t get over that they hit 2-15 in that opening half. That they were 8 points up and it could have been a hell of a lot more both because of the nature of the goal we conceded and the brilliance of Quaid. In the City End we joked that another 2-15 would surely see us home. Were we offered another 1-13 there and then, would we have taken it? Of course, but this is Limerick. If every action has an equal and opposite reaction, there was plenty yet to fear.

When they popped over a couple of handy scores on the resumption, the nerves began to jangle. But unlike the Clare game, Cork answered them. They gave just as good as they got. They weren’t as dominant, they couldn’t be, but they were holding their own and making the most of their opportunities. Then came Limerick goal number 2. Was it to be that we would be the architects of our own destruction, again? Goal 3 felt inevitable, and around the ground many began to steel themselves for another crushing disappointment.

The players, to their eternal credit, didn’t. They kept plugging away, they kept the scoreboard ticking over, they kept at it. In every last one of them we saw everything that we love about Cork hurling. If they were going to die, then they were going to die in the full knowledge that they simply had nothing left to give.

They got it back to 1. We thought Horgan had got a free to level it. But it went the other way and there was the dreaded 2-point swing. Then Collins fed Kingston, and off he went. And he kept going, without fear. He was dragged down and from the City End we had the perfect view of Sean Stack moving towards our brethren in the Blackrock End with his arms stretched out wide. Penalty. Horgan. Rocket. Mayhem.

It was a night for the old and the young, in the stands and on the field. Harnedy and Horgan yet again reminded us of their brilliance. The potential of Twomey, Hayes, Barrett and Connolly metamorphosised into something more tangible. Fitzgibbon led the charge as only he can. His interview on GAA Go spoke volumes. One job done, another massive one to do. And even then.

The explosion of emotion that overwhelmed the Páirc was primal. And yet, Tipperary was still on the tip of everyone’s tongues. But if you can’t savour nights like that, if you can’t immerse yourself in the feeling of being totally connected to something that is infinitely greater than the sum of its parts, then what’s the point of any of it?

The comedown from such a higher plane of living poses its own problems, but all we can hope for is that the bounce it also gives is enough to get us to where we want to be, to where we need to be.

What do we want from Thurles? Everything. Absolutely everything. And if that isn’t good enough, so be it. We just need more times like these.

Because it really is times like these where you learn to live again, when you appreciate what you’re given again, where you learn to love it again, and you just want to experience it over and over again.

John Coleman