“Tradition is not the worship of the ashes, but the preservation of fire.” – Gustav Mahler
In the end, the similarities were eerie. We’d already said that we had been here before, however, we thought that this time it would be different. Of course, it was different, but it was familiar too. There is no way that any of us could have imagined that such a plethora of buried emotions and painful memories would come roaring to the surface again, that we could have to live through the same nightmare again. The ghost of Julys past was very much present on Sunday, and her aura swirled with the breeze into every corner of Croker.
There was the lead, 7 points this time. There was the futile search for one more point, one more lousy point, just to make sure. For Eoin Cadogan getting blown for steps 6 years ago, see Ethan Twomey being pulled for legally handpassing the ball. Then we had two moments rolled into one. This time it was Shane Barrett who hit the post instead of Patrick Horgan in that desperate search for that one more tune, and instead of Mark Ellis being in around the house waiting for the break, there was Horgan. But so too was Nicky Quaid and our old nemesis made the horror of horrors seem like it might become a reality.
But it didn’t. They didn’t need one more, although, I think that we would all agree that it would have been nice. Cork had done enough to earn the right to hold on against one of the greatest teams there has ever been. Initial relief, oh what sweet relief, gave way to pandemonium as the great stadium shook one more time after a game for the ages.
When it was all over, amidst the euphoria you could even see the traces of some other more familiar and friendly ghosts in and around HQ. The great Larry Ryan had a tweet up putting Patrick Collins’ save from Aaron Gillane alongside Ger Cunningham getting his head in the way of Martin Naughton’s shot in 1990. The way in which Rob Downey, Collins and Shane Kingston combined at the death to work the ball to safety was reminiscent of the way Donál Óg Cusack, Wayne Sherlock, Jerry O’Connor, Niall McCarthy and Joe Deane combined to turn the screw on Kilkenny in 2004.
Of course, they were All-Ireland Finals. Cork have won nothing, yet. Have not won Munster in 6 years, a league in 26 years, an All-Ireland in 19 years. As Pat Ryan acerbically acknowledged, we can get a bit carried away down here from time to time. But those numbers are a reminder that we should not. Cork have no reason to expect, but what we do have is an insatiable desire for success fuelled by that great hunger that haunts us every single day. The hurt, the aching chasm in our lives means that we will be nothing but highly strung for the next fortnight.
But let us indulge ourselves a bit more.
Cork had let the die fly high. They were themselves. Totally. They were going to do it their way. They embodied absolutely everything that we love about Cork hurling, what we love about hurling. The manic desire to win the ball back, to compete for every single ball like it was the last ball you’d ever see, no matter what the odds, no matter what the outcome. To attack, attack and then attack some more. If they were going to die, they wouldn’t be wondering in the aftermath. Did they get a bit of luck? They did. Those 2 Limerick wides at the death took the heat off. Did they deserve it? Undoubtedly. In fact, they had more than earned it.
The performance was exceptional as Cork reached a standard of hurling that most people thought was beyond them. It felt like they had finally embraced the physicality and intensity of the modern game. The performance we craved was one that would leave us there or thereabouts going into the final quarter, what we got was a performance that left us 7 points clear after a start to the second half that was scintillating.
Patrick Collins set the tempo, as well as giving an exhibition of traditional goalkeeping skills, Darragh Fitzgibbon took on the role of the orchestrator as he dominated the middle of the field, Rob Downey laid down an impressive early marker, Ciarán Joyce thrived in the company of an all-time great, Harnedy and Barrett ran Byrnes and Hannon ragged while Declan Dalton waited and waited before he pounced, turning up on the opposite flank at the opportune time, daring Limerick to come out of their zonal defence.
Inside, Brian Hayes came of age and Alan Connolly showed us that he is capable of much more than just scoring goals. Patrick Horgan nailed some vital scores, but, importantly, it was the first time that he wasn’t Cork’s top scorer in Croke Park since the 2014 semi-final melt down against Tipperary.
As Limerick began to reel Cork in, it was hard not to watch the game through your fingers. It will never cease to amaze me how players can play and think so clearly in such a cauldron. While those cursed to watch from outside the whitewash looked on not knowing whether they were going to vomit or cry, those inside of it just got better and better.
Even though Cork didn’t get the one more point that would have made us rest a bit easier, it wasn’t for the lack of trying. As the Limerick tide grew stronger, Cork fought harder and harder. Limerick targeted Mark Coleman with their puckouts throughout the game and in those dying moments, he seemed to be everywhere. And then, it was over.
If things had been different, if we were in one of those parallel universes where Joyce’s hook didn’t complement Collins’ block, we could not have been despondent. Because when 2 teams leave absolutely everything that they have out there on the field as Cork and Limerick did, you could be nothing but imbued by pure and utter pride. You could even see it as the 2 sides mixed in the aftermath. They all knew, and nothing summed up Limerick better than the way they took the loss. On the chin, like champions.
And so this remarkable summer has one more chapter that is as of yet unwritten. Cork are back in the big show for the seventh time this century and for the second time this millennium, it will be Clare. Tony Kelly, Shane O’Donnell, and John Conlon. Three more ghosts of summers past, and plenty more with them.
Until the big day, it’s a case of “nothing is, but what is not.”
John Coleman
The Little All-Ireland 