Red Eyes

You don’t have to say much, really, do you? And for a while, you can’t say anything at all. In times like these our body language gives everything away. A knowing shrug, a bowed head, a frown, a grimace, a few bleary and teary eyes. We all know what we’re feeling, but the words take a while to come.

When they do come, they bring us through all the stages of grief. While we can’t deny what has happened, we wish with all of our hearts that we could. When the anger comes, it flows. The ‘what-ifs’ then take control as you spiral into the inevitable depression that will, one day, bring us to acceptance.

The initial post-mortem can be visceral, harsh and vicious as your pain completely clouds your cold and calculated judgement. Slowly, you might be able to look at things with a bit more perspective, or you might just double down on your emotional response and keep lashing out until it stops making you feel a bit better.

In a way, it’s impossible to make any sense out of anything that we saw on Sunday. When we look back on it in minute detail, we slow everything down, discuss the shrugs, the feints, the tugs, the puffs, ad nauseum.

But when we watched it the first time, it all happened at a speed that was breathtaking. So much happened. So much didn’t happen. It was a drama, a tragedy, that reaffirmed why sport, why hurling continues to enthral us as it does. The story of the game may have unfolded before us, but the narrative wasn’t decided until Johnny Murphy puffed on his whistle one, final time.

With that final action, with one lousy and horrible point between the sides, it became Tony Kelly’s final. It was Clare’s day and all of the thousands of little things that had happened during the 90 plus minutes that we had witnessed were suddenly defined as destined to lead to that inevitable conclusion. In defeat, the losers, no matter how gallant or how noble they have been, cede all their rights to the storytelling. In public, at least.

As we come to terms with our grief, we will continue to try and find out why that happened, continue to seek out desperately what we need to do to finally get over that line. The main reason, of course, is that Clare was that little bit better. With our red-tinted glasses on we might say that not enough Cork players played well enough, but that doesn’t happen in isolation either. Clare didn’t allow them too. And more of their players hit their peaks, more often.

Maybe they were just that bit more experienced, that bit more desperate. We questioned on Friday whether or not the fact that nine Clare players were aged 30 or over would be a weakness or a strength. The narrative now suggests the later. Call it what you want, ruthlessness, cuteness, cynicism – but they were better at it. They were more willing to push the boundaries, to test the fabric of things, and as soon as they realised that there were no boundaries, they made hay. On the other side, it probably took Cork 60 minutes to realise that the referee had left his whistle in Ballylanders.

They did a brilliant job of limiting the effectiveness of the Cork puck-out. They ate up the breaks, never allowed Cork players to crash onto them as they had been doing since the first Limerick game. Could Cork have changed it up? Tried two inside to match Clare around the middle? Rotated the forwards more? Maybe. But in a game of the little things, that balance in trusting what has got you this far and breaking from it is so, so fine. Change it and it works, you’re a genius. Change it and it doesn’t. Well…

If Clare did more of the little things right, then the big things then just didn’t go Cork’s way. I won’t lie, when David McInerney, who was outstanding, tripped Robbie O’Flynn, and Johnny Murphy ran towards Hill 16, I was waiting for him to stretch out his arms like Sean Stack did back in April. But I knew from the moment he went into conclave that it wasn’t going to be that way. It would have been too perfect. I did expect a second yellow card, but that didn’t come either.

As much as the ’65 that wasn’t was, is and will be annoying, there is still a sense that Cork didn’t make enough of that opening anyway. As for the last play of the game? Well…

If Clare were that better, and they were, then Cork deserves huge credit for having the audacity and courage to stay in a game that continuously looked like it was slipping away from them after their incredible start. While the goals they conceded will hurt, and are something they will have to learn from, the way that they responded to them typified what they have transformed into this summer. That level of application, defiance and determination is now embedded in this group. When it would have been easier to die, they kept fighting, kept raging and went out on their shields. What more can you really ask for?

And the hope is that the sense of loss will embolden them even more. That they will look at what went wrong in Croke Park with a ruthlessness that will drive them on to even greater heights, that this will become just another chapter on the road to a better place as opposed to the climactic moment of another unfulfilled journey.

To think of next year does seem rather pointless at the minute, as it’s too hard not to think of what happened on Sunday. When the dust settles, however, we will remember the incredible days that they gave us this summer, and we will be eternally grateful for them, for instilling a sense of pride in Cork hurling again. When it does come round again, we’ll all be ready.

John Coleman