The View from the Hill. Sunday September 12^th 2004

1.15 Finally well positioned in front of a barrier. Pristine concrete everywhere, lots of steel cubicles, however a good view. A crowd of young fellows from Chriost Ri behind providing a cocky chorus of comment. Two dour looking farmers from Duhallow in raincoats, finally resigned to settle for the Hill instead of the stands, nested to our left, furtive glances at the young hard chaws to our rear. The Cork diaspora digging in all around. Make sure of our position, bags to the front, glance at the match programme. Why are G.A.A. match programmes so safe and boring, when the games themselves are so interesting? Liven them up a bit!

2.03 Good hurling in the minor match, the red Hill supporting Galway, anything to upset the Cats, young Wade and Hanly playing well. The growing tension, the unreal quietness, little interest in the small kids hurling at half time. Rain now spitting down, will it hold off? Cork and sunshine go together; the blood red is at its magnificent best in the summer heat. Worry about slippery ground, no concern for ones own protection from the elements. The ground filling up, what a sight!

2.30 Minor match see-saws, the Hill cheer Galway half heartedly, practicing for the real thing. Eventually a draw, no bandwagon roll for the Cats, thanks Galway! More reds arrive, a young couple, he in red, she in black. Two young ciderheads sit down in front, the worst for wear. Where did they get the tickets?

Yea! It’s Setanta! How are ya, boy! Positive vibes. Memories of 2003, the clash with Frank Lohan, the goal against Waterford, the screaming girls everywhere. He’s behind us on the Hill; he looks strangely detached caught up in his own private thoughts; he should be on the field. Choices, decisions, Cork hurling has moved on the road to todays date with history. Setanta took another road…good luck to him.

2.50, Why is Donal Og pucking balls left and right from the goals?

 “Dowtcha Donal Og boy!”

Relax, relax, last minute texts sent to wife and son, blasted mobile service has collapsed under the deluge of tens of thousands of nervous fingers.

3.05 Ben, the Rock, Sean Og. Wayne and the red flood burst from the tunnel. The disparate knots of groups and individuals suddenly fuse to create a welcoming din, the multinational flags are hoisted.

“Rebels … rebels…rebels…rebels,”     a little rusty.

Out of practice since Killarney, no chance to practice against Antrim and Wexford.

“O2…. O2 to be …. O2 to be a rebel”    That was cat altogether!  

Oh no! Three hardchaws in their cowboy hats stand right in front of me, an uneasy moment jeez lads give us a break, and we’re here with two hours. The smallest guy positions himself in front of me, sound man, a terrace veteran, the others drop down a step, and Croker appears again.

Kilkenny come out, where are their supporters? Swamped by the red cohorts. Where do those Corkies get the tickets from? One of the great mysteries of life.

“DJ….DJ…. Sully’s coming to get ya!”

“DJ …DJ….. Sully’s coming to get ya!”

The Kilkenny “warm up” takes some time to get going. The red Hill not standing on ceremony today.

“langers,… clapclapclap….. langers,….. clapclapclap……. langers........clapclapclap……..langers, ………

DJ drops balls regularly, is he focused? He is not, the weight of a thousand media articles on his shoulders. Shefflin’s first touch is poor, completely misses the handpass, nervous omens perhaps, we cling to the entrails of each players actions, JJ Delaney flying, Hickey going through the motions?

They break up. The body language is strange, some look extremely detached, these ARE Kilkenny hurlers, going for three in a row. In our heart of hearts we respect them.

Are we grasping at straws? Perhaps!

The seconds tick by! This is it; there is no escape, the calm before the storm!  We are from Cork we have to endure the agony, feel the pain, suffer through the Kilkenny attacks, miss the heartbeats, can’t bear to look, it’s all before us. We brace our very senses for the tumult to come, the Hill is quiet, everyone is preparing in their own way for the battle to come, defeat has not been considered, today of all days there can be no retreat, no excuse, no one to blame……. how can we go home having yielded again to Cats?  This infernal addiction to hurling, originating somewhere in our ancient genes, cultivated by the Gods, its craft practiced by ordinary mythical men.  Hurling as a sport may have tamed our warrior race, but the feelings, the playing of every ball, the awful tension and passion remain the same. 

3.20. Parade permits a collective bonding of emotion, as Croker turns red; the guttural roar betrays the tension, the enduring pain of 2003, the lack of an emotional safety net for defeat today. The ghosts of family and friends long gone take their places in the skies around Croke Park as they do in Thurles for Munster Finals…. even tickets must now be scarce up in the heavens also.

The Gods have conspired to block Kilkenny going ahead of Cork twice in history, will they fail a third time?

Cork have edged ahead in the roll of honour four times, can we do it for a fifth time?

Believe!

The noise level is frightening; the flags of the world eliminate the pageantry of the pitch. Chriost Ri, Duhallow, cider heads and cowboy hats, man in red, girl in black all together in anarchic abandon.

This is our mad world, our entire community for the next 90 minutes. No need for explanations, apologies or self consciousness.

“Rebels…Rebels…..Rebels…..Rebels….Rebels….Reb………”

Parade over I think!

3.27. “DJ is a langer”  “DJ is a langer”………you know he’s not, he’s a class act ……anything for an edge, and could this be his crowning day? No no……. Ringy will never leave the centre stage!

Amhran Na bhFiann, orchestrated this time by Ciaran Nagle. A dirge that never befits an occasion such as this yet we sing on out of tune to the growing tumult as we round the last corner,

……. le gunna screach faoi lamhach…………

Why are we still singing about guns in 2004?

3.30. Sliotar in to flashing camans, tension release. Kilkenny attack, they are good… O my God! Brennans clean through, Wayne slipped.

.wide

…..wide…

…….wide.

“Jay boy we was haunted there,” General agreement with this ciderhead statement.

“Haunted entirely”

Collective nods

Niallo fouled; ice cool Deano, first blood anyway!

“Deano….Deano….Deano… Deano”.

Sean Og rises with Shefflin; he catches the ball close to the first rows of heaven, significant moment. You look back behind; yea Setanta must have lifted him.

“You’re a star Ogie boy”

Minutes later Sheff has the ball between the posts, seconds afterwards a quick pass to Fitzpatrick, the Cats ahead…..believe believe.

Deano levels from a free.

O no! he has struck the blasted crossbar, how did it stay out? Deano looks at the crossbar wistfully, that should have gone in. The collective psysic power of evil thoughts of the Hill would have snapped the crossbar into a million pieces if a greater terror had not erupted 130 meters down the field.

A dark doubt over our destiny as Comerford leaves then Rock for dead, he takes the point.

Thousands of reds come up for air.

“We were burnt badly there”

Aodan blows up Jerry, he had only taken 5 steps, Duhallows tell the world that DJ takes 8 all the time! All agree as Sheff puts another between the posts.

“Cork -- --- ---- -- Cork -- --- ---- -- Cork -- --- ---- -- Co”   difficult to make two syllables, aw well can’t have everything in life!

Carey to Hoyne to Comerford. No way can it be 2003 again! Can it?

“Delaney is some hurler”  No disagreement with that.

Reassurance sought all round….the worried silence and the knowing eyes, no need to say anything at all.

Three points behind.

Deano a free, two points in it 22 minutes gone. Lyng bursts down the middle, a great point in normal circumstances, no room for admiration today.

Whats happened Brian Murphy? He’s gone. No problem lads John Browne’s a Rocky, he will do the business. The absolute confidence of my remarks reassured our Hill community although Cowboy Hat man number 3 commented darkly as to his pace. The daggers of distrust were sheathed in the overriding need for red unity (was he from the Barrs, no maybe the Glen!)

“Well done Ronan lad!”

Ben points a long free. Timmy passes to Corcoran…… “Dowt cha Brian boy”

First point from play, whats gone?….. 33 minutes….. We’re motoring now surely.

Sheff and Jerry exchange points…..half time, a point behind, relax, stand straight for 10 minutes, and get air, water and hope.

Official party distractions provided for the regular Gaels without tribal ties, the chaps in the best seats with their revisionist DJ theories. Has DJ scored from play against Cork in an All-Ireland final, did Ringy fail to score in an All-Ireland final…who knows?

Cian O’Connor arrives….no time for horses today……Duhallows even look on impassively. Cowboy hats one, two and three lustily cheer the young lady dancers.

The ciderheads even get up for a quick look and slump down again.

Thoughts of the year crowd in, from that first league victory against Limerick last February. The unsatisfying Championship repeat in June, King Brian on his knees showing the young rebels how to score, won by a lucky goal. Waterford edged us out in Thurles, deemed a classic, sure it always is when Cork are beaten.It was a fine game though! Glad too for Justin.

Let them enjoy it what do we need another Munster for anyway?

Noticable how the rebels’ songs echoed around Thurles that evening, the rebel army had its dreams on the bigger prize even as the Decies celebrated.Let them dream on,one day soon it will be for them,we have unfinished business to attend to.

Tipp in the next round, almost midnight leaving Holycross after singing for hours to upset our Tipperary friends, promising to meet them again in Thurles in a few days.Those perceptive PremierCounty hurling tribes noted the unstated hunger, the echos of the unfinished business which were evident in the quieter moments when we recounted that day last year. They wanted to stop the Cats too but knew they could not. Our real journey was just beginning; theirs was coming to an end for 2004.

Killarney is a hurling desert. As tens of thousands of rebels attempted to invade our big ball cousins on that Saturday afternoon in July, no one seemed to mention it to the traffic control authorities. The ten mile tailbacks and two hours at the Rathmore junction waiting while Kerry maidens were allowed go and return with their shopping from Killarney almost spoiled the day.

Cork held their heads and Timmy and Niall did the rest.Tipp did not travel and those loyalists that did recognised that terrible hunger. We too remembered their terrible hunger from that gladitorial contest of 87 when their famine ended.  .Killarney was just business, unfinished business and not even the sea of green and gold on the road home disturbed the concentration.The big ball game would not concern us this year.

Poor Dinny Cahill, say what you like about Cork but never ever insult Cork hurlers boy!  That was a very good Antrim team, probably the best in a generation but Dinny old stock! let their hurling do the talking in future.Their wonderful supporters deserve to samba!

Clare showed Kilkenny were human.Our hearts wanted Clare,our heads WANTED the Cats, they were not getting away from us that easy, we had a date,no excuses for non attendance would be acceptable.

Poor Wexford were destroyed. No one took any joy in that! A slumbering summerstream colliding with a tropical storm. That classic old world hurler Adrian Fenlon battled in vain against a supersonic Jerry O’Connor.It was over after 15 minutes. The rebel army lay down its arms in respect for the purple and gold warriors of 54 and 56.

Ring had once said “Wexford are the greatest sportsmen in all Ireland”

The sons of 56 repeated this to their sons and todays fallen heroes were saluted as Ring would have ordained and ever will it be so.

The open terrace banter and conversations continue in that last great democratic forum of sport. Everyone entitled to a view.

“It could be worse, they havent played yet, Delaney won’t be as good in the second half, Donal Og should puck the ball up the field. Sean Og has sorted Sheff, DJ is dangerous, have they the hunger?……the shakey concensus was optimism with a dash of realism.

Cork burst out;

this is it now…35 minutes left.

“Deano…..Deano…..Deano.”

They have a cocky swagger. Kilkenny are out but lack an urgency.

Niall levels…..ground erupts. Sheff fires over a 65. Kieran Murphy levels again. Cork has picked up the pace they are now running at Kilkenny. Sheff points another free.

This was the 46^th minute and although we were not to know it, it was the final Kilkenny score.

Suddenly Niall Mac catches a high ball and fires over a huge redemptive point which was greeted by a rumbling roar reaching the heavens. It was the turning point, the point at which we knew the Promised Land was red. The Hill became a frenzy of noise.

“Rebels…..Cork….Deano”……it rose, levelled out, raw but controlled and rose again as Kieran Murphy put us ahead, we were on our way, the Cork catharses had begun. Diarmuid grew animated, Gardiner cleared balls. Wayne and Browne coolness personified. Niall bangs over another one raises his fist, his purgatory over.  Ben fires over a free, three points and coasting.

Sheff pulled on a pass straight to Donal Og…….should he have caught it?......... not his day. It could not be because we knew it was our day. Jeez that would have been some party stopper if it had gone in!

The sliotar is roared down the field……Has Deano been sliced in two by Ryall swinging his hurling scythe?

The yellow helmet seems to stop dead, its feet rise from the ground in slow motion, top half tucks in a sideways Olympian somersault as he crashes in a crumpled heap on the ground. Brian Corcoran appeals, James Ryall wishes he was anywhere else.

Joe Deane rises slowly…..go on make my day like ……..and places the ball between the posts.

“There is only ONE Joe Deane… ONE Joe Deane… ONE Joe Deane…. There’s only ONE Joe Deane”

The victory delirium is underway on the Hill, arms are linked, strangers entertwined, as the tailend of “De Banks” is belted out. Will Rebels please please learn the bloody words of the anthem, where are Sean O’Se or Cara O’Sullivan when we need you?

BY A LONELY PRISON WALL I HEAAAAARD…A young man callin…………

“That’s a Galway song you Gowl”

“Yea the Limerick crowd mangle it down there”  

Merciful silence! 

“Cheerio…cheerio… cheerio.

 Cheerio…..cheerio…..cheerioo ooo. 

Cheerio... cheerio cheerio

Cheeriiiio CCHHEEEEERIO”.

“29…..29 …..29

29…..29 ……twentynniinneeee

29 etc”

Disconsolate Cats are creeping away.

I hope that obnoxious Kilkenny farmer who sat alongside me last year is watching.

Deano…point!

Ben ….point

Sully rampages forward, Cloyne to Killeagh…over the bar!

Just a few minutes left, what happened to the last 10 minutes?

It does not get any better than this, then a final surreal moment as King Brian scampered friskily out to the endline then back along the sideline, Noel Hickey long gone, now the recently yellow carded Ryall in hesitant pursuit. He lifts, shymmies, dances inside in an ethereal ballet as he casually dips the hurley close to his body lofting the sliotar slowly over the bar from an acute angle.

It looked so easy after 25 years of practice!

File…Save as ….Save in……Folder……. Permanent Memories.

As King Brian dropped to his knees…his subjects rose in homage…the skies above Croker shuddered and then exploded, our gladiators have conquered, and the simmering shindig had finally reached the perfect climax.

A perfect finale, a perfect moment, the sun shines for the first time today, our journey is over.

It is never enough to win in Cork…….. they say you must do it in style!

5.30 Still walking around the field, prolonging the magical moments, reluctant to leave the arena, wander back again to where King Brian had scored the wonder point.

Meeting family, neighbours, friends and enemies, raw joy, sentences unfinished, language inadequate to analyse the feelings, the warm glow of relief, words, and explanations not needed. The eye contacts and tears converse in total joyful understanding of the moment.

Wise old heads quietly savour each second, embracing them, relishing the memory, remembering other generations,missing friends and other such moments gone before, the younger fans embrace the experience with a mad passion, the abandon of youth, dreaming of the future.

All around the cavernous crypt that was Croker of just 12 months ago had been replaced by the wonderful serenity of the lovely stadium that it is.

An arena fit for the gods of our unique game.

Truly our field of dreams today and forever.

Sure was it only a game of hurling anyway?

The End.

© gerard o mahony 2004.