Galway
hurlers brought the Liam McCarthy Cup back across the Shannon on
Sunday and the great Joe Canning finally won that illusive All
Ireland medal.
We watched
the match in Jack Rourke's bar on the giant flat-screen television in
glorious high-definition colour, complete with slow-motion replays
from multi camera angles and expert analysis from both the panel and
the local hurling aficionados.
Sitting down
in a bar with a group of noisy companions, sipping a pint of fresh
porter and nibbling at a packet of cheese and onion crisps is the
only civilized way to watch a good game of hurling these days, apart
from being there of course – or is it?
Abbeyfeale
Hill was never known as a great hurling stronghold, but we had our
moments. And, back in the early sixties, the first Sunday in
September was regarded as a very special day.
We were up
early that morning to milk the cows and take the flowing tanks of
milk to Meenahela Creamery. Back home and into the good suit and down
the Hill Road to attend half ten Mass. Home again to take off the
suit, eat the dinner and prepare for the afternoon.
At around
half past two we headed for the house of our next-door neighbour,
Davie Cahill, to watch the match on steam radio.
Davie owned
a magnificent Pye radio that ran off a wet battery. He had it up on a
high shelf and, when it was switched on, you had to wait for the
valve to heat before any sound emerged.
But what a
sound! It boomed out like a trumpet and seemed to fill the whole
kitchen. It would leave today's discos standing – so it would!
That radio
could connect with every major city in the world and bring numerous
foreign programmes and languages in to Davie's humble little cottage
on Abbeyfeale Hill with just the twist of a knob.
Across the
dial was printed such exotic places as Rome, Brussels, Strasbourg,
Paris, Berlin, etc. You could get Radio Luxembourg after 6 o'clock
and listen to the latest pop music as it faded in and out on the
airwaves. (Davie claimed you could even hear the pilots talking as
the planes landed at Rineanna, but this was never confirmed)
However, on
that special Sunday afternoon of long ago, our attention was fixed
firmly on Radio Eireann and the happenings in Croke Park.
But first we
had to listen impatiently to Din Joe and Take The Floor – a
traditional music programme that featured dancing on the radio long
before Michael Flatley and Riverdance was invented. (We were well
ahead of our time back then.)
As match
time approached a few more neighbours would drift slowly in,
including Joe Moriarty from over the road.
Joseph had
played a bit of hurling with Tour in his youth and knew more about
the game than the rest of us and so we respected his opinion.
He rarely
sat down during matches but paced the floor assisting Micháel
O'Hehir with the commentary while offering advise and encouragement
to the referee and players.
“What are
you doing way out there?” he would demand of some errant back who
had abandoned his defensive position and roamed up-field. “Go back
in and mark your man!”
Joseph
didn't know it then, but many years later his own grandson would don
the green of Limerick and win All Ireland honours. Sadly, Joseph did
not live to see the day, but if he had, he would have been proud as
punch and the rest of us would never have heard the end of it! The
apple, as they say, never falls far from the tree.
Lizzie, the
woman of the house, made tea and fed us generous cuts of home-made
bread with lashings of blackcurrant jam.
And then, at
three o'clock, the guttural tones of Micháel O'Hehir finally
announced “Baill ó Dhia oraibh go léir a chairde Gael ó Phairc
an Chrócaigh!” and we were off and running.
For the next
couple of hours Micháel described in vivid detail the sights and
sounds, the colour and pageantry and the intense excitement as two
teams went at it hammer-and-tongs to win that coveted All Ireland
title.
He welcomed
exiled listeners living overseas in New York, Boston, Sydney,
Melbourne and other distant lands, and brought them all a little
closer to home. He gave the line-out of the two teams and talked
about the parade of players marching proudly along amid waving flags
and cheering crowds. There was silence for Amhrán na bhFiann
followed by a massive roar from seventy thousand frenzied supporters
as the whistle went and Micháel announced “The ball is in and the
game is on!”
What
followed was pure magic as we watched every tackle, every stroke and
every score in our mind's eye with far more colour and clarity than
any high-definition flat-screened television could ever bestow upon
us.
Imagination
is a marvellous thing. It can beat reality any day. Points were
stroked majestically over the bar. Goals slammed in to the net.
Crunching tackles were made and spectacular clearances sent way
up-field, Chances missed and chances taken. Heroes born and legends
created. This was hurling at its best. The greatest field game in the
world. Fast and furious. And described by the greatest commentator in
the world.
At the end
there were winners and there were losers. There were tears of joy and
tears of sorrow. It scarcely mattered to us. We were neutral.
Limerick were rarely involved in these epic encounters, and 1973 was
still a very long way away.
We grabbed
our hurleys, most of them broken or shaped out of bits of timber or
cropped branches, and raced out into the haggart at the back of the
house, pulling and swinging, and trying to emulate our heroes.
This was our
moment. This was our field of dreams. This was our day in Croke Park.
This was our
first Sunday in September long ago.
