A mighty game… – McSherry’s Musings

“The men of Ireland were hurling when the Gods of Greece were young” (PJ Devlin c.1924)

Last Sunday was Father’s Day and oft-times I reflect the best legacy my Dad left me was an open-mindedness to embrace all sports.

In the 1970s, from our sofa, we watched beautiful Brazil win the World Cup, cheered Ireland rugby tries at mucky Lansdowne Road, were enthralled by the Ali-Frazier-Foreman triumvirate and, of course, there was the Fianna and Tyrone footballers. He had a generosity that didn’t need to pillory other codes in order to elevate one’s own sport.

Waaay back then, Babs played barefooted in an All-Ireland final, JBM made the seamless transition from football to hurling champion and Richie Bennis did a jig after scoring a last-gasp point as Limerick won the Munster title for the first time in 18 years.

In 1980, we sat in the Cusack Stand watching Tribesmen climb the wire and run across the sacred soil to acclaim their heroes as Galway won the Liam MacCarthy Cup after a gap of 53 years.

Cloth caps were thrown in the air; they really were! They had reached the Promised Land.

Captain Joe Connolly spoke as Gaeilge (in Irish) of people around the world who had emigrated from Galway. “There are people over in Galway with joy in their hearts, but also we must remember (Galway) people in England, in America, all over the country and maybe they are crying right now.”

Future GAA President, the late Joe McDonagh, took the microphone and sang The West’s Awake… ‘Alas! And well may Erin weep that Connacht lies in slumber deep, but, hark! a voice like thunder spake, The West’s awake! The West’s awake!’

It was a mountain top experience.

I never played the ancient game of hurling; that’s a regret and a long story…

“Hurling is the Riverdance of sport” said former Wexford hurling manager, Liam Griffin. It is jaw dropping, poetry, fierce and beautiful.

Life took me to Tipperary. In July ‘87, I made my way to Thurles for the Munster hurling final. What a revelation! It was a Fleadh Cheoil and a fair day in packed Liberty Square. The walk to ‘The Field of Legends’ (Semple Stadium) was iconic as shysters did card tricks on tables and the legendary Pecker Dunne plucked his bango and sang, ‘Sullivan John’.

Tipp hadn’t won the Munster title since 1971, a long time for a proud hurling county. The game was epic!

Nicky English broke free but lost his hurl, he faced Cork keeper Ger Cunningham and lifted the ball past him with his foot, as the heavens shook. Tipp won the replay, “The famine is over!” roared Richie Stakelum. A Munster final is bucket list. Many northerners make the pilgrimage each year.

Years later I met big Audi accompanied by a strapping man in Dungannon Square. “I’m for the Munster hurling final” I exclaimed. “This man’s from Tipperary” said Audi. Very animated, I told them of ‘87 and demonstrated how English lifted the sliotar past Cunningham, not kicked!

“Wasn’t I after feking passing it to him!” came the response. It was indeed the great Joe Hayes who delivered the pass into the forward line that day.

Each year, when the crowd faces the tricolour at the All-Ireland final and the Artane Boys strike up Amhrán na bhFiann, I scan the arena, look at the warriors on the field clasping their hurls, and I give thanks to the God of hurling for allowing me to be there again. It is a day like no other, so quintessentially of Ireland.

Me and Ollie also hit to the big club games in Ulster, the fabulous performance by Liam Watson for Loughgiel on St Patrick’s Day 2012 in the All-Ireland final, a highlight.

Back in the Tipp days, I recall telling my mother about the incredible scenery, that inspired Johnny Cash to write ‘Forty Shades of Green’.

“You had that here and you didn’t see it”, was her wise reply from the Glens of Gortin.

In more recent years I made my way to Tyrone hurling games and joined the Naomh Colum Cille club.

Damian Mór, a great hurling aficionado, advised me to carry a hurl on the sideline in order to look like an U17 coach.

Driver, maor uisce and stat man would be more accurate.

It is a joy.

Many here have promoted hurling for years, playing off Broadway as the big football shows take the spotlight.

At the Tyrone matches, Damian Casey stood out like a beacon. An abiding memory is last year in the Nicky Rackard Cup semi-final against Armagh in the Athletic Grounds when Tyrone were seven points down and had a man lined. The players rose to the challenge. The fulcrum was Damian Casey who gave an exhibition of fielding and scoring, as point by point the Red Hands clawed their way to a remarkable victory.

Casey can be spoken of in the same breath as Tyrone legends Jones, McGuigan and Canavan.

“When the final whistle for me has blown and I stand at last before God’s judgement throne, may the great referee when he calls my name, say, ‘You hurled like a man, you played the game’.” (‘The Hurler’s Prayer’ – Seamus Redmond).

Damian Casey was The Man.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dílis.