Few GAA folk ever express any sense of sympathy with those charming men in RTÉ, with their attempts to cover top championship matches with two cameras, inflicting Pat Spillane on a terrified populace or waxing lyrical about the joys of watching ‘Nure playing ‘Tarf in the Men With Odd Shaped Balls League. But one had to feel sympathy for the mandarins in Montrose when the fire inspectors pulled the plug on live TV coverage of this match. Exciting and all as the Westmeath – Meath game must have been, Niall Cogley was probably as bald as his old man from tearing his hair out as the most pulsating and dramatic match imaginable slipped from his grasp and will forever exist only in the minds of those of us who were lucky enough to be present. Simply put, sport does not get any better than this.
Only one shadow could be found on the X-ray of the lungs of this stellar game, More on that later.
The weekend, for following the Déise is a weekend thing now, had gone so well. Two nights had passed in Dublin and in that time I had acquired about five hours sleep, which is nice. While walking to along the platform at Heuston, I espied a man who looked vaguely familiar. He sat down beside me on the train and we eventually got to chatting. It transpired that he was – and still is, I presume – Tom Widger, the radio columnist in the Sunday Turbine. Even though I had forgotten his name (and I later had reason to be grateful that I didn’t choose to speculate as my guess would have been the name of a man he can’t stand), I knew enough to be able to note that he peppered his columns with references to the Crystal City. After confirming that this pattern was not imagined on my part, he filled me in on the wacky world of Irish journalism. The Irish Press was a monument to booze ‘n’ fags, the Irish Times was the world leader in po-facedness, Con Houlihan is a lovable crank, Kevin Cashman is a crank; stuff I knew already, but it was great to have it confirmed for me. What I didn’t know is that the Cash is still alive and drinking, Murphy’s disappearing down his throat like a creamy black waterfall. It’s after weekends like this that you really regret his absence from our newspapers, and I’m sure he was present in Thurles railing against the Waterford half-forwards and wondering whether Justin McCarthy had left his brains – or his cerebellum, as Kevin would no doubt put it – in Passage West.
As referred to earlier, the match was not going to be televised as the local fire safety had refused permission for television cameras to brought into the new stand. Incidentally, note the lower case in ‘new stand’, because the new stand in Thurles is called the Old Stand, while the stand which was not giving a revamp is known as the New Stand. It makes sense if you know Thurles, but no doubt the lads and lassies at dangerhere.com would consider it to be typical of the GAA mucksavages. Unlike the progressive types in Irish soccer, of course, such as Roy Keane.
The intermediate game was a very strange affair. I arrived just in time to see Limerick score a goal to level matters early on, and the Shannonsiders were comfortably superior to Waterford for the next half an hour or so. Only Sean Daly was keeping Waterford above water (ho ho) and his goal midway through the second half looked like keeping the scoreline respectable. Then, for no identifiable reason, Waterford turned on the afterburners. Points flew over from every angle and suddenly we were three points up. Cue a goalkeeping clanger of cosmic proportions as Brendan Landers let a tame daisycutter squeeze past him. Waterford simply strolled up the field and knocked over two points to secure a victory which seemed so unlikely ten minutes before when Growler seemed to be the only player able to pick the ball up at the first time of asking. Just to make things even better, we won the primary game for the first time in my memory, boasting a scintillating performance from (says the programme) Niall Clifford from Ballyduff Lower – getting mentioned on this website must make all those hours pucking a ball around the back field seem worthwhile. Was this going to be Waterford’s diem mirabilis (or whatever)??
History happens twice, first as tragedy, second time as farce. That particular phrase, attributed to the original bearded leftie, Karl Marx, comes from the same school of insight as astrology. When it’s wrong, people ignore it. When it’s right, people marvel at how prescient and farsighted an observation it is. Marx was right on the money when it came to Waterford v Limerick, as the Déise boys rocketed out of the blocks like Marion Jones in a Nike ad. It wasn’t quite as virile a display of hurling as two years ago in Cork, but it was close. Two points up before Limerick had time to settle down, then Paul Flynn superbly hooked a Tony Browne sideline cut into the net. Ken McGrath had another one of those trademark fading shots squeeze just inside the post. Dave Bennett wriggled this way and that before knocking the ball splendidly over the bar. Waterford had numerous goal chances, with John Mullane and Flynn both cutting in from the corner only to see their handpass back into the centre fall to grateful Limerick defenders. Limerick looked desperately flat, with Waterford on top in every position. Fergal Hartley and Tony Browne were particularly good, mopping up possession and quickly putting Waterford back on the attack. No one was getting carried away like we did last time, precisely because we remembered what happened last time. But it’s hard not to get excited when you see your team playing like gods. Things got even better when we finally got the second goal, Mullane galloping through the Limerick defence before smashing the ball past Timmy Houlihan.
Here we were again. 2-6 to 0-1 in 2001, 2-5 to 0-2 in 2003. Surely the experience of going through that trauma, combined with our enhanced status as Munster champions would see off the demons? Speaking to a long-lost friend after the game at the train station, we agreed that one of the things that makes hurling the finest sport known to humanity is that you can’t take your foot off the throttle. In soccer or gaelic football you can keep possession, knocking the ball from player to player until the opposition lose the rag. You can kick the ball away in rugby and be reasonably confident that it won’t come back your way for a decent period of time. But you can do neither in hurling. Tapping the ball around the back would have Kevin Cashman rightly fulminating against the Jennet Express, while even the most magnificent of clearances involves the possibility of it being fired back down your throat five seconds later, with interest. Waterford failed to maintain the required level of intensity, either then or now. It was easier to see why this was in 2001. Limerick played dirty then, clobbering a few of the more raw players and breaking Waterford’s rhythm. They also got a goal not long after the second Waterford goal, and that always helps steady the nerves. There didn’t seem to be the same feeling this time round. Waterford simply went off the boil, and Limerick crept surreptitiously back into contention. The forwards, previously so dominant, began to huff and puff. Limerick picked off a few cheap points, one or two from dodgy frees. There was also time for umpiring comedy, with one Limerick effort signalled wide by the ref after the umpires insisted it was over the bar, then later the umpires signalled it wide only for the ref to overrule them again. The points got them back into a position where a goal would close them right up, and the goal that came was a right teeth-grinder. Andrew O’Shaughnessy, the new great white dope of Limerick hurling, gave poor Alan Kirwan a roasting from the start to Kirwan’s premature withdrawal from action. In this case, O’Shaughnessy wriggled away from him and bore down on goal, slipping between the massed Waterford backs like an eel. His shot was blocked by Stephen Brenner but in the confusion it popped back to O’Shaughnessy who had the simple task of batting the ball into the gaping goal. The lead was down to four points, and who would put the house on any team leading by four points late in the first half of a championship game?
The Waterford forwards, initially lithe and nimble, were now performing like six supertankers passing in the night. Ken McGrath scored another excellent point to keep things ticking over but it was a purely individual effort, and from an individual who wasn’t demonstrating the savoir faire of his best performances. Limerick were horsing us out of it in the midfield, and the Waterford backs, self-evidently a weaker unit than the forwards, were really beginning to struggle. When O’Shaughnessy blazed through again just before half-time, it looked like Waterford had cleared the danger with a minimum of fuss, but the ref stretched his arms out to indicate a penalty, much to the chagrin of the Déise faithful. Still, he had a clear view and he wasn’t going to invent a foul where none existed, right? Either way, Mark Foley drilled home the penalty and Limerick were level. Waterford restored their advantage before half-time but it was a dispiriting end to what should have been a glorious half.
Comparisons with our previous game with Limerick are inevitable, but by half-time it was less resembling Pairc Ui Chaoimh 2001 than Croke Park 2002. A half where we had played brilliantly, shown all the really stylish play but had nothing to show for it having being bludgeoned by more stout opponents. Counsels of despair would have had even more ammunition early in the second half when Mullane ripped through the heart of the Limerick defence, skipped past Houlihan and handpassed the ball to the net. The brain was telling me that he had done it, but the heart was refusing to believe that an adult hurler could do something so monumentally stupid. The last time I remember anyone handpassing a goal was Christy Heffernan in the 1982 All-Ireland final. It is quite conceivable that the rules were changed before John Mullane was even born. To be fair – and it’s a bit of a struggle to be fair – it all happened so fast that he simply didn’t think, and he didn’t let it get to him, no more than he would let Steve McDonagh’s transparent effort to rile him to affect his game. But one would have thought that not handpassing a goal would be hardwired into the DNA of all hurlers at this stage. Obviously not.
After the pyrotechnics of the first half, the game settled into a much more scrappy routine, but for all of the blood and thunder on display it remained keenly contested rather than spiteful. The same could not be said in the stands though. Midway through the first half, I commented to my sister that a Limerick fan about eight rows in front of us was rather demonstrative, to say the least. She had spotted him too as part of her ongoing campaign to weed out the annoying opposition fan sitting in among the Waterford crowd like a wart on Nicole Kidman’s face. Everything produced a reaction. Even a Waterford wide was met with hoots of derision and the air being bruised with his fist. There was plenty taking place to get people on their feet. Tony Browne tried to go one better than John Mullane when he thrust at the heart of the Limerick backs. Perhaps aware that he wasn’t likely to show the lack of presence of mind of Mullane, their backs took Browne out. Penalty. Paul Flynn stepped up to the plate and, as he does, arrowed the ball home in much the same manner as Foley earlier in the game. Then a poor Tom Feeney clearance was launched back into the Waterford final third of the pitch and it seemed inevitable that a goal or a penalty would follow. In the end it was another penalty and only the most perfunctionary of complaints were attempted by Waterford. This time the penalty was taken by Conor Fitzgerald, saved and cleared by the Waterford defence. The ball swept up field to Flynn and a four point swing looked on the cards as he was wrestled the ground in a very scoreable position. But Pat Aherne waved play on, and Limerick duly charged up the other end to produce their own four-pointer with a goal from Fitzgerald.
It would be remiss not to refer to Pat Aherne’s performance, considering it formed such a large part of the post-match hot air. The problem is that harping on about it looks like sour grapes. So I have reached an editorial compromise whereby references to his display are limited to this one paragraph. It’s going to be a long paragraph though. Every opinion possible has been canvassed. I’ve found Limerick and Waterford fans who thought he was fine, Limerick and Waterford fans who thought he was diabolical, neutrals who think both and neither. I’ve read Cliona Foley’s scrupulously fair (and highly excited – God knows what the combustible Vincent Hogan would have made of it) report in the Indo where she thinks the decisions balanced out but that Waterford felt most aggrieved at crucial moments, such as the Flynn decision mentioned above. I’ve had twenty-one hours to think about it and have studied the full spectrum of opinions. So after all that mature reflection, I’ve come to the conclusion that he utterly screwed Waterford. The evidence is not in the details. While the failure to punish the foul on Paul Flynn was an utter abomination, I’m sure Limerick fans can quote chapter and verse on slights he had against them. No, the evidence is in the reactions of the respective camps. Waterford fans went bananas at the final whistle, while Limerick fans nearby, including the aforementioned hyperactive runner bean, were sheepishly grinning at the violence of the reaction of the Déise crowd. In addition, Paddy Joe Ryan chose to vent his spleen in a rather undignified manner, bitchily observing that refs from weaker counties shouldn’t be allowed officiate at such high profile matches and that there are plenty of excellent referees in Munster – he mentioned Willie Barrett as an example; betcha he wasn’t saying that five years ago. Meanwhile, Dave Keane gave a standard magisterial response. These things balance out over the course of a game, he said, we could point to a few examples of bad decisions and I don’t like criticising referees etc. This motto was not one utilised by his predecessor, Eamon Cregan, who launched at the referee after their defeat to Cork last year. This is because winning teams use the all-part-of-life’s-rich-tapestry excuse while losers barely stop short of accusing the ref of being a paedophile. In this case though, there was no winner or loser, yet Waterford felt like losers and the gurning Limerick fans felt like winners. A charitable view is that the failure to punish the foul on Flynn, and I won’t indulge speculation that it was anything other than a foul, was part of a big match nervous breakdown. He only gave nine frees in total in the second half, an extraordinarily low figure. If this is the case, then for all the churlishness of the comments, Paddy Joe Ryan is actually right. The worst case scenario, given the sheer venom of the Déise reaction and the evidence of mine own eyes (admittedly interpreted, in true Matrix fashion, through the reality-distorting prism of my allegiance to Waterford) is that he was plain biased against Waterford. The truth probably lies, as usual, somewhere in the middle. But Waterford have reason to feel abused, and there will be much irritation if he is selected for the next game.
Not that we know what the next game is about, for match reports should be written chronologically and we don’t know the eventual outcome of this one yet, do we? The teams were level again, and points were exchanged in a manner most unfair to those of a nervous disposition. Tony Browne clattered through the tackles and sent a disappointingly tame effort into goalie’s midriff. But in echoes of Waterford’s last championship game in Thurles, the goalie made a hash of it and bounced into the path of Paul Flynn. References to his Ireland-capped soccer career are probably irrelevant seeing as he was a goalie. It would be simpler for the imagery-crazed writer to observe that he showed John Mullane how it was done by firmly booting the ball into the net.
The only noise louder than the Waterford roar was the combined cackle of neutrals in the ground thanking their lucky stars that this game had taken its umpteenth turn. Nothing seemed impossible now. Limerick closed in, Waterford edged away. Declan Prendergast couldn’t find his way through the Limerick midfield, so instead he played a glorious ball over the top to Flynn whose shot was superbly saved by the walking-wounded Houlihan. Eoin Kelly rounded off a devastating Mount Sion inspired movement up the field with a shinty-style turn and bat between the posts. Alan Kirwan brilliantly caught the dropping sliothar only to be wrestled to the ground by two Limerick forwards. That was how it seemed to me, but I was a long way from the action and the red mists had descended at this stage. Off they went and Niall Moran flashed the ball expertly into the roof of the net.
For all of the drama up until this point, Limerick still hadn’t led, but they soon got the point to take the lead and my spirit sagged like a bridge made at Scout camp. The brittle psyche that had left us in this mess did not seem capable of recovering from the psychological mauling they had received. Yet amazingly Waterford rallied, Eoin Kelly popping over the point to bring matters level. Then Waterford came a whisker away from inflicting the killer blow, although whether any blow could ever be said to be mortal in this mental fixture is debateable. A ball into the square was expertly fielded by Andy Maloney but his effort was well saved again by Timmy Houlihan. The ball broke to Declan Prendergast – I think; he was wearing a black helmet and that’s all I could make out – but he rushed his effort and hit fresh air. The ball pinged around and found its way to Eoin Kelly who tried to run around the entire Limerick back line before being penalised to the predictable outrage of everyone in white and blue. Plus ca change.
The match ticked remorselessly into injury time and Waterford got a break when a free awarded against them to the predictable outrage of everyone in white and blue was changed to a throw-in. In the ensuing melee on the Waterford 45, the ref then gave a free to Waterford. Paul Flynn came charging down, waving at everyone else to get out of his way. Memories of the drawn Munster final in 1998. This time, with a hat-trick under his belt, he made no mistake and Waterford looked like they had gotten out of jail. Ken McGrath had a great chance wide on the left to leave Limerick needing a goal in their next attack but he screwed his shot across the face of the goal. With pulses all around racing faster than Michael Schumacher and the habitual traffic-dodgers huddling in the tunnel, ignored by the spellbound maoir, there was time for Limerick to stage one last attack. Waterford snuffed out the initial danger but the ball was fed to Eoin Foley whose hefty shot flashed over the bar and the teams were level once again. The ref then called for the ball and Semple Stadium trembled in the aftermath of an explosive exhalation of breath as the finest hurling match in many a year ended in a worthy draw. Although not before Pat Aherne was given a Garda escort off the pitch as the agitated Waterford players crowded around him to question his parentage. None of them did anything they might regret and they’ll be ready and willing next Saturday when the replay tries to live up to the awesome standards of drama of this pearl among matches.
It felt like a defeat though. Perhaps our standards have risen and gallant results are no longer adequate. No doubt it was linked to the quibbles, real or imagined, with officialdom. But ultimately we should have won because we had enough chances to win multiple games. Goals were spurned, sensible play was at a premium, key players acted as if they were performing from memory, the management were powerless and reacted too slowly to try and shore up gaps in the team and a couple of players were alarmingly exposed. One symptom of the Waterford disease is that we don’t get second chances. It seems clear in retrospect, for all their talk of being ‘quietly confident’ that Limerick feared that Waterford would inflict death by a thousand cuts on them, like we did to Tipperary last year. Not only did it not happen, Waterford inflicted a good seven hundred cuts in that sensational opening and Limerick are still there. Perhaps not being there makes the sense of doom more pronounced, but the replay will need to see a significant Waterford improvement if this is to be our first team to enter a Munster final as defending champions.
But let’s not be too despondent. We are still there, and that means we can accentuate the positive. It was the best game of hurling I’ve ever seen, and I have no doubt that it was one of the greatest matches ever. Some ancient blowhards seem to think that great games ceased taking place once the goalie stopped wearing the regular county shirt. In fact, the lack of television cameras will only add to the mystique of this match. When the time comes to switch off the life support machine on this tortured soul, perhaps only ever having seen his county win one provincial title in his life, I can request one last look at this site and read this match report. And I will be able to say, a la the GPO in 1916: I was there.
Waterford: Stephen Brenner, Alan Kirwan (Eoin Murphy), Tom Feeney, Brian Greene, Declan Prendergast, Fergal Hartley, James Murray, Tony Browne, Eoin Kelly (0-3), Andy Moloney (0-1; Michael Walsh), Ken McGrath (0-3), Dave Bennett (0-3, 0-1 65), John Mullane (1-0), Seamus Prendergast (Eoin McGrath; Dan Shanahan), Paul Flynn (3-3, 1-2 frees)
Limerick: Timmy Houlihan, Damien Reale, TJ Ryan (0-1), Eoin Mulcahy (Steve McDonagh), Peter Lawlor, B Geary (P O’Dwyer), Mark Foley (1-1 frees), Ciarán Carey (Eoin Foley, 0-1), Clement Smith, Conor Fitzgerald (1-4, 0-2 frees), Niall Moran (1-1), Barry Foley (Patrick Kirby, 0-1 free), Andrew O’Shaughnessy (1-1), Brian Begley (0-2), Donnacha Sheehan (0-1; Ollie Moran) (66).
HT: Waterford 2-9 Limerick 2-8
Referee: Pat Aherne (Carlow – that hurling colossus [miaow!])
Come on the Déise 