All Stars – so not many Waterford players then

The 2008 All Stars nominees are out, and there is going to by fury down Noreside that James McGarry is once again going to miss out. No such fury should attach itself to Waterford’s haul of five nominations. Clinton Hennessy’s heroics (or should that be ‘heroic’) against Tipperary was enough for him to get the nod, but it would be ludicrous for PJ Ryan to not get the statuette having conceded the sum total of zero goals during the year (for those thinking that that was the result of a stellar back line, I present to you one James McGarry). Tony Browne is Waterford’s only chance in the backs which is no chance at all – a sterling rearguard action in the All-Ireland final will not be enough for him in what is a last-chance-to-see type nomination.

Even a modest performance in September would have been sufficient for Eoin McGrath to pick up an award, one that would have doubled up as Most Surprisingly Improved Player. But he didn’t play well so he will surely miss out. This leaves Eoin Kelly and John Mullane tussling for the token All-Ireland finalists award – if you think the scale of the defeat excludes that scenario, Waterford got two awards in 1982 after an even bigger beating in the Munster final. Mullane should get it for his stunning consistency but I think Kelly will, his 2-12 haul against Offaly being one of the more memorable individual displays of the year. And he did solve the freetaking conundrum despite the doubts of certain pundits.

So one award for us, and if anyone thinks this is unfair on the All-Ireland finalists, ponder this: did any of ye feel sympathy for Limerick last year?

The Colossus of the Village

Damn you, RTÉ. Before the All-Ireland final, when mulling on the possibility that Waterford might be mullered by Kilkenny, I decided that such an eventuality would be worthy of a post extolling the virtues of one Brian Cody. Then the sports jackets in the Sunday Game studio decided that the man was worthy of being selected as their Man of the Match. Quite apart from being a ridiculous choice that flies in the face of what the Man of the Match award is meant to be about (and one rightly derided by Hurling Blog), it screws up any concept of originality in highlighting Cody’s role in Kilkenny’s success.

But hey, not being original has never stopped me before, so let’s take a moment to genuflect in front of Cody’s greatness. A number of years back it was assumed that burnout was going to become an increasing feature of Gaelic games as the demands of pulling tractors up sand dunes with their teeth (thanks for that, Ger Loughnane) as a minimum requirement for an inter-county player proved overwhelming. Assuming that managers are not being paid (ahem), it would seem reasonable that mentors might feel the same. And no one has been at the coal face as long or as intensely as Brian Cody. In his ten years in charge, Kilkenny have been to the All-Ireland final eight times and been losing semi-finalists the other two years. It’s not as if success is something that keeps managers going. The only other All-Ireland winning managers in that time either left after winning it (Jimmy Barry Murphy and Donal O’Grady) or left the year after (Nicky English and John Allen). The idea of taking a tumble in the League so as not to show your hand before the Championship, supposedly a favourite of managers of all stripes in the past, has beeen scotched by Cody who treats every match as if it has to be won – or else.

The ruthlessness of the man is a wonder to behold. There can’t be a single person in hurling who hasn’t been antagonised by his behaviour at some point. A contributor on An Fear Rua recently quoted Cody as saying that a typical Kilkenny hurler should be honest, thrifty, hard working and other such blarney that fits in with the Kilkenny self-image of their players being Boy Scouts compared to the pencil moustache type townies from Waterford. Yet where were such noble considerations when Cody was exploding with rage at the referee and the linesman against Galway back in 2004, a performance of Alex Ferguson-esque proportions. It’s a question best left to the philosophers: are people like Cody and Demento successful because they are bullies or are they bullies because they are successful? Either way, bullies is what they are.

The thing is, it isn’t just outsiders or officials who Cody clashes with. The faceoff with Charlie Carter in 2004 was one of the more remarkable stories in hurling in recent times. When Cody decided to put Charlie out to pasture, it antagonsied many – most? – in Kilkenny who thought that Charlie’s long years of service were about to be rewarded with a tilt at picking up the McCarthy Cup as captain in September. Cody blithely ignored the doubters, who almost seemed to be hoping he’d fall on his arse. The Charlie Carter page on Wikipedia has a claim that he “has never forgiven Cody”, something I offer not as evidence that this is true but to demonstrate that someone in Kilkenny has not forgotten. They’re probably from Gowran though, because everyone else in the county has been suitably cowed by Cody’s will to win and its by-product.

No doubt Kilkenny’s production line of talent helps, but such riches haven’t helped Tipperary much over recent years. In addition, Kilkenny now look far stronger at this point of their three-in-a-row than at any other point during it. Please, Mr Cody, step off the gas. Take your wife to dinner more often. Have a long holiday out foreign. Generally do the things that, since Gaelic games are supposedly so all-encompassing, mere mortal GAA folk can’t do any more. Either that, or <censored by WordPress>.

Reversion to the Mean

How arl arse is this, sneaking back into the building after Rafa finally putting one over on Demento? Everyone else at ShanklyGates.co.uk puts in the hard graft week in week out keeping the site on the road, putting up with the outrageous slurs from fans of other clubs gloating at the close season turmoil at Anfield. Then along comes bucko here, the brilliance of the grin stitched to his face after that thumping performance against Man U only matched by the luminescence of the tan acquired from a summer of doing naff all. Nice work if you can get it.

But fear not! I come not to praise Liverpool but to bury them. Console yourself with the notion that the river of flame that will be diverted into my inbox as I dare to go off message should keep me going well into the wee hours for several weeks to come. For the joy of beating down on the Mancs does not cancel out the misery of a summer when Liverpool did, to my mind, so much wrong.

Let’s start with some positives. A while back I raged against Rafa’s habit of buying players on the cheap then selling them on quickly at a loss, the footballing equivalent of a lucky dip (cf Jan Kromkamp, Mark Gonzalez). He doesn’t seem to have rid himself of that habit. The likes of Dossena and Riera don’t inspire, players purchased not because they are brilliant but because they might be brilliant. It’s the Championship Manager school of management, scouring the leagues of Europe for undiscovered talent – except Rafa doesn’t seem to have the hit rate of A Geek with his PC, or even A Wenger with his MA. You don’t need a crystal ball to see Jermaine Pennant joining the carousel. The sight of Philippe Degen trundling in on a free while Andrei Voronin trundles away in the opposite direction having also being purchased on a free, looks like history repeating itself . It would make you weep at the notion that playing for the most successful club in England is meant to mean something.

Still, it’s not all bad on the to-ing and fro-ing front. While Rafa may have shuffled the pack with a few duds, he’s also managed to make the club a tidy sum in some surprising places. While Peter Crouch and Momo Sissoko were both decent players in their times at Anfield, it would have seemed nothing short of miraculous had someone wanted to pay an eight figure sum for their services. The mere act of a top club admitting that they are open to offers for players should be enough to see their price plummet. Yet both those players went off having made the club a substantial profit.

There are a few lesser lights on which Rafa made silly money. Scott Carson proved to be a sound investment, the outrageous figure he was originally touted around for notwithstanding. And then there’s the case of John Arne Riise. A fond figure at the club thanks to his penchant for goals that were both brilliant and important, he had undergone a horrible loss of form last season culminating in that clanger against Chelsea. When it became clear that his days at the club were numbered – and again, bear in mind that you expect other clubs to be pointing out the bald tyres, the miles on the clock, the scratch on the bumper and just look at the alloy wheels and sunroof on that other model over there, mate – it didn’t seem possible that he would be anything other than a free. Yet we got €4 million for him, an absolutely fabulous piece of business. Factor in the sale of Luis Garcia, another cult figure at the club who proved instrumental in bagging a certain Fernando Torres, and look at some of the flops that have passed through the hands of A. Wenger – anyone remember Christopher Wreh? Sylvinho? Nelson Vivas? – then Rafa seems to be one of the smarter cookies in football.

So the swings and roundabouts of the mid-market signings can be said to be that for Rafa – swings and roundabouts. It is the big money deals that can make or break you as a manager though. The 20 million-plus signings are the ones that are meant to catapult you into the stratosphere, and if you get them wrong . . . Rafa got it spectacularly right in the summer of 2007, laying down big bucks for a player that half of the top clubs in Europe seemed to have sniffed around and passed on. 2008 doesn’t look like it’s been anywhere near as productive. The increasing sniffiness of the media about the start to his Anfield career can be dismissed as the usual Phil Space guff, but a decade watching the exploits of Robbie Keane have not been conducive to endearment, especially when you consider he is by some distance Ireland’s record scorer.

For someone with a spotless record off the pitch – quite an achievement in this day and age – he can be such an infuriating nark on the pitch. Some people might appreciate his constant moaning at refs for frees, his incessant insistence that he wasn’t offside or the habitual pained expression when a team mate fails to meet his lofty standards. But they’ve always left me cold. As top strikers go, he has an appalling habit of missing sitters – they all do it, but he does it more than most. He always looks like he’s just started playing football, brilliantly talented and should be great after a few years. Except that he’s been on the road for the best part of a decade. Paying c. £20 million for a 27 year old with five different clubs behind him seems excessive. You have to keep looking at his goalscoring record, which is very good indeed, to remind yourself that he’s a top player. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re picking up a player who has passed his peak, and paid top dollar for the privilege.

At least we went for him and got him. No such pleasure can be derived from the Gareth Barry saga. Once upon a time, English internationals came from all kind of wacky clubs. Jimmy Bullard this week became the first Fulham player since George Cohen to play for England. Cohen happened to win the World Cup. But this was a time when the maximum wage and the fact that revenue was derived almost entirely from tuppence-a-head gate receipts meant there was little incentive to move clubs. Now, you are a loser if you’re not plying your trade in the Champions League. Yet Gareth Barry is still chugging away with the mediocrities that are Aston Villa. If he were that good, surely someone would have pounced on him long before this? We all thought that, and more pertinently so did the best-friends-forever (again) Gillett and Hicks. Even Roman Abramovich has drawn the line on paying over the odds for players. For Liverpool though, the line seems to be a lot lower than it is for Chelsea and Man United. So this is what we have learned from our pursuit of Gareth Barry – that we are chasing players who are not good enough, and then we can’t get them anyway. Marvellous.

Unless, of course, that spectacular win over the Mancs is closer to our mean performance than the first three games. I’m dubious that we are that good. The controlled ferociousness was a pleasant surprise – take a bow, Javier Mascherano – not least to Man U who were probably congratulating themselves in advance of another toothless Liverpool attempt at a comeback. Keep that up and we’ll do well, but we had to come good against them some time – again, reverting to the mean; we haven’t been as bad as the results suggested in recent times. Even more surprising was playing so well with Gerrard only playing quarter of the match and Whatisname from Spain not playing at all. We’ve surely got to take that reality with a large pinch of salt. Play that well in every game with their additional power and we’d be invincible – which is why we can’t expect that to be the mean.

Back in the mists of time, a time when the Reds were capable of winning leagues, a rate of two points out of three was enough to be a competitor for the title. We picked up 68.4% of the available points in 1990. Nowadays you need to be a bit better than that, probably closer to three points out of four. The Mancs got 76.3% of the points last season. So our excellent start to the season amounts to being a point ahead of the trend. The race has only just begun.

14,000 reasons to be cheerful

If RTÉ are to be believed, that’s how many people turned out to welcome the team home tonight to wet and miserable Waterford. I had some pretty miserable thoughts myself after yesterday’s beating, and it lifted the spirits no end to see such devotion. Keep the faith . . .

Waterford 1-13 (16) Kilkenny 3-30 (39)

First things first. To be present at Croke Park on All-Ireland final day was an honour and a privilege. When asked in the past whether I had ever been to an All-Ireland final, I would routinely quip that I wasn’t going to go until Waterford were there – and hence I didn’t expect to ever get there. Yet here we were, standing in the midst of the biggest throng I have ever been in, and probably ever will be, soaking up the pre-match atmosphere. I don’t mind admitting that when the team ran out onto the Croke Park turf the wave of emotion was almost overwhelming. The siblings, dotted around various other parts of the ground, would later confess to similar feelings of disbelief. We all simultaneously vowed to gorge ourselves on the heady vapours, armed as we were with the knowledge that this might be as good as it got.

Yes, to be there was a splendid thing. Arriving in Dublin around midday, the city centre was mobbed by people donning the white and the blue. Despite this, the only two people I encountered who I knew were Kilkenny folk, one a soccer man who was wearing a shirt from the 1993 Leinster final – Mahon McPhillips were probably sponsoring his trip. All through the summer I’ve forlornly noted how few people I recognise in the crowd shots that populate the Munster Express and the News & Star after a big match. A stranger in his own land if ever there was one, and these incidents only add to the sense of disconnection that nearly five years abroad brings.

Not that I was thinking that at the time, because the atmosphere was enough to banish any negative thoughts. Waterford people were everywhere, and our usual haunt – Molloy’s on Talbot Street – seemed to be the epicentre of this ubiquity. Standing there with all my nearest and dearest – not always the same thing, ho ho – watching images of the heroes of 2008 flitting past on the big screen, it felt so good to be alive. Nothing was going to ruin this day.

There must have been some portion of the deepest part of my psyche, the part which still can’t watch horror movies and in which memories of Arsenal’s title win over Liverpool in 1989 are entombed, that gazed upon all this miracle and wonder and thought “if this is the effect it’s all having on me, how must the players be doing?” The only article that I read from the voluminous match supplements in the local rags – nice souvenirs if you win; rabbit hutch liner if you don’t – was an interview with Brian Whelehan where the Offaly player, twice a winner but twice a loser on All-Ireland final day, confessed that he never really enjoyed the occasion for itself. The nerves were so shredded that it was impossible to savour anything. The fans can enjoy the presentation of the players to the President or the parade or the performing of Amhrán na bhFiann – having it performed by a singer was surprisingly moving; it allowed the whisperers (ahem) to really belt it out – but the players must hate every minute of it. How you cope with these moments must contribute to your overall performance. Is knowledge power or ignorance bliss?

The match got underway, although not before my ever-alert wife had noted Eoin McGrath shipping some timber from his marker. Kilkenny opened the scoring with a free only for Eoin Kelly to respond in kind, then Eoin McGrath carved out an opening and put Waterford in front. In front in an All-Ireland final! Or had he? The crowd on the Hill, usually a good barometer of these things, were convinced he had scored as had the scoreboard operator, but the umpire waved it wide and the scoreboard was duly corrected. Dark thoughts rose up unbidden that this might be decisive in the endgame.

It soon became clear that Kilkenny were not leaving decisions like that in the lap of the umpires, opting instead to send each and every ball over the middle of the crossbar. Points were casually pinned on with only the odd Eoin Kelly free keeping Waterford ticking over. It is not an exaggeration to say that I looked up at the scoreboard when it was 0-10 to 0-4 and could not believe that only fifteen minutes had passed. Ten scores in fifteen minutes? It didn’t seem possible, and already you could see the match was slipping away from us. We were competing well enough under the dropping ball, with Tony Browne and Eoin Murphy in particular having some success, but what was happening when they moved to clear the ball was that a tsunami of Black and Amber was bowling them over.

The astonishing thing about Kilkenny was their power. Speaking to my Laois ticket contact the evening before the match, he suggested that Brian Cody was adopting a football tactic of a swarm defence, and this was perfectly believable as Waterford’s players found themselves surrounded at every turn. Much effort may have been expended in the latter half of the summer by Davy Fitzgerald in getting the players to concentrate on acquiring space before attempting to clear, but this seemed moot when any movement along any compass point led to you running into two more Cats. Never have I seen so many attempted clearances charged down, and each failure must have eroded the already fragile confidence further. The most chilling vignette was an echo of an incident that I picked up on the League match back in the spring. Back then, Michael Rice held off the challenge of Ken McGrath with ease before knocking the ball over the bar. This day it saw Aidan Kearney racing along the endline to try and get space to clear only to be sent flying out for a 65. You watched it live and thought that it must be a foul, but the replays on the big screen showed how clean a hit it was. You barely had time to dwell on the shock of a defender being mown down by a forward before the 65 sailed over the bar.

Even in games where the gulf in class is so wide, the fact that you start level means that it takes a while for the gulf to become obvious. So you could cling to the notion that Kilkenny might ease up, that Waterford might shake off the fog and get back into it. Such thoughts were rudely disabused soon enough as Eddie Brennan rattled in two quickfire goals to finish the game as a contest. The second goal was particularly painful, Clinton Hennessy saving brilliantly at Shefflin’s feet only for Brennan to rattle ball along the ground into the net.

I had visualised a range of possible outcomes from this match beforehand, ranging from Waterford nicking victory with a late surge having kept pace with Kilkenny against the odds, to Kilkenny piling on the style in the second half and running out handsome winners by 15-20 points. Never in my worst nightmares had I contemplated this, having to settle for damage limitation midway through the first half. It’s not just that we’ve not had to face the prospect for a long time – one double digit championship defeat in 12 years. Even counties like Offaly and Wexford, who we scoffed at for failing to put it up to Kilkenny, had kept in some kind of touch for the first half. The range of positive options available to us now was almost too ghastly to envisage. Avoid a 31+ point beating. Not have a player lose the rag and get sent off. Score a point from play! When Eoin Kelly got a free just outside the large square, you almost wondered whether he should take the guaranteed point. As it was, his shot was saved and the rebound should have been buried by Eoin McGrath. You know a player at the other end would have done so, in the manner that Brennan had done.

The euphoria of the build-up meant that leaving early was never an option, and everyone else seemed to agree as the crowd stayed robust. The Kilkenny fans generally kept to themselves, the tulip who nearly caused a riot early in the first half by repeatedly asking a Waterford woman with a child whether she wanted to open her whatsit for him being mercifully the exception. Stubborn to the last, people only had to wait ten minutes into the second half for Waterford to register that blessed point from play, John Mullane finally doing the business after a build-up that might have ended in a goal. It was as if such an affront enraged Kilkenny so much that they decided to weigh in with a goal of their own, Eoin Larkin being given the freedom of the inside of the 45 to saunter in and smash the ball past Hennessy.

The 31+ point beating was not to materialise, for reasons only some of which do credit to Waterford. Nor did the feared sending-off, although Kevin Moran could probably count himself lucky late on. They did keep trying as individuals, with Mullane in particular grinding away to some effect. But the ease with which Kilkenny were stroking over points meant they never had to go for the goals that would have heaped a few more aftershocks on to the earthquake. They definitely eased off the gas, although this wasn’t entirely patronising to Waterford – as stated, the Waterford players did keep trying, and there isn’t much point in busting a gut or risking an injury when the game is already in the bag.

The one truly head-patting moment had an ironic coda. James McGarry came on for PJ Ryan to much applause from the Kilkenny faithful. It was all very nice, and I suppose Waterford hadn’t earned the right to be outraged at such a gesture. At this point I wasn’t aware that Kilkenny hadn’t shipped a goal all Championship, so it was only afterwards that I was able to chuckle at the sight of McGarry providing a firm touch to an Eoin Kelly shot on its way into the net. Not that it made any substantive difference as Kilkenny finished with a trio of quick points which said it all about the way they could have toyed with us had they been so inclined.

The worst part of it all is that the feeling is only going to get worse. In the immediate aftermath of defeat, it wasn’t so bad. It had been obvious from a loooong way out that we were doomed, which at least had the virtue of not getting our hopes up. Had we lost having come agonisingly close, in much the manner we did against Cork in 2006, it would have been sickening for days afterwards. But you’d have gotten over it before too long. This, on the other hand, is going to reverberate for ages. Quite apart from the death-by-a-thousand-cuts that will be talking about GAA online for the forseeable future, the prospects for Waterford hurling suddenly look rather bleak. The All-Ireland, the only thing that will satisfy us after the success of the last decade, looks further away than it ever did.

Still. This is what it means to be in with the big boys. To have half of the mightiest stage of them all, for those heavenly twenty minutes when anything seemed possible . . . it was totally worth it.

Waterford: Clinton Hennessy, Eoin Murphy, Declan Prendergast (Tom Feeney), Aidan Kearney, Tony Browne, Ken McGrath, Kevin Moran, Michael Walsh (capt), Jamie Nagle (Shane O’Sullivan), Dan Shanahan (Dave Bennett, 0-1), Seamus Prendergast (Jack Kennedy), Stephen Molumphy, Eoin McGrath (Paul Flynn), Eoin Kelly (1-9, 0-9f), J Mullane (0-3)

Kilkenny: PJ Ryan (James McGarry) Michael Kavanagh, Noel Hickey, Jackie Tyrrell, Tommy Walsh, Brian Hogan, JJ Delaney; James Fitzpatrick (capt,0-2), Derek Lyng (0-3), Martin Comerford (TJ Reid, 0-4), Richie Power (0-2), Eoin Larkin (1-4); Eddie Brennan (2-4), Henry Shefflin (0-8, 0-5f, 0-1 65), Aidan Fogarty (0-3)

HT: Waterford 0-6 (6) Kilkenny 2-16 (22)

Referee: Barry Kelly (Westmeath)

Waterford v Kilkenny, 7 September 2008

Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue

This is the moment

So sayeth the Hoff, and who are we to argue?

Come on the Déise.

Ask and you shall receive

Stop the presses! No sooner than I started writing the previous post than an All-Ireland final ticket crosses the threshold . . .

We’re on the road again.

And then there were six

When Waterford reached the All-Ireland final, the search for tickets naturally began in earnest. Seven of us expressed an interest in going so calls went out as far afield as Laois and Donegal, and the web erupted in a welter of recrimination as people like us (go to lots of matches but are not members of clubs) lashed out at the unfairness of the ticket distribution system.

I wasn’t joining in the fun though, for two reasons. No system of ticket allocation is going to be entirely fair, and the notion that introducing a voucher scheme to reward those who went to earlier rounds of hte Championship seemed fanciful – getting people into Walsh Park is like herding cats at the best of times; can you imagine the uproar had everyone been told that you had to buy a ticket rather than simply pay at the turnstile so as to ensure you were eligible for a ticket for the All-Ireland final? Giving the priority to the ordinary club member, a group that tends to overwhelmingly overlap with the frequent match goer anyway, is sensible policy. The second reason was that the word on the street was quite insistent that tickets would be available on the day. People chase so many leads in the build-up to the game that they suddenly end up with a glut of tickets and need to divest themselves of them in the vicinity of Croke Park. Combined this with a Zen-like calm based on the idea that it was more important that the team be there without me than I be there without them, and que sera sera reigned supreme.

In retrospect, such considerations look entirely too modest. Four tickets turned up by Wednesday where only two seemed likely. The same evening the contact in Donegal said that if I really wanted it, the ticket was mine. I felt able to spurn this kind half-offer because there were suggestions that there were two more coming from Galway. Then Friday night the contact in Laois came up trumps with one definite ticket, and a person in Tramore offered us another ticket entirely out of the blue. So at the time of writing we have six definite tickets and a probability of two more. The system seems to be working, after a fashion, and the old hands who were chuckling at those getting so upset in the last three weeks can feel rather smug.