ACCORDING TO THE weekly autumnal email the GAA send out since the split season came into effect, there are 22 county finals on this weekend.
There are some real corkers among them. Can Loughmore Castleiney complete a hurling-football double in Tipperary if they beat Clonmel Commercials?
What of the Tyrone final, where Errigal Ciaran are attempting to shrug off their reputation for not showing up for finals, when they take on the seasoned champions, Trillick St Macartans?
Then, there are the local skirmishes. Just 11 kilometres separate Ballina Stephenites and Knockmore in the Mayo final. Defending champions Ballina are way out on their own on the Paddy Moclair leaderboard, 37 wins, but Knockmore sit third with 10.
There’s not much more distance between Crosserlough and Ramor in the Cavan decider, the clubs even sporting the same black and amber colours.
And a mere 8 kilometres as the crow flies is the distance between Kilmacud Crokes and Cuala in the poshest county final of them all in Dublin.
As a sportswriter, this month ranks as the most enjoyable personally. There is so much at stake, week after week.
For the winners, especially those that end barren periods or are winning their first, it represents the happiest day of their sporting lives.
For the losers, it can become a living nightmare. One that they learn to live with, if not truly ever get over.
We should know. Last Sunday, our own club, Aghaloo O’Neills were beaten in the Tyrone junior final against Killeeshil St Mary’s; two neighbouring clubs.
The circumstances were particularly brutal. After having recovered from a poor first half, Aghaloo took control of the second half and were three points up with three minutes added on.
Killeeshil hit back with a goal to level. Then they had a free five metres in from the sideline, on the 14 metre line. The sort of chance that Maurice Fitzgerald might choose to go short and work something from. Instead, Killeeshil’s Cormac Donaghy floated an outrageous effort over.
Defeat has hung over the parish like a black cloud since. There is a palpable despair. By now, everyone is sort of sick talking about it, and yet it sits there between any two people, the big red button that has to be pushed.
‘What about Sunday?’
- ‘Ack, stop. I’m pure sick.’
And then follows another ten minutes on the final.
There’s still a few decisions by the referee to give out stink about and other gripes to pick over. It won’t do a button of good, but it’s good therapy.
In the lead-in to the game, the tireless volunteers deliberately ramped up the hype among supporters and especially the underage children of Aghaloo.
Flags and bunting were pushed and encouraged. Red and Black days were hosted by the local schools. A Big Breakfast the morning of the final brought in hundreds of people, swelling the support at Healy Park.
We had our sons’ kit laid out from midweek. We made a banner wishing their uncle Gerard the best of luck in the final. We hoisted flags on the end of laths and screwed them to the fence. Our heads were away with it, mine most of all.
For some, it was the first time they had even seen the men’s team playing. By the end, they were mopping children’s tears. But they also have an appreciation of the enormous work that goes into running a club and the loyalties fostered. All that will be hugely beneficial in the long run.
It must be said that while this was a local derby, it is a respectful one.
Afterwards, two wily old stagers of the Killeeshil team were interviewed; Gary Reilly who had played and lost an intermediate final to Aghaloo in 2002, and Packie McMullan, who not only lives in the Aghaloo parish, but next door to the Aghaloo selector, Neil McKenna.
Around these parts, ‘Big Packie’ would be a popular figure. Here he was winning a championship with Donaghy, who he coached at U14, U16 and minor level.
“I live in Aghaloo the last six years and my children are in school in Aghaloo, the young fella is down at the Fundamentals in Aghaloo. Scholesy (Brian McKenna, senior selector) is the Principal of the school,” he said.
“The people of Aghaloo, I couldn’t talk fondly enough of. Good people and a brilliant club there. As delighted as I am, I am genuinely gutted for them, that’s the truth,” he said.
At 38, he was majestic throughout, in the way that a tasty experienced baller can be when they understand the game and their body. He dropped deep and made things happen, especially in the first half and kicked three sumptuous points.
“I’ve been playing for Killeshil a long time and I don’t we’ve ever won a game like that. It’s usually the other way round, we have a tradition of losing games like that. Funny, I was sitting beside Gary on the way up and I said, ‘Do you think this one time will be the fairytale ending for us?’ And I don’t think this will ever be topped, no matter what we go on to do.”
This week, Knockmore have been doing a run on club merchandise, all available at Corcoran’s shop until Saturday evening, as long as stocks last.
Their social media accounts are featuring throwbacks to the last final between the two, in 1996.
Crosserlough are hosting an ‘Up For The Match’ event on Friday night to get the tongues wagging. They have sent a shout out to expats and former players to send videos in wishing the team well.
Cuala are laying on a specially chartered Dart to head for Parnell Park. Supporters are asked to gather at the clubhouse on Hyde Road for face painting and entertainment.
Being inside that county final bubble is all-consuming. It is a peculiar form of hyper-local madness. Glorious madness.
It shortens the winter. It provides the younger generation with a group of relatable heroes and impresses upon them the importance of something bigger than the self.
Where would we even be without it?
It shows up the intercounty scene for all the po-faced, humourless, bloated and oh-so serious bullshit that it is for a lot of the time. The managers on the six-figure salaries demanding that young men completely sacrifice themselves on the Altar of their ambitions, the preciousness and ego of it all.
Pride of parish is a heck of a drug. The highs are very high indeed, but man, the lows are excruciatingly painful.
In perhaps Patrick Kavanagh’s most famous poem, ‘Epic’, he writes of a row over a tiny spit of land between two neighbours. It came as World War 2 was breaking out; ‘That was the year of the Munich bother,’ it reads.
‘Which was more important?
‘I inclined to lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin,
‘Til Homer’s ghost came whispering to my mind.
‘He said: I made the Iliad from such a local row.
‘Gods make their own importance.’
