After an overwhelming response to our sporting moments competition, selecting a shortlist for this page, never mind three overall winners, was no mean feat. Our sincere gratitude to each and every one of you who took the time to share your memories, they were all a pleasure to read. The three overall winners, in no particular order, are Mike Hyland, Richard O’Shaughnessy and Tony Johnstone - Take care, Malachy Logan, Sports Editor.
After years of hurt, an empire is topppled – Cathal Murphy
The distribution of wealth in the hurling world is enough to make even the most hardened of Socialists weep. In the 132 years of the All-Ireland Hurling Championship, Kilkenny, Cork and Tipperary have triumphed on 94 occasions. The rest of the hurling world are like guerrilla fighters, desperately scrapping for brief but glorious raids on silverware.
As Wexford supporters we know how this feels all too well. The names of Rackard, Doran and Quigley reverberate through the ages, while the victories of the men of 1996 are sung of to this day. Growing up attending Wexford matches in the mid to late 2000s, however, those achievements seemed a long time ago.
My primary memories of those years are of watching yet another gallant Wexford team be crushed ruthlessly in Leinster finals under the merciless jackboots of the greatest hurling machine of them all. Wexford a mere obstacle as Brian Cody’s empire marched toward yet another trophy. The idea of beating Kilkenny in the championship seemed an impossibility, a thing of the past which would never be repeated, like Nottingham Forrest winning the European Cup.
We thought 2015 might be the year to finally ascend after 11 years of purgatory and then the improvements under the stewardship of Liam Dunne. A 24-point hammering in Nowlan Park ensued, Ger Aylward joining TJ, DJ and Henry on the ever growing list of tormentors.
So as I squeezed onto a decent perch on the Clonard End of Wexford Park in June 2017, my expectations were not high, over a decade of hammerings having chipped away at my optimism. A perfectly dispatched penalty by TJ Reid in the opening minutes did little to raise them. But this day was different, Wexford scored five points on the trot before Kilkenny got their next score. By half time we had a four-point lead.
When David Redmond goaled to put Wexford eight ahead, delirious thoughts of victory began to form. Then, as if flicking a switch, Kilkenny came roaring back, as they always do. A Colin Fennelly rasper deflected in, and TJ dispatched another penalty, immediately narrowing the gap. Lesser teams would have wilted, but this generation was different. Lee Chin dominated midfield like an athlete from another planet. When the final whistle blew, Wexford lead by three.
The Park erupted. An Empire toppled. A county risen.
Controversial genius and indescribable genius in one match – Barry Murphy
My first World Cup memory, Argentina ‘78. In my sports-mad grandparents’ farmhouse watching in black and white. The outrageous Peruvian goalkeeper, Ramon “El Loco” Quiorga, rugby-tackling an opponent in the Polish half of the field. Running backwards towards his goal nodding and smiling apologies, his hands clasped behind his back. He caused consternation in that sitting room in Wexford that summer afternoon. Rare levels of excitement, laughter and wonder, ignited by a rebel on the far side of the earth. It was my introduction to the World Cup and became part of the fabric of my own sports addiction. I was six.
Mexico ‘86, I was 14. I was ready. World Cups then were exotica. Other countries played. We watched. I didn’t care. Mexico ‘86, with its iconic spider-shadow in the centre-circle at the Azteca, was a feast of football and I was all-in. I farmed all day and watched football all night, often falling asleep and waking to a static buzz of snow on the screen, wondering how the game ended.
Platini, Josimar, Careca, Elkjaer, Scifo, Butragueno, Lineker were the names that lit up the tournament. However, there was one star who set it on fire. His name, Diego Armando Maradona.
While Lineker met low crosses and finished front and centre, Maradona was different. He was making magic with a football on the biggest stage while the opposition kicked craters out of him. Great sport rivets you. It exercises and expands your imagination. It moves you to the edge of your seat and then off of it. Maradona transfixed me. He was mesmeric.
He scored five times in Mexico, each goal a feat of unparalleled imagination, balance, precision and daring. What I remember most is after he applied the coup de grace how his run would continue, his impossibly low centre of gravity barely finding the physics to keep himself upright as he indulged in the full adrenaline rush of celebrating the fruits of his gift to us. Pure joy, pure sport.
The two against England with the Falklands War still simmering, spilled out over that Aztec stadium and into the world. Back pages moved to front. Two goals for the ages. No better before, no bigger since. The first was controversial genius, the second, indescribable genius. The two against Belgium cemented his greatness.
For me that was peak football. The pinnacle.
Mungret under-12s trump all else – Mike Hyland
Gloucester, 2003?
No Moss...
Sale so, 2006?
Nope…
That other one then, the first big one when Pienaar arrived with the fezzes back in 2000. We won 31-30 at the death, Francois was man of the match the same day?
Wrong code man…
You could have said so, Charles.
The hurling, so. The year was 2018, 43 years and seven minutes later, hurt locker emptied, Liam home?
No Mossie, but Cian Lynch was playing the same day I’m talking about. It was a while before he became number nine incarnate. Back then he still had Old Trafford dreams.
Oh, I got you now Charlie, that freezing cold Saturday morning in February at the back of the cement factory. When we arrived, they were warming up their squad, there were 20 of them.
Mungret under-12s were the best resourced team in Limerick. Three coaches, defence, attack and the goalkeeping coach and a fella with a clipboard too – director of something.
Togged out in their new tracksuits, running sprints, tall lads all of them. There was a clatter of parents too, with coffees and gloves and golfing hats.
Yeah Moss, four or five of that team went across to England in the following years, there were always scouts watching them.
We were in two cars, I had seven, our lads were smaller. Four handy across the back seat, one lying down at the back of the jeep and two in the passenger seat, one still asleep. I parked her up and said, “Come on lads, let’s go for a warm-up “
Jamie Bromell, the Balla midfield dynamo told me, “It’s freezing out there, leave the heater on… the match isn’t starting for 15 minutes, you gowl.”
And that’s how they warmed up, in the two cars huddled together until the ref arrived. Balla had 12 players that morning, one injured who couldn’t play but we togged him anyway just to show them we had a sub.
And although our fellas had no tracksuits or Predators, they were never confused by rugby or the hurling. They played football morning, noon and night, they played on the streets, they played wherever and whenever they wanted.
Their brothers played for Balla, so too their fathers. They were the best footballing side in town and proved it again that morning.
The lads killed Niall stone dead on the way home. He couldn’t help himself really. He was a total shaper, lightning fast on the wing though and when he claimed that the only goal, the winning goal, was a shot, that the cross was meant to go over the goalie and into the net, there were boots and digs thrown.
I hear they still slag him.
The worst of times become the best of times – Mick Sinnott
It was the worst of times. 19 years in which one All-Ireland, eight Leinster Championships and five National Hurling League finals were lost. Not the type of defeat where hope could be salvaged for the following year. No, they were defeats where morale was sapped, reputations and history tarnished, good practices jettisoned and bad habits resurfaced. Either the defeats were agonisingly close, or there were finals where Wexford were hyped up by their own supporters (“This is our year!”) only to fall to flat performances.
Then there were the draws – which were nearly worse. In 1993, Wexford played in five finals: drawing three and winning none. Memories of sitting on the Killinan End or Hill 16 at full time, feeling as though we’d been kicked in our collective solar plexus and wanting to retch. 1993 was Wexford’s Groundhog Day without the happy ending.
In the 1996 Leinster final, Wexford were up against their true nemesis of the previous 19 years. Not the Cats – we’d already beaten them – but Offaly, against whom we always underperformed.
Billy Dooley’s goal puts Offaly five points up after about 10 mins. Here we go again. But no! Wexford fight back. “Next ball, next ball” is the mantra imbued into the players by their genius manager, Liam Griffin. Forget about what’s just happened – concentrate on the next ball.
Fitzy’s penalty puts us ahead – now we have a game. What had been relatively discordant up to now became a symphony of hurling with Dunne, Storey, the two Larrys, Troy, Whelehan and Pilkington – the man with three lungs – leading the orchestra. All 36,000 people were rapt with what was being played out before them.
Second half begins with Wexford just a point up, but expecting a fightback. However, the Cloughbawn Larry takes matters into his own hands and nails some monster points. The contest reaches epic levels. Wexford goal, but Offaly reply instantly with a green flag of their own. Points are traded, both sides let their hurling do the talking – nothing underhand here.
Endgame. Dempsey’s point from a ludicrous angle opens the floodgates. Points fly over from everywhere and Offaly’s resistance shatters. 2-23 to 2-15 in the end. The ecstatic cohorts gleaming in purple and gold flood the pitch. Wexford supporters of my generation discover a sensation they never experienced before – pure euphoria. Nineteen years of hurt dissipated in an instant. It was the best of times.
Michael Murphy stops Mayo in their tracks – Joe Ó Gallchóir
Jim McGuinness’ pioneering tactics have left an indelible mark on Gaelic football. But when it came to the move that claimed the ultimate prize he went back to basics. Lob the high ball in towards the square, let the big full forward catch it, turn and bury it in the net. Sounds easy. And it did work in previous All-Ireland finals; Canavan’s goal courtesy of Mulligan’s lay off in 2005 and, of course, the ultimate one – Darby’s five-in-a-row-ending goal, courtesy of a gentle shove, in the 1982 final.
But there was something special and different about this goal. The crucial goals usually come late in the game when bodies are tired and minds are wandering. There was only two minutes and 20 seconds on the clock when Rory Kavanagh found Karl Lacey raiding from half-back near the Cusack Stand.
Lacey strolled past Seamus O’Shea, his line of running ensuring that O’Shea observed the laws of social distancing. Kevin Keane was tight on Murphy. He knew what was coming. Horan’s words ringing in his ears. The diagonal ball in from Lacey, that McGuinness says was practiced hundreds of time on the training pitch in the fortnight leading up to the match, was perfect.
Murphy gathered it. But he was outside the 14 metre line. Still a lot to do. Any other full forward would have tried to lay it off. Or carry it further. But Murphy was, or is, no other full forward. He turned and as two other Mayo defenders closed in to assist Keane, he let fly. It could have gone anywhere. Off the crossbar and over the bar. Narrowly wide. Sailing over the bar. But this goal was all about the finish. Into the top corner. Past the best shot stopper in the game. Leaving the net bulging.
And with just two minutes and 25 seconds on the clock, the All-Ireland was won. Won by this special player who would go on to become the best footballer of his, or any, generation.
The prodigal son returns to light up Cork hearts – Eoin Keane
Seventy one minutes have elapsed and Tom Kenny latches onto a wayward sideline by John Hoyne. Without hesitation, he drives the ball downfield, to no one in particular. Anywhere will do. Time is up.
Kilkenny are six points in arrears and Cork are just moments from claiming their 29th All-Ireland, avenging the previous year’s agonising defeat in the process. The latest chapter in this age-old rivalry is as good as written. Cork: 29. Kilkenny: 29.
Corner-back, James Ryall latches onto the loose ball but it scarcely matters. De Banks are in full flow.
F*ck that for a game of soldiers, says Brian Corcoran.
He hounds after Ryall, the intensity of his actions belying the irrelevance of the situation. That famous scene from the Simpsons springs to mind, where Homer is mercilessly battering the helpless Krusty Burglar, to the horror of the onlooking children. “Stop! Stop! He’s already dead!!”
Corcoran dispossesses Ryall in the corner of the field before evading the challenge of JJ Delaney. He cuts inside and puts it over off his left. Game over now, Ger.
*Record scratch*
*Freeze frame*
You’re probably wondering how the 1992 Texaco Hurler of the Year (at corner-back!) ended up in this situation.
Well it all started six-months previously, when candle-lights were still aglow in the windowsills of Cork city and county, lamentations ongoing for our recently departed émigré, far away in Australia. Setanta, I hardly knew ye.
Then Spring came and rumours were abound. Corcoran was back. In some capacity. The exile’s return. He came on against Limerick that May, almost three years to the day since the Treaty men rocked up to the Park and rubberstamped Corcoran’s one-way ticket out of dodge.
Cork hurling was on its knees then, Corcoran was on his knees now. Yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
By September, Corcoran had softened Dinny Cahill’s cough and Cork were back for another crack at the title. Setanta, out of sight and out of mind. Just before half-time, Corcoran scores our first from play. The fist-pump says it all. There is a new sheriff in town and this isn’t his first rodeo.
Then he gets his sweet, sweet second. The game’s last. The whistle sounds and Joe Deane jumps into Corcoran’s arms. The Prodigal Son. Magical. Go kill the fatted calf.
Zinedine Zidane owes me €48 – Aidan Delaney
Okay, hear me out. My favourite sporting memory actually features my team losing. I had no emotional connection to either team in the 2006 World Cup final and I lost the princely sum of €48 in a friendly bet. But when you’re an 11-year-old chubby kid, €48 is a hell of a lot of Freddos.
We watched the decider in a theme park right beside the calm swell of Lake Garda in the gorgeous Veneto province. The aptly titled Gardaland was Clara Lara on crack. It’d taken us a while to get there too. A 2,100km drive from North Wexford saw us experience the French react to their passage to the final with a fire engine and wine-filled locals lining the village of Gravelines until all hours.
There wasn’t the same confidence in our hosts. Italy were the team that shouldn’t have been there. Victims of the great Moreno mess in Daejeon four years earlier, they were also battling the Calciopoli controversy back home. The nervous home crowd gathered to watch as the rides shut down and a huge TV was erected in the middle of the park.
The fifth class sweepstakes in Scoil Iosagain had decided that France were my team. I let out a delicate fist bump as Zinedine Zidane scored his dreadful but effective penalty. That was soon to be drowned out by roars of approval from Marco Materazzi’s equaliser with that unrivalled Mediterranean passion in action.
That passion turned to sheer venom when that headbutt is repeated over and over on the big screen. The stewards were desperately trying to remember any riot training before a deathly silence greets the spot kicks. Then there is laughter as Juventus man David Trezeguet hits the bar and pure unadulterated joy as Fabio Grosso slots home his peno.
Hugs, tears, and smoke canisters fly around the park. There were rounds of Seven Nations Army to beat the band. Shrines were being dedicated to Gianluigi Buffon and the boys and the party lasts for days. I was too young to get the full understanding of what seemed to be the last days of the Roman Empire on the streets.
I do know one thing. Zizou owes me 48 quid. The anger still swells when I think about it. But now I finally settle on the fact that the memory of a lifetime is a decent trade off.
Leinster topple Toulouse in the April warmth – Cormac Murtagh
Looking back on my 30-odd years of sports watching (my parents assure me I was engrossed by Italia ‘90, my two-year-old self perched on the pub counter taking it all in), it’s clear that many punctuation marks in my life – some of the clearest and most vivid memories – are of sporting events.
Zinedine Zidane’s head sending Brazil into oblivion; Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s outstretched toe doing the same to Bayern Munich; Leinster’s throttling second-half performance to cap the Northampton comeback; ‘Le Drop’; and the maiden All Black victory on home soil.
But the one that comes to mind most readily – more so because of the current situation in which I am reflecting – is Leinster’s win over Toulouse last April in the Heineken Cup semi-final. The game itself was no classic, Leinster being in imperious form and cruising to a final-booking win.
But it was a perfect day to be a spectator: the couple of pints beforehand in beautiful April heat followed by the leisurely stroll to the Aviva gates; the stadium awash with blue-clad and contented fans; and the verdant playing surface on which, to cap it all of, Leinster produced a fine-tuned and silky-smooth winning display. It was also the last time I have been to a major sporting event.
Not long after I moved to Chile, where I found myself in the middle of violent unrest, upheaval and curfew. From there I decamped to Spain, only to end up in lockdown and quarantine. So when I began to think about my favourite sporting memory, the last one I saw in person was the obvious choice. And I’ve a feeling that my newest favourite sporting memory will be the next one I get to attend, whenever that may be.
Arms aloft crossing the marathon finish line – Thomas O’Connor
My favourite sporting moment is encapsulated on the faces of my sister Miriam and our friend Yvonne crossing the finish line of the New York City Marathon in 2000. I had done and completed my first marathon in NYC the year before and while it was gruelling due to a lack of training, I got back to Ireland buzzing. I had stress fractures in my right foot and blisters under my left foot. No picture of sporting prowess or health, but I knew I wanted to do another one.
My enthusiasm caught my sister’s imagination as she wondered if ‘she could do one?’ Still on a high, I assured her she could. So after enlisting Yvonne they began their training, mostly in the Phoenix Park. Different pieces of advice were offered along the way. Some to do with training, some to do with the marathon itself. Having experienced the wall for five miles myself the previous year (it definitely exists), the advice included both the highs and lows.
Amongst the other pieces of advice I told them was, if possible, to look up and raise their arms and celebrate as they crossed the finish line for their official photo. (I had failed miserably on that front.)
And every now and again there would the phone call asking “are you sure I can do it?” With the zeal of the newly converted the answer was always “yes”. What I didn’t know was while that “yes” was taken on board until the next time doubt crept in, practicing their finish line celebrations became part of every run. Arms up in the air, high fives and shouts of celebration were the finishing order.
Whatever the distance, wherever they finished and irrespective of who might see and wonder what was going on, a celebration took place after every run. On marathon day itself, they lost each other a couple of times in the mass of participants as one tired or the other got a burst of energy, but linked up again by accident with a few miles to go.
While respecting my Aunt’s worried advice that “you don’t need to win it”, win it they did by running across the finish line somewhere in the middle of the field of around 30,000 beaming and in obvious celebration. The sheer joy on their faces, arms held aloft, in their official photo is my favourite sporting moment. Winning by just taking part never looked so good.
A friend for life as Northern Ireland beat Spain – Tony Johnstone
“I’m the man that gave your son the ticket…”
It was June 25th, 1982 – Northern Ireland v Spain in the World Cup. With 49 minutes gone, Armstrong gathered in his own half and carried out of defence into midfield, he sprayed wide to Hamilton on the right. Billy beat his man and crossed low and hard from the bye-line, Arconada parried and Armstrong, following up, seized on the loose ball and drilled low, through a forest of legs, into the net. Stunned silence in what had previously been a cauldron of noise. I jumped up and then quickly sat down, surrounded by Spanish supporters there wasn’t another person standing with 40 yards either side. Away to my right, high in the upper tier of the stadium a section of green and white and Ulster red hands went delirious.
There was 40 minutes to go and it would be tension filled. Mal Donaghy sent off, backs to the wall, McCreery gone to right back but there above it all Big Pat, reassuring and calm as ever, dealt with the onslaught while everyone put their lives on the line.
Finally the game over, dispirited Spanish fans trudged from the stadium and my 10-year-old picked up the discarded flags, souvenirs and presents for his mates on the street at home.
But, for me that wasn’t the full story. I had come to Valencia without a ticket, sat my young son on a crash barrier hours before the kick-off and moved through the crowd searching for the “spare” ticket to get us in. I returned to the boy every 15 minutes to report “hang in there, nothing yet”. At last, 20 minutes before kick-off I clicked a ticket, almost on the halfway line, at face value – yippee! I returned to the boy. “I have one as well,” he told me. “Where did you get it?” I asked. “A man asked me where my dad was and when I told him you were off looking for a ticket he gave me this one,” came the reply.
To me this was the essence of sport so when I retuned home, I wrote a letter to the Belfast Telegraph to say “to the man who gave my son the ticket on that famous night, he has a friend for life”.
A few days later, a letter arrived in the post from North County Down “I’m the man that gave your son the ticket”. That’s my memory and it will last forever.
A record breaking scene from pitch-level – John Kelly
The All-Ireland semi-final of 2018 between Cork and Limerick is the highest scoring hurling game of all time. Both semi-finals were part of a “festival of hurling” played over the last weekend of July that year. The occasion is particularly memorable for me because, as an umpire on the day, I had a close-up view of the action.
Although only the semi-final, the occasion had the feel of a final. Almost 72,000 spectators were in Croke Park to witness the action and they were treated to an outstanding game of hurling. The atmosphere was electric from the start. At pitch level the cacophony of noise and visual impact of flags and colours is an assault on the senses.
Following the respect handshake with both teams and having been introduced to the president, I made my way to the Hill 16 goal to take up my position and brace myself for over an hour of intense concentration. As the parade passed in front of me and the noise volume behind me reached a deafening crescendo, to be a part of this great occasion was exhilarating.
From the second the ball was thrown in, it was immediately obvious that both teams were intent on playing attacking hurling and the skill levels. The intensity and fitness of the players was all the more marvellous at the close proximity from which I stood. Cork came into the game as back-to-back Munster champions but had yet to reach the All-Ireland final. They took the game to Limerick from the outset and looked set to lead at half-time until a Cian Lynch goal put Limerick ahead by a point at the break.
In the second half Cork again asserted their dominance and were six points ahead with seven minutes to play. However Limerick pegged them back and drew level with the game moving into added time. Cork then had a great chance to score a match-winning goal and seemed destined for victory when Nicky Quaid pulled off his miraculous save to deny Shane Kingston. The match finished level and to the delight of all watching, extra time would be required to decide the winner.
In extra time Cork appeared to run out of steam. Limerick used their bench to great effect and with late goals from Shane Dowling and Pat Ryan, reached the final which they would eventually win for the first time since 1973.
‘Jaysus Pedro, how’s it going man?’ – Richard O’Shaughnessy
Is victory the essence of a great sporting moment or could the moment nag you like a pebble in your shoe? My moment? I wasn’t there live, I didn’t see it on television or listen on the radio. I read about it in a foreign language in a foreign newspaper in a foreign country.
July 1987: I was cycling across France on a rudimentary bike and a green cotton t-shirt with Ireland handprinted across the shoulders. “So they won’t think you’re English and drive you off the road”, was the brainchild of the Irish mother. I was stopped dead by the front page of L’Equip picturing Stephen Roche flat out on his back with an oxygen mask. Newspaper laid out, dictionary opened, cursing my years of inattentiveness during French classes, I struggled to make sense. Pouring over it, I gleam that a yellow might be added to his pink.
Great time to be Irish on a bike in France, my green Ireland t-shirt generating ‘Allez Roche’ from whizzing cars. However, the memory has always nagged like a pebble in my shoe, what about that Delgado fella, what did he think seeing Roche appear from the fog?
2015, chasing La Vuelta in the Pyrenees: At an evening meal we are asked by our local friend to move up at the table for additional guests. The restaurant whispered his arrival ‘Mira, mira, Pedro Delgado’, he sits opposite me at the table.
I introduce myself as Ricardo. “Me llamo Pedro” he replies. “I feckin know,” I screamed in my head. Okay breathe, don’t mention La Planche or Roche, stay coolio. The pebble in my shoe is opposite me, a Tour and Vuelta winner. Brain freeze, don’t dribble the gazpacho. I stayed coolio but never posed the question.
Next day’s stage was to Formigal, Bertie’s legendary bust-a-move, dancing on the pedals putting Quitana in red and derailing the Sky train. Unashamed Willy Wonka golden ticket levels of excitement by middle aged Paddies in the enclosure.
Then a voice, “Hola Ricardo”, turning, I see Pedro behind me, stunned I blurt “Jaysus Pedro, how’s it going man?” as if he was an old Galway buddy down Shop Street. Lord, open the ground and swallow me. We laughed and congratulated each other on the magnificent stage we had just witnessed.
By the way, his worst moment on the bike? The Galibier via the Télégraphé, “Infierno hombre, infierno”.
Memories of Tipp through the static – Thom Hickey
My dad believed that it was essential to get up early – ‘Sure the best of the day is gone before most can be bothered to lift their head from the pillow’. So our day began about 5.30am with cups of scalding hot tea as he prepared to drive off to a green field building site and I readied myself to serve 7.15am mass before arriving at school.
Our conversation always revolves around sport. We had several unbreakable allegiances. To the Spurs team containing Danny Blanchflower and Dave Mackay. To the peerless racehorses trained by Vincent O’ Brien. To the impossibly brash and brilliant Muhammad Ali (then known as Cassius Clay). But, our primary allegiance was to the Tipperary hurling team.
Class and courage was the golden thread linking all our heroes. Names like Jimmy and John Doyle, Mick Burns, Kieran Carey, Liam Devaney and Theo English formed a litany we would chant as we explained to ourselves why we must surely triumph over Cork or Kilkenny. Come the day of the match we would drive to a spot where reception of RTÉ was likely to be good and settle in to listen to the commentary.
Those radio moments usually described by Michael O’ Hehir were the moments I remembered through tears when my dad died. Especially when Tipp won the All Ireland three months after he died in 1989. I then sat down and wrote this poem.
Static
Sundays in summer my father took me with him to hear the Gaelic Games
Hurling, of course, a Tipperary Man’s birthright and delight.
Since radio reception of RTÉ – which on the old valve box still read, ‘Athlone’ was poor and filled with a blizzard of wordless static we’d take the car (a Hillman Imp)
Up the vertiginous slope of Harrow on the Hill and park next to a telegraph pole – In search of a perfect signal
As if by magic through the air came the alternating anguished and ecstatic tones of Michael O’Hehir – his voice slicing through the miles like the sliothair splitting the posts for a marvellous point
Listening, rapt, willing victory, the match would pass in what seemed minutes
After, we’d sit in easeful silence as the evening became itself
And we were simply ourselves : a father and a son at one
Listening on a clear channel.
Celebrating John Treacy at 3am in Bennettsbridge – Donal Keating
The iconic commentary “They’ve won silvers with John McNally, Fred Tiedt, Wilkinson/Wilkinson and, for the 13th time, an Irish medal goes to John Treacy,” was lost on a six year old but the reaction of my dad to the events unfolding on the other side of the world was not. The Olympic marathon was reaching its conclusion in the middle of a hot August night and I was experiencing for the first time the raw emotion which sport can stir within us. I don’t remember the specifics of how I was up at such an ungodly hour but up I was, side by side with dad, sitting on the second “big” seat in total darkness save for the images in the corner of the room from what seemed another planet.
I remember not caring how long the race took. I was awake when I shouldn’t have been, I was drinking orange juice and I was with my dad. By comparison, he cut a more worried figure, pacing about, consuming copious amounts of tea and seemingly willing the race to end immediately. In retrospect he was no doubt catastrophising that the same fourth place fate which had previously befallen Eamon Coghlan might materialise again. However, as the runners neared the stadium, he calmed, as did Jimmy Magee, and it was clear that a medal was coming. Even I knew it was now between Treacy and “the English guy” (Charlie Spedding) for silver and second place.
They entered the stadium and it was not just those in the Los Angeles Coliseum who rose to their feet. As the green singlet powered away, the tension and worry on dad’s face turned to joy and a tear ran down his cheek for what was the first time I could ever remember. As John Treacy crossed the finishing line I was in his arms celebrating. We cheered and clapped for Ireland and woke the house.
Over the following decade he would bring me to Dr Cullen Park to watch hurling league games against Laois, he would spend seasons at the railing of Buckley Park on wet, windy and cold Sundays as Kilkenny City sought promotion (in vain) to the Premier Division and in his years working in London he would go down to Highbury some Saturdays to get me a match programme. But it was at 3am in the front kitchen in Bennettsbridge in 1984 that a lifetime love affair with sport was born.
Cork bring tears to the eyes of grown men – Gavin O’Connor
Three years ago I strapped my son into his car seat and headed off on a journey to Thurles. The playlist had been judiciously assembled the night before. One for him and one for me. Dads among you will know the drill. I hadn’t realised at this point that I was strapping him in for more than a car journey. You see, the Cork hurlers can do that to a boy. The drive down, soundtracked by some of my chosen anthems, had me nearly crumbling a few times. I held on. I kept looking back at him. This was it. His debut. Ben and I. Ben O’Connor. Has a ring to it, I suppose.
We reached the stadium as the atmosphere was starting to build and most Cork heads nodded plainly at each other, simply hoping for a good show but praying for the miracle. You take Tipperary on in Semple at your peril on any given championship Sunday. To take them on as current All-Ireland champions, fielding five debutantes, was a kamikaze mission. Feck it though, if the pilot was going down, he was going down with his finger on the trigger and we were all going down with him. We’ve been lodging in the abyss too long and it was time now to claim our own stake once more.
Cork tore into Tipperary on that scorching hot Sunday with a concoction of speed and skill that an alchemist would struggle to magic up. We’d been told we weren’t ‘dirty’ enough by Jackie Tyrell in The Irish Times. That’s his way I guess but it’s not ours. The scoreline will stand testimony that what we witnessed by any serious analysis will be regarded as one of the all-time classic hurling games. It resides in the penthouse of that great pantheon. It deserves to. It was also a clean game. Both sides hurled from the heavens but with a passion that were it a thunderclap it would surely shake the bowels of hell. At the final whistle, I looked around and saw grown men, good hurling-men, with tears in their eyes. I was one of them.
My son enquired as to why and I blathered out some guff to excuse myself. They had dared us to dream and dream big. Cork were back in the big time. I walked out of the stadium, well in truth, I floated. My little-six-year-old son’s hand held mine with extra grip in the throng. I looked at him. His angelic curls glistening in the summer sun. My mind shot back to my earliest championship memory. Walking out of The Hogan stand in 1982, tear-stained eyes for a different reason and holding on to my own father’s hand. He was tall back then. Tall and kind. He showed me the light and the way. Now it was my turn to pass the baton on to Ben. I looked at him once more and I was gone. Tears started to flow now as the gravity of the moment dawned on me. Neither of us will ever forget this moment as long as we both shall live.
You see, the Cork hurlers can do that to a boy. All the joy, pain, ecstasy, rage, fear, regret, disappointment could never diminish your one true emotion, that great denominator of love. Love for him, love for the game and love of the Cork hurlers. That is our birthright. Doctors, welders and chancers. Bound by birthright.
Leaving Emile Ntamack rooted in the toilets – Alan Kealy
In my first 26 years of life there were only two certainties. One, we would never, ever, beat France; and two, we would always get slaughtered in Paris. Paris was forever a graveyard for Irish debutants, where great hopes starting out in the spring were savagely nipped in the bud. I remember Derek McAleese at outhalf and Paul Hogan at flanker making their debuts in Paris in 1992, in a 44-12 drubbing. They never played for Ireland again.
The strange thing is I don’t even remember where I was when I watched Brian O’Driscoll play for the first time in Paris. The shock of his three tries against the hitherto impregnable French set in early and has never left me. The standout for sure was the final try when Brian swooped low like a bird of prey to sweep up a breaking ball with one hand, locking the last man, the great French fullback, Emile Ntamack, in his glare, freezing him to the spot like Lott’s wife, rounding his statuesque form at the speed of light, to dot down under the posts. Incredible. Unforgettable.
Ten years later – and me still mesmerised by that moment – myself, Lisa the wife, Gar the little brother, and Big Demps, travelled to France for Leinster’s Heineken Cup semifinal against Toulouse. It was a fantastic game between Europe’s two greatest teams, but during a short lull in the first half, quick as a whippet, I saw an opportunity to make a run for the loo, and descended deep into the bowels of the Stade Ernest Wallon. In the throes of my unzipping at the urinal, who pulled up alongside but only the great Emile Ntamack, Lott’s wife himself. My head started spinning, I wanted to shout out something about the great BOD, and Emile’s iconic impersonation of a statue as he left him for dead in Paris in 2000. But I stayed calm, gathered my thoughts, and I knew exactly what to do. At this stage, we were both mid-flow but I was most focused, and zipped up first. I rounded him at speed, drifting low toward the sink; Emile remained rigid, rooted to the spot. After a quick wash of the hands, I was gone, Ntamack left for dead once again by a proud Irishman. For all I know, he may still be there, still as the night, unmoving, just like O’Driscoll left him in 2000. Socially distant until the end of time.
David slays Goliath in memory of Denis – Ger Crowley
Four days to go before our school, Doneraile CBS, played in our first ever hurling final, the news broke.
Denis had died.
How could such a thing happen? Sixteen-year-olds don’t die. We knew he was sick but not sick enough to die. The last time I was with Denis was when we played Carrignavar in the second replay of the Cork County under-16-and-a-half schools competition.
After three epic games we finally beat them. Denis gave his usual powerful performance which helped us win by two points. Sadly, our star performer was gone forever. All these years later I can still vividly picture his wizardry with a hurley, his touch, his accuracy and above all, his passion. He was surely destined for a brilliant career. The final against Colaiste Mhuire from Cork city was rescheduled a week after the funeral. If ever there was a David versus Goliath clash, this was it.
The opposition had four Cork minors on their team, we barely had four hurlers on ours. We were in dire straits. Our panel was minimal. Everyone who ever held a hurley was on it. Our last resort was to call on Mick’s passion even through he had no interest in hurling. He turned out to be our secret missile. As we entered the pitch we were greeted by our loyal band of 23 supporters, the opposition had numerous bus loads. The opposition totally dominated from the start, especially at centre field. We were lucky to be only 12 points down at half time.
Our goalie made some unbelievable saves and our opponent’s complacency cost them at least six points. We started Mick at centre field for the second half. The plan was to stop the opposition getting the ball. The plan worked perfectly. Mick whipped and pulled so much that the opposition began to stand back. They started to show signs of fear. Their fear gave us the confidence to drive on, now that we could get our hands on the ball. Inch by inch we clawed our way back.
As the second half wore on the opposition began to take back control . Their back line tightened up and shackled our forwards. Five points down with the clock ticking we needed a lift from somewhere. We moved Mick to centre forward where he again produced his whipping and pulling magic. We regained control and got it back to one point.
Time was now the problem, the referee was constantly looking at his watch. I hit a Hail Mary ball into the square and it got deflected for a 70. As I stood over the 70 I looked at the ref. Time was up. I decided to go for the leveller but the ball dropped short. As it landed about 14 yards out, Mick pulled. After what felt like a time freeze up went the green flag. David had slain Goliath. As we left the field after the presentation I met the ref. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, Denis would have been very proud of that performance.
City finally make it all worth it – Brian O’Connor
“ . . it’s finished at Sunderland. Manchester United have done they all can. That Rooney goal was enough for the three points. Manchester City are still alive here. Balotelli. Aguerrrrroooooo !!!”
Bedlam. Bodies everywhere. The normally reserved Davy was dancing on the bar. Bar staff trying to stop him falling off. I was in tears. Howie, who was, like me, a founder member of our branch, turned to me in tears. My Italian girlfriend (now wife) was in tears, more from the fright she got at when the goal was scored. She knew I loved City and that it was the same for the others in The Western that day, but now she realised what it meant.
Breathe Brian, breathe. Those of us there, who were there from the start, in 1991, sought each other out in the throng. Hugs. More tears. Billy Walsh’s Bar. The ad in the local paper. The Man United fan that turned up to our first meeting because he thought the paper had got it wrong! Man City fans? In Galway?
Typically, City had left it to the very end to decide what path, in our lives as supporters, we would take over the following days, months, years. But it could have been oh so different. The Lescott nudge just outside our area at the start of the final move. No VAR back then, thank god.
The Premier League trophy was lifted with one last guttural roar from those of us in the bar. Then, everyone outside to the sunshine. Our branch flag draped on the railings. Passing cars, passing buses all honking their support. Our day in the sun. Will this be as good as it gets? Who cares! Adele left for home. She asked when she might see me again! I didn’t really know.
Then the text messages started to arrive. One from a guy who I hadn’t seen since I left Tuam in 1985. He got my number from my brother-in-law. The message simply read “I always remember you as being a City fan, above anything else. Enjoy”.
As the evening drew in and the crowd dispersed, I sat on a stool staring blankly at the television screen. I grimaced at the thought that some day I may have to describe all of this in as few as 400 words...
Kerry confound the criticis – Conor Griffin
197, 1982, 2008, 2011, 2013. While it’s probably a back-handed compliment that “classic” matches never end well for Kerry, it might be refreshing to add a reverse of the usual trend to the canon.
2014. The common consensus is that the Kingdom are in terminal decline, retirements of key warriors compounded by serious injury to the most talismanic of number 13s. With his team on the ropes, it takes the late introduction of Kieran Donaghy to claw back a five-point deficit in the semi-final’s first game.
The unavailability of Croke Park for the replay due to a prior gridiron engagement was ludicrous, but in truth, the 36,000 that transformed Limerick’s Gaelic Grounds into a cauldron would have rattled around in headquarters like loose change.
There is a waspishness borne from overfamiliarity. The hits are huge, players contesting challenges with scant concern for their own welfare. Donnchadh Walsh is thrown over the wall parallel to the sideline. Mayo hammer their own hammers when Cillian O’ Connor and Aidan O’ Shea clash heads.
Kerry start brightly but are dangerously profligate, and in one of those brilliant, furious spells that Mayo specialise in, an unanswered 2-2 leaves the Kingdom trailing by seven, a Donaghy goal before half-time rolling back the stone a few inches, two second half O’ Donoghue penalties pushing it away from the tomb.
No blanket defence, no backwards passing, no raised hands to signal that the sting be taken out of the game, just a mania from both sides to win that makes highlights of the Ward/Gatti trilogy seem sedate and ponderous.
O’ Donoghue and Higgins have a closer joust than the Legion man’s 2-6 haul suggests. David Moran imperious, Donaghy unplayable, causing wreck in attack before rising to bat away Robbie Hennelly’s stoppage time effort.
Extra time, floodlights in August. Mayo rally, Kerry counter. Jonathan Lyne kicks two long rangers for the ages as players buckle with cramp.
In the chaotic closing moments, three points down, Mayo bolster their on-field ranks with a fan and a member of the backroom team but lose Cillian O’ Connor to a red. The men in Munster blue refuse to lose. The final whistle, euphoria and devastation.
Kerry later beat Donegal in a more tactical affair to claim the sweetest of titles, but this wild encounter is the gem that shines brightest in memory.
Cathal Barrett emerges as Tipp are crowned champions – Cate Ryan
It happened at that point in the game where anything could happen but one thing usually did. Fifty-six minutes into the 2016 All-Ireland hurling final against Kilkenny and only a point between the sides. We’d all been here before, often. Of Tipperary’s past 11 encounters with Kilkenny, they’d won nine. Our loss to them in the final just two years previously still seared and stamped on many a Tipperary heart. A team too good to begrudge them the wins, if they pulled ahead out of sight now it would be many things, but not unlike them.
I’d have missed it had I not been sitting pitch-side in the lower Hogan. It was that sort of moment; a linking pass between here and there. Tipperary full back Cathal Barret had the ball and a clear path ahead to feed it down to the forward line, whose growing swagger over the course of the game was hard to overlook. Something to the resolute dart of Barret that said if it was just a game, today it was anything but.
When suddenly, swarmed and swamped, Barret vanished from view beneath a three-man black and amber heap. And maybe that hope that had begun to tremble had simply been audacious, maybe today would be just another game, and maybe we all knew how this was about to go.
Except it didn’t. Gone from view, Barret limb by limb pushed through, the furious scramble of him breaking free. Out and past then gone from them, he swept the ball to Bubbles O’Dwyer who saw the net and cracked it in. And if it was hurley’s they wielded, it may as well have been instruments, and this was the band back together, jamming at their freeform best. And the remainder of the game played out as one made into fable before the final whistle blew.
I remember the rest of that day in a hazy way. The memory of it washed out with a joy as weightless as the September sun shone soft. The kinship of a county whose hearts were as footloose as a summer’s day. The happiness of my father a reminder, that however I might hope to make him proud, I would never line out for Tipperary hurling.
Yet what lives clear cut in my mind is that image of Barret startling through the air. I’ve imagined time and again what he must have found within himself to withstand the fierce press of those bodies on him. And the memory of it still leaves me breathless. Because if it’s the victory which we applaud, it’s what is overcome to claim it which catches our heart. Because it there’s something which lives between the body and the mind, then maybe on the day that’s the part that really counts.
Topcoats lost as Kilkenny triumph in 1967 – Pat O’Brien
I was in Nowlan Park as a 10-year old in August 1965 when Mooncoin beat Bennettsbridge to win their first – and still their only – Kilkenny senior hurling title since 1936. My next-door neighbour, Claus Dunne, was the star of that team. My two brothers and I used to stand in goal on the pitch behind the Hall as Claus practised his 21-yard frees. I have a vivid memory of innocently or stupidly using my hand rather than my hurley to try to stop one of them.
But the palm in my memory goes to the 1967 All-Ireland hurling final. The big picture was that Kilkenny were trying to put an end to the infamous hoodoo – they hadn’t beaten Tipperary in the championship since 1922. And John Doyle, the legendary Tipperary corner back, was chasing his ninth Celtic cross to put himself a step above Christy Ring in the hurling pantheon.
The local colour was that Mooncoin is borderland. Famously it’s on the Suir which separates us from Waterford and it is only a few miles from Carrick-on-Suir in Tipperary. And, strange as it may seem now, they were our two big rivals on the national stage. Kilkenny and Waterford had been in opposition in four finals in the preceding 10 years (including the 1959 replay) while Kilkenny or Tipp or both would feature in every final in the 1960s.
And the personal context? My father John had been at every final Kilkenny had played since 1947 while his father Jim had been attending finals since the 1920s. This was my first final (and my first time in Dublin) and, as it turned out, the only one attended by the three of us.
Dad had two tickets for the Nally Stand and he would find one for the Hill when we got to Dublin. We took a circuitous route on the excursion. We walked to Grange Station – enroute my father claimed to have seen several black cats and always two magpies, never one. We boarded the train from Waterford which would take us via Limerick Junction to Kingsbridge which had been renamed as Heuston the previous year, the 50th anniversary of the 1916 Rising.
On arrival in Dublin, the rumour machine had it that Ollie Walsh, our brilliant goalkeeper, had injured one of his arms that morning on the train from Kilkenny to Dublin. He certainly played with his right arm heavily bandaged. The legend afterwards was that he bandaged the good arm so that Babs Keating and company would focus their attentions on that one.
It was wet and windy, conditions not favourable for the crepe colours which were favoured by supporters in those days. Kilkenny came from behind to win their 16th title. Our local hero, Claus Dunne, won the first of his two All-Ireland medals. And the team was coached by Fr. Tommy Maher who the following week would begin to do his best to teach maths to my first-year class in St. Kieran’s which included two great Kilkenny hurlers, Brian Cody and Billy Fitzpatrick.
When we got home my father did his best to explain to my mother the loss of his topcoat. He told me the truth years later. When Paddy Moran scored his goal Dad threw his coat as high as he could above him on the Hill – “but I didn’t allow for the wind”.
A photograph to last a lifetime – John Nolan
Back in 1953 and then aged 12 I was playing for Crokes (hurling) and Clanna Gael (football) and a perk of membership of these Dublin clubs was that you were invited into the inner circle of match day programme sellers at Croke Park. As Pádraig Flynn might say – “it was a well paid job” – amounting to 10 shillings and sixpence per day and a free sandwich! But the big perk was that you got to see the games once you had sold your quota of programmes.
And so it was that in September 1953, my selling duties done, I found a spot on Hill 16 to see Kerry play Armagh in the All Ireland football final and the first time a team from “over the Border” had made it that far in the quest for Sam. As the match got going there was huge pushing, shoving and swaying on the Hill, so much so that gates were opened on to the pitch and I found myself carried along by the crowd and ended up standing on the end line about a yard away from the Railway End goal posts – a fantastic place to see the game. A key moment in the game was when Mal McEvoy scored a goal for Armagh. They led by a point at half-time but in the end Kerry triumphed, scoring 0-13 to Armagh’s 1-6. The official attendance was 86,155 which was a record but thousands more got in for free with some turnstile gates being opened for safety reasons.
Newspaper match reports featured photographs of the McEvoy goal and there I was, clearly identifiable, just to the right of the goalpost. But it wasn’t just 15 minutes of fame – it lasted for all of 1954 as well. Each year a soft drinks company used to issue a large calendar to all shops selling its drinks which showed photographs of significant events from the previous year and you’ve probably guessed it, the photograph of the McEvoy goal was featured for September in the 1954 calendar and there I was in my short pants and corduroy jacket hanging up in shops all around the country. My family members would crack up seeing my little face gawking out at them on the numerous occasions we came across it.
When I retired I put obtaining a copy of that photograph on my “things to do “ list but I failed having gone through various photographic archives and online dead ends. In the National Library newspaper reports of the match were readily available on microfiche but these don’t photocopy well and the figures hogging the goalposts, including myself, were just unidentifiable blobs. An awful pity – I would love to have a copy of that photograph, or the calendar itself, to hang up in my downstairs loo with other photographs of significant events in my life. The best of those is probably the one where my head is transposed on to the sailor’s head in a photograph of that sculpture called “Unconditional Surrender” in San Diego based on that famous photograph of a nurse and sailor kissing with intent on the announcement of the end of WW2. In this strange Covid-19 time I may renew the quest for that elusive 1953 photograph – just one of the great memories the GAA has given me.
