Autumn shivers as the smell of burning rubber fills the air

TV VIEW: It was a day of confirmation at Croke Park. Gone was the sunshine, back was Kilkenny. From the start, Ger Loughnane dispensed the sort of astute analysis we have come to expect, writes Keith Duggan.

"Henry Shefflin. You don't want to mark him if you have only one leg."

It was a match for which Ger was especially primed and he wore his megawatt smile as he announced the dish of the day.

"We are going to have a really hard - hard now - game and that is what we want."

Mick Lyster nodded sanguinely and Michael Duignan said nothing. Sometimes Ger makes statements of such ringing finality that all additional comment would be superfluous.

Down on the touchline, Marty Morrissey bore the troubled look befitting a man facing the camera with a couple of balls in his hand. Alive to the controversy raging over the new hurling ball - more ping-pong than sliotar by all accounts - Marty decided to cut to the heart of the matter.

Borrowing some hardware from John Harbison, Marty neatly dissected the old redundant sliotar and the dreaded gremlin that has been accused of making a mockery of the current championship.

There was no doubting the rubbery core of the modern sliotar. Marty did not look happy at having to present Ireland with this overwhelming proof of the kinky secrets of the new sliotar. But it was important that we knew.

The problem with the repeated emphasis of the hazards of hurling with a leather-bound poltergeist is that everyone, from the audience to players, is expecting the worst to happen.

Undeniably, the new ball seems to zoom about the place with uncommon energy. There was a series in the second half when it ricocheted off Brendan Cummins at least five times in as many seconds.

"It was like raining stones. You wouldn't know what to make of it," declared Cyril Farrell.

For an All-Ireland hurling semi-final, there was a foreboding sense about this game as a television event. Under clouds, Croke Park looked an ominous place and after the sizzling theatre of the last few weeks, there was a shivery look of autumn about yesterday.

Kilkenny's dominance also gave cause for shivers. Long before the end of the game, Ger Canning had boxed the voice-on-the-verge-of-breaking device he reserves for big-time championship and settled for a tone of subdued respect.

It was appropriate.

Back in studio, Ger Loughnane's ardour had cooled significantly as well.

"I haven't seen anything as good in 10 years," he said of Kilkenny's second-half deconstruction of Tipperary. "They gave up four points and scored 3-9."

As statistics go, that said it all. Afterwards, Brian Cody appeared for the obligatory post-game reaction, his thoughts clearly on other days ahead.

"We will enjoy tonight," he said with the look of a man wondering if there was a spare pitch available for a late-night training session.

Courteous and modest, Cody is a game away from cementing a dynasty that the rest of the hurling fraternity are already beginning to speak of with fear in their voices. The minor game served to illustrate that what Kilkenny has now is coming just as fast on the next train.

Loughnane spoke like a man deeply familiar with the skills of forward Cha Fitzpatrick and company and chuckled as he described the game as "the Richie Power show".

That's the thing about Kilkenny. One Richie Power leaves, they mourn him for an evening and then they simply find another.

As Croke Park emptied, Ger reflected on meeting a Kilkenny hurler - "big, lad, sound" - who was recently dropped off the panel. "And why were you dropped off the panel? I asked him," said Ger. "I was dropped because I couldn't catch the ball in the air."

The standards for playing for Kilkenny are exact. Ger sat back solemnly in his chair after this little fireside story, content that he had made a point which would send a chill the length and breadth of Ireland.

It did. It hinted that the future is going to be black and amber.

The only thing bouncier than the new sliotar is Roddy Collins. In the second episode of the Rod Squad, the Carlisle guru turned up at a snazzy Dublin tailors to acquire a new winter coat.

"That's class," he purred as he grooved his way into a tanned number made of lamb's wool. He bought it.

The more you see of Roddy, the more you like him. His philosophy is that clothes have always made him feel good. Once he puts on a new suit, he feels ready to take on the world.

Well, it worked for Joe Di Maggio.