MOSTLY HULRING:All-Ireland final day is a special one in the lives of elite players as they seek the ultimate prize, writes JOHN ALLEN

FOR THOSE lucky enough to be involved at this level, All-Ireland hurling final Sunday is a special day whatever the weather. Yes, of course we want a fine wind-free, dry, not too warm afternoon but just to be involved in an official capacity is an immense honour indeed.

For the followers who travel to the capital the previous evening there’s the added bonus of a night out in Dublin (okay, maybe not a bonus in everybody’s eyes). The Palace bar on Fleet Street will be a very welcoming home to many fans for a few hours as will many other city hostelries.

For the teams there’s another night in. The players are well used to nights in though. The life of Ireland’s professional amateur hurlers is indeed a Spartan one. It’s a life of games, training, recovery sessions, stretching, core work, fields, gymnasiums, video analysis, personal eating plans and nights in, and more if they don’t manage to stay injury free (just ask Henry).

However, for the Tipperary players who will travel to the capital on Saturday it’s a night in that they’re glad has arrived. The madness of the previous fortnight is over. The tension of the past few days is also at an end. Now they are all together away from everybody and before Sunday dawns there’s a chance to be entertained by the squad funny men and to relax and try and forget about the seriousness of the morrow when the minds will have to return to matters crucial.

For most of these elite hurlers the year ends in comparative failure. Only for one squad of players does the season have a happy ending. The journey up the steps of the Hogan Stand or to the presentation area in the centre of the field, (if Plan B isn’t in operation) is the Everest of the... lucky? Chosen? Best? Few.

But there’s another journey that both teams get to experience on All-Ireland final day in which there aren’t any losers. It’s a journey that never failed to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. The power one felt on that particular journey gave one a sense of what it must be like to be the President of the country or a visiting dignitary (or a prisoner on the way to confinement).

The preparation for this special voyage begins about two hours before throw-in from the team hotel. Given that the players have spent the previous night and the morning of the game in a bit of a bubble, away from the maddening crowd, it’s only when the time arrives to head to the stadium that the seriousness of the occasion really kicks in. The arrival of the Garda motorcycle outriders means there’s no turning back now.

The players at this time are in the team room. Many are semi-togged. Some are on the masseurs table having a final rub down. The team medic is doing a final check on his patients. The water and hurley carriers are busy ensuring that all the spare hurleys make their way onto the team bus.

The team van has gone ahead loaded with drinks, cones, sliotars, jerseys, hurleys, tracksuits and miscellaneous other items. High-decibel battle music invades the tension-filled air. Some players have their own iPods with their personal choice of inspirational words and music. Conversation is scarce. It’s time to get into the zone.

Soon it’s departure time. The physio’s tables are hurriedly folded and taken to the waiting bus. The room is now silent. When everybody is on board the coach, all sitting in their usual seats with their usual companion, the doors whoosh to a close. There’s no turning back now.

The Garda outriders’ lights begin to flash. The sirens loud, high-pitched sound announces the beginning of the journey to the coliseum that is Croke Park. The bus is silent until the battle music starts.

It’s not unusual to have a group of loyal fans waving off their heroes as the bus speeds off onto the Dublin streets.

But on the early part of this journey, on this September Sunday afternoon the streets are usually quite. There might be a man with his dog walking the other direction, who is probably unaware of the destination of these, the most important hurling players in the country. Traffic is soon building as Samuel Beckett Bridge is crossed onto the city’s Northside. What a feeling of power as cars pull off right and left to allow these heroes through.

The crowds are milling outside various pubs as the bus whizzes past. The applause is heartwarming. The area is now a sea of colour, excitement, activity and heightened expressions as the bus approaches the back of the Cusack Stand.

Business is brisk for the programme sellers. The bus slows to a stop. A Croke Park Official boards and the final leg of the journey begins, deep into the bowels of the stadium.

Soon the dressingroom door is visible. The county name jumps out to meet the eye. Tiobraid Árann on one, Cill Chainnigh on the other.

The select welcoming party usually includes RTÉ’s ever friendly Mícháel Ó Muirceartaigh and Ger Canning. “Hello lads. Everybody fit and ready? Any changes?”

There’s no turning back now.

The players make their way to their usual cubicle, park the gear, grab a programme and begin their own routine before call time.

There’s no turning back now. The climb begins.