One day a couple of decades ago now, Dunboyne lost out in a Junior hurling final by a point thanks to a goal in the fourth minute of stoppage time. It was the third year on the trot we’d lost by a point in the decider at that particular grade. Now read on…
To compound the sense of woe in this seat at the time, one’s amorous overtures towards the apple of the one seeing eye had been deemed wide of the mark and there was absolutely no need for HawkEye, had it existed.
At that point in time, the only way I could have felt worse was if someone had told me farming had been declared illegal. There are enough loons trying to do that at the minute. Such was the level of angst felt here that the black amber jersey which had been the centrepiece of attire for the day was discarded the minute wheels docked back in the van. At the time, perspiration was the reasoning offered to the driver but that was only partially true.
Being the age I was then however, you may as well have told me The Rapture was afoot. Years have come and gone, finals have been won and lost and other matters referenced have taken a lot of water under a variety of bridges in the time that has elapsed in the interim but a cacophony of occurrences brought them flooding back in recent days.
As has been well documented in this space over the last 72 hours or so, Sunday last was yet another whirlwind of emotion. With our lady footballers continuing their meteoric rise in the annals of the game in the county while at the same time our lads tasted defeat in a Keegan Cup Final for the first time. That had to happen sometime of course. In a very humbling development, numerous people have contacted Susie in the days since the emotional maelstrom to see how I was holding up.
Her answer, in the main, has been that this scribe has been coping with the negative side of the balance sheet “Grand”. Not entirely true by any means. Yes the fact the girls won was of course majorly uplifting and their adventure in the Leinster Club Championship should and will hopefully shorten the winter by another few weeks at least. However, as can be the case with a lot of matters for the occupant of this seat, the real reaction tends to be a delayed one, dawning only several days after whatever event prompted it.
Thus, in increasing percentages, the actual effect of the lads coming up short in the second match has hit as the days have gone on. Hard. Wides that should have gone over. Wolfe Tones scores that could and should have been stopped in the early stages of their development. Changes that could and/or should have been made and ones that plainly shouldn’t have.
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In the end though, it’s all immaterial. Mr Keegan shall be resplendent in purple and gold for the winter. Deservedly so too. Does that hurt from this sitpoint? Absolutely it does and it will until the opportunity to put things right presents itself again. However, though nothing will ever usurp More Than A Game – a collection of Con Houlihan’s most wondrous sports writing – as my favourite book, sombre doses of stark perspective, that it is, in fact, only a game are never too far away.
On Friday morning next, the Byrne family from Gowran in Co Kilkenny will lay 13-year-old Harry to rest. The youngster having been struck by a sliotar in a horrendous tragedy in St Kieran’s College and eventually succumbing to his injuries. Just think about that. A young lad going for a puck around, as he probably had done 1000 times before, that never came home. Imagine. For any young lad of that age in Kilkenny, going to St Kieran’s most be like getting the call from Hogwarth’s for an aspiring wizard.
That’s right, fairytale stuff. The closest I can get to a comparison would be an aspiring footballer – or writer thereon – in the Royal County getting the chance to attend St Patrick’s Classical School in Navan. Something which this corner will most likely eternally lament not going after the chance to do for as long as these wheels keep turning.
Life can change in a heartbeat. If you really want something, set about getting it. Regret nothing, appreciate the good. What may appear bad is either fixable or trivial at worst. Tomorrow is promised to nobody.
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