It's All They Have

11th Aug 2008

It's All They Have
Danny Elbow

Although they are undoubtedly great hurlers in Kilkenny, and despite having neglected their obligations to the other Gaelic code, the smothering style of hurling not far off Ulster puke football is hardly something that will inspire young fellas around the country to take to the stick.

Sitting on Jones's Road watching tens of thousands of weary Rebels pour out of Croke Park there wasn't a whole lot of positives jumping into the minds of your weary scribes after Cork went down in the All Ireland semi-final by nine points. Just a lot of sighing, some head shaking, shoulder shrugging and various hoarse takes on "fuck sake".

The Rock: Cork's star player.

Most of the time, angry shouts from the Hill or the Town End in Semple, are just aural manifestations of frustration not to be taken literally. Nobody believes they could do a better job than any of our darling Rebels out on the turf.

Even hurling GOWLs were surprisingly scarce yesterday - they had peeled off in June down the Paric. Sometimes though, there can be an air of truth when so many fans sigh in sync.

The umpteenth puck out that was directed at Pa Cronin in the middle of the second half was greeted with an audible groan on the Hill as it soared into the air. Hands that had previously been punching the air with chants of "Rebels! Rebels!" now ascended to compliment the disbelief.

One thing is for sure. Cork fans in Croke Park did the county proud yesterday, out numbering Kilkenny fans by thirty to one. The noise was deafening for most of the match and The Rock got a huge reception when he took up position below the Hill with chants of Sully! Sully! booming around the ground every time he made a catch or cleared a ball.

Immediately afterwards, it seemed unjust that a team with so little support could triumph over one that brought a sizable percentage of it's population.

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Thankfully Dublin is many miles from Cork. We are free from its demonic sphere of influence but journeys home after a defeat can be testing especially as Kilkenny's stone age road system still forces Corkonians to travel through its unappealing hamlets.

A few cans. Some choons. A bit of banter. Anything to keep the mood from sinking. We had two superb days out in Thurles so an All-Ireland semi could be argued to be a bonus.

Then somebody would mention Sully and the image of him holding his crest and the tears on his face and the car would fall silent again. Fuck sake.

Passing through Kilkenny a voice from the backseat, previously assumed to be asleep suddenly croaked at the sight of dank looking Urlingford. A conversation on the misfortune of land locked counties had accompanied the torturous journey through the midlands.

"Might be a shithole but they've got some grá for the hurling".

There was a moment of eery silence that failed to produce an instant ball hop. The second-gear whine of our engine crawling through the town filled the air as we watched a Gollum like native stumble out of a pub and vomit on his own shoes and then give us and our car flags the two fingers.

"Ah yeah but God love 'em", pipes Finbarr, with a look of genuine sympathy on his face as he knocked back the end of his Beamish and smiled sarcastically at the eegit outside and the puke running down his jersey, "sure, tiz all they have".