The Club

by Christy O'Connor

  There were two other points I wanted to get across.

  ‘We have got to hold the line at all costs in the half-back line. We can’t afford to have ye dragged out the field and have acres of space inside in front of our full-back line. Sit back and let the midfielders and half-forward come down the field and scrap like hell in the middle third. Kevin [Dilleen], you gotta control that middle third for us now. You’ve got to be our organizer out there. And if the half-forward line aren’t coming out the field and doing their job, let them fucking know about it.

  ‘Secondly, we all know where the first five puckouts are going. Well, the third one is going short to either Davy [Hoey] or Darragh [O’Driscoll]. So be ready for it and don’t look surprised. It doesn’t matter what happens, that puckout is going short. Their full-forward line is going to try and split the space between our full-back line and half-back line because their half-forward line are going to be playing way out the field. So you’ve got to get into space to give me an outlet.

  ‘And finally, lads, as O’Connell said, empty the tank and have no regrets. Because we’re going out to win.’

  One of the other four quarter-finals taking place over the weekend – Cratloe versus Broadford – was the curtain-raiser to our game. It was running a little bit behind schedule, which meant that we had to remain in the dressing room longer than we had originally planned.

  The worst time before a big championship game is often that wait before you hit the pitch, when the time crawls and seconds can seem like minutes. For me, I always use that time to think of my favourite sports quote. It’s from an interview given by Offaly’s Johnny Pilkington to Tom Humphries before the 1998 All-Ireland final.

  It’s 3.15 on Sunday and everything else is forgotten about. I like that. All that matters is the 20 lads togging out, plus the management. The lads who have put in the effort. You don’t want to let them down. Everything is forgotten about, all the troubles, all the worry. You have a job to do. It starts then and you tune off the other things. Everybody is focused in on the one thing. You know the sounds, fellas chatting, balls banging, lads getting rubs, all the talk, fellas a bit nervous. It’s a nice place to be actually. Gets you away from everywhere, no trouble, no bitterness, no anything else. Just some lads out to do a job.

  At the end of the day, this is what it’s really all about. Getting ready to go into battle with your best friends, your neighbours, your own people. For me, that is always the ultimate comfort blanket. You may be racked by nerves, but where else in the world at this exact moment in time would you rather be? Nowhere.

  In that regard, this dressing room is the only place you want to be. You look around at the faces and you see the focus, the intensity, the honesty, the desire to win for this club. For me, it’s always written on Seánie’s face more clearly than anyone else’s. There’s no manic look or gritted expression behind the visor on his helmet; just a serene look of calm and focus. Jeez, the man looks lean and primed. We’re really ready.

  I go to the toilet as usual and lock myself in for a minute. I bend down on my knees, as I always do, and ask Jesus to bless me and to look after us. To try and guide us over the line.

  When I open the door, Ken passes by me and I just wink at him. ‘Best of luck,’ I say to him. ‘Backing one another up 100 per cent.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Plenty of calling now. And best of luck.’

  When I make my way back into the dressing room, I approach Cathal O’Sullivan. ‘I’m delighted you’re back on this team because we need you. Fucking ruthless now, first to the ball and if it goes past you, I’m right behind you. Backing one another up now the whole time – no matter what.’

  We’re getting ready to go now. Lads are stretching, hopping balls off the wall. Everyone is finished getting rubs from Eugene in the shower area and we’re all in the centre of the dressing room now. I go over to Seánie and shake his hand. No words are exchanged. We just look into each other’s eyes. Let’s get this done.

  We’re just some lads out to do a job. But this job is more personal than it’s ever been for us before. Everybody – the whole group – is wrapped in a huge huddle. I don’t know whose left shoulder I have a grab of but there is serious power there. You scan the eyes for the truth. It’s clear. We are ready to go.

  The decibel levels are increasing now. The hurley carriers are sorted and there’s nothing left to organize. There is calm, but there’s also controlled passion and emotion. Patsy has the last word in the huddle.

  ‘This is personal for a couple of reasons. These boys laughed at us after they beat us last year – don’t forget that out there. It’s been a tough year for us, but we’re going to dedicate this performance to two men: Ger Hoey and Father Mac. We owe it to ourselves and to everyone in the parish to do whatever it takes to win this game. SO WHATEVER IT TAKES TO WIN TODAY – NO MATTER WHAT – YOU FUCKING DO IT.’

  *

  We were on the pitch about three minutes before Newmarket arrived out. As soon as I heard the cheer from their supporters, I glanced over to the tunnel to try and gauge their body language. Christ, I thought they looked a bit all over the place. Certainly cocky. If they’re not ready for us, they won’t know what hit them.

  After we’d gone through our pre-match puckaround, we gathered in a huddle, 30 metres from the town goal. Conny was floating around with a water bottle and he’d already picked up the similar vibe that I had. ‘Did ye see the way they came out?’ he said. ‘Arrogant and casual as fuck. So be ready now to unleash hell on them.’

  Newmarket had already won the toss and had elected to play against the breeze in the first half, so we reaffirmed the importance of getting on top early in the game. We squeezed tightly together again and inhaled deeply. This was it. Let’s go.

  Both teams went at it hard from the throw-in. They had the first couple of attacks but we repelled them. I broke my good hurley during one of those passages of play – which is always a minor setback – but I felt comfortable with how we’d settled into the game. We were getting the hits in hard and early and they’d already set up with a defensive-minded formation by playing a sweeper against the breeze. They were clearly trying to create early space in our defence, but I couldn’t see them burning us with how we’d reorganized ourselves.

  The opening period was just a slugging match and when the first score arrived on five minutes, it was us who got it. It was a really good score too, well engineered across the field, before Damien Kennedy finished it.

  Newmarket quickly replied with two Colin Ryan points, one from a 65, but we were back level soon afterwards with another good score from Greg Lyons. By this stage, Newmarket knew they were in a game. We just had to maintain that pressure.

  We were still struggling slightly on our own puckouts. The first five puckouts had gone pretty OK – we won three of them – but their sweeper was limiting our options in trying to create two-on-one scenarios on the break around the middle third. They were playing just two men in the full-forward line but they were splitting the space intelligently in the zones between the full- and half-forward line. After I banged one short puckout to Davy Hoey – which I slightly under-hit – he had to take it on the hurley, which cost him a split second, and it invited the Newmarket cavalry on to him. We got the ball away, but you could clearly hear the groans of our supporters in the stands, along with the audible requests to drive the ball long.

  After the ball was cleared, I shouted out to Davy. When he turned around, I put my hand up in the air.

  ‘My fault, I half-topped it. But stay alert. Keep finding that space because there’s no point me banging it long for the sake of it.’

  The only negative aspect of our game as the half progressed was that we were conceding more scoreable frees than they were. We were getting bodies in quickly to the tackle but we weren’t always disciplined enough, and they began to punish us. Colin Ryan converted two frees in quick succession but we put the heads down and kept going. By the first quarter, we’d the game l
evelled up again, this time from two frees from Seánie, who’d taken over the dead-ball striking duties in the absence of Conor Hassett.

  At 0-4 each we were right in the game, but as the half wore on they got a run on us. Wing-back Mikey Cullinan had clearly been injured early in the game and appeared to be struggling with a hand injury. His marker, David Barrett, thundered into the match and rifled three unanswered points from play between the 17th and 24th minutes. After a break in play after that third score, I roared out to Mikey to see if he was OK but he didn’t hear me. Before I got a chance to ask him a second time, Newmarket were on the attack again.

  They had us on the back foot. We were struggling to get any decent ball into our full-forward line and Seánie had to chase out to the corners – the one thing we didn’t want – to try and get his hands on any clean possession. At the other end of the field, Newmarket had slightly altered the make-up of their attack by moving their big centre-forward, Jim McInerney, in to full-forward.

  After Colin Ryan nailed another free, McInerney won a good ball over Ken and made it 0-9 to 0-4 in the 25th minute. Ryan then pushed them six points ahead three minutes later, before Mike McNamara landed an excellent score in the 30th minute to bring it back to 0-10 0-5. As the half entered injury time, we had a chance to reduce the deficit to four, but the attack broke down at the critical moment and one of their defenders launched the ball deep into our half.

  We needed to defend strongly now – no more scores before half-time. We were six points down against Newmarket at exactly the same stage of the game last year when they got a goal just before the break to end the contest. ‘Whatever happens now,’ I said to myself, ‘they can’t get a goal. No goal. Stay strong.’

  The ball was worked up the right wing along the sideline when one of their players made the space and shot for a point. The second he struck the ball, it was clear that it wasn’t going to have the distance and it was dropping in a zone about ten metres from the goal. Cathal O’Sullivan and Colin Ryan were chasing in after it, but I felt it was my ball. It was a similar situation to how they had scored their goal last year and, for a split second, that went through my mind. But this time I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was coming to bat the ball clear and clean out whoever got in my way in the process.

  I crashed into the two players but I got a good connection on the ball first and I knocked it about 15 metres away to two of our defenders. We had a chance to get it clear, but two Newmarket players were suddenly on top of them and they turned over possession. One of them let fly on the ball and pinged it across the goalmouth. Cathal went at pace to control the ball, but it ricocheted off his stick and flew up into the air.

  In a flash, Seánie Arthur let fly on it. Bang. It flew like a rocket into the top corner. I never even moved.

  A huge cheer went up from the Newmarket crowd. Again. ‘Ah, Jesus, no,’ I said to myself. ‘Not this shit again. Who the hell is writing this script?’

  As soon as I pucked out the ball, the referee Rory Hickey blew the half-time whistle again. The scoreboard was down at the other end of the field, but I didn’t need to look at it to realize that this was déjà vu from last year.

  Newmarket-on-Fergus 1-10

  St Joseph’s Doora-Barefield 0-5

  It was another heavy journey to the dressing room. Another occasion when chasing the doubts from your mind can seem like a futile exercise against avoiding the inevitable. No matter how hard you try and sweep them away, the demons are still there, hammering against your consciousness. An eight-point deficit isn’t irretrievable, but they are better than us. They’re faster than us. They’re slicker than us. And they’ve got the breeze to assist them in the second half.

  In the dressing room, there’s no shouting or roaring. Everyone is sitting on the bench, getting water and energy drinks on board, trying to sort out the clutter from his own head, individually trying to examine the contribution they have made in the game.

  Management are outside the door, assessing the damage. Greg Lyons, who has his jersey off, is towelling himself down in the corner. His mop of hair is wet from sweat after being concealed in a helmet. He is the first to speak.

  ‘We’re not doing what we said we would do. We’re not getting the right ball into Seánie. We’re not even getting ball into him. We’re not getting enough tackles in out the field; we’re not putting them under enough pressure when they’re striking. We’re just not doing what we were supposed to do.’

  Different players made different contributions on what we needed to do: cut down on conceding frees; don’t panic; be more aggressive; get early scores on the board.

  As ever, Seánie was completely positive in his outlook: ‘Look, we just keep going, keep fighting for that next ball. The next ball is all that matters. We got three goals against them in the second half last year, and we can get them again. If we get it back down to three or four points, they’ll panic and we’ll take them in the last few minutes. But we’ve got to believe that we can do it. We have to believe that we can win this.’

  There was a different vibe from last year. In that game, we’d been completely outplayed in the first half and we’d been on the back foot from the first ball. At least we’d competed with them this time around. ‘Lads, we’ve got three scores from play,’ I said. ‘How many scores have they got from play? What is it, four or five? Max. It’s the frees that has them ahead. Nothing else. If we’re more disciplined in the tackle, this game is still there for us.’

  I said it because I wanted us to stay positive. But deep down, I didn’t have much conviction in my words. I couldn’t get the doubts out of my head – the feeling that that goal had just buried us.

  Looking around, I can’t see how we can retrieve this. I can’t see it because I don’t believe it myself. Jesus Christ, I’ve never felt like this before. What is wrong with me? I just can’t get those demons out of my head.

  Our nerves are still raw, and painful intimations of another defeat are seeping into our bones. Management have tried to lift us but we’re still flat. We’re not playing well enough to turn this around against a superior team and we just know it. We can’t avoid it.

  Mikey Cullinan has broken his thumb so Seán Flynn is summoned from the substitutes’ bench to take his place. We try and reorganize our formation, but we seem to be just stumbling towards the inevitable when Jamesie suddenly stands in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Right, everyone get in here now. Get in.’

  We all get to our feet and hurry in. A couple of lads nearly knocked over the table in their haste – Jamesie just has that aura and effect on us. We gather tightly around the club’s most decorated player.

  ‘Look, there are more important things in hurling than medals and trophies and glory,’ he said in a loud and distinct voice. ‘There are more noble things in hurling than just those things. You have got to have respect, and we’ve lost our respect now. We have lost our respect and we have got to get it back. We’ve got to show what this club is all about.

  ‘Lookit, I was over a Harty team in Flannan’s last January. Christy was just after burying his daughter and before we played a match a couple of days later, I said to them, “Ye will be the guys who will carry one another’s coffins.” That’s what hurling and friendship and brotherhood is all about. That’s how much it means. Well, a week after that, I was carrying Ger Hoey’s coffin. It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. Most of ye here carried Ger’s coffin with me and I don’t have to tell ye how hard it was. And in time, we will all carry each other’s coffin because of the respect and the friendship we have for one another. So this half is all about one thing now: respect. Get out there and hurl with respect and honour. Make it mean something. Because it means a lot to us.’

  Newmarket were already on the pitch by the time we made our way back out the tunnel and as I ran down to take up my position I passed Ciaran O’Neill, who was after giving advice to their full-forward. O’Neill was one of the last six St Joseph’s pl
ayers who carried Ger Hoey’s coffin to his final resting place in Templemaley last February. As we passed, he looked at me and I just looked straight through him. We all needed to be clear-headed and efficient now from the very first ball.

  As I dropped my hurleys and bag in the corner of the goal, I turned and faced the pitch and the gust of wind immediately pressed against my face. The breeze was strong, stronger than I thought.

  Shane O’Brien had their first score inside two minutes, but we regrouped and landed the next three points, two from Seánie and one from Greg Lyons, to leave six points between the sides.

  From the puckout, Newmarket came raiding again. A ball came through a ruck of players on the 20-metre line and was rolling dangerously in no-man’s-land. Their big full-forward, Jim McInerney, had been running towards the goal when the ball broke, so he kept going at pace and I had to get there before him. It was a 50–50 ball, but I couldn’t afford to try and pick it because he’d be on me straight away. With nobody behind me, I had to protect the ball at all costs. So I scrambled to my feet, spreading my body behind the ball and knocking it away to the side where Cathal O’Sullivan got it clear. Just as I’d got it away, though, McInerney caught me on my left shin – completely accidentally – with the blades of his boot.

  There was a burning sensation on my leg from the impact but I just passed it off. I was just focused on the next ball. A minute later, I looked down at my maroon sock, which was pulled up just below my knee, and I could see the blood bubbling and soaking through the sock. I wasn’t really interested in examining the injury because I was still only thinking about the next ball.

  Two minutes later, I went out to hit a free, 30 metres from goal. As I was running back, my leg didn’t feel right. It was sore and the blood seemed to be pouring through the sock. So I pulled it down.

  Jesus Christ.

  All I could see was my shin bone. It was totally exposed, with the flesh having been ripped away in a huge wound.