La Vie en Rose

A few months back, I watched Mattheu Kossavitz’s unique and divisive French language film, ‘La Haine’. Though niche in name and subject matter, the film has recently developed something of a cult social media following. If your TikTok algorithm is anything like mine, somewhere in between the Bertie Ahern “aura” edits and the Cassie Stokes “Lovin’ Dublin” propaganda, will be a tribute to a black and white movie that confronts all manners of affliction in contemporary suburban Paris. The story chronicles the lives of three French immigrants who try to forge a worthwhile livelihood in a society typified by racism and hostility. ‘Le monde est à vous’, the protagonists try to convince themselves: The world is yours.

It was hard not to evoke this sentiment leaving Croke Park yesterday afternoon; a sense of quiet pride over a national game that has the capacity to induce such fervour was evident. Standing outside Juno’s pub pre-match however, the atmosphere could hardly have been described as expectant. The Limerick team bus hurtled past us to adulating screams about an hour and a quarter before throw in. Someone questioned why they weren’t entering via Clonliffe Road, as is customary. One recalls how Archduke Franz Ferdinand narrowly escaped an assassination attempt in Sarajevo, only for his driver to take a wrong turn and drive him straight into the path of the disbelieving assailant. Maybe it was an omen. Maybe professional bus drivers know the best routes.

I headed into Croke Park with Youghal man Dave Bourke. A good friend of ours, Ross Murphy, accompanied us to what was his first game of hurling. Ross is a great man, but he comes from one of those leafy south Dublin suburbs where oat milk and planning objections occupy a far greater proportion of the public consciousness than hurling. You wouldn’t describe it a “salt of the earth” suburb; a “brown envelope to the developer” suburb might be more apt. Nonetheless, Ross was excited for the occasion. Excited in much the same way that Simon Harris would be excited to canvas in Mayo: He knows he doesn’t really fit in, but there’s a novelty to the experience all the same. Once preliminary questions had been addressed (why the ball was round; why the ref wasn’t blowing for offside; why they didn’t play Ireland’s Call after the national anthem), he settled into the tone of the contest, quickly endearing himself to the pace, passion and physicality.

The game adopted a familiar pattern, unfolding in much the same way that Limerick hurling games tends to unfold. By half time, Cork had given a valiant display. Brian Hayes was giving one of the great performances, Alan Connolly was rampant, Tim O’Mahoney had refrained from doing any of the mindless things that Tim O’Mahoney tends to do. But still, Limerick led by two. We had seen this movie before. John Kiely looked insouciant. Rumour has it that a fifth consecutive All Ireland would have earned him a J.P funded house in the Maldives; Paul Kinnerk would have been given access to nuclear codes. What hadn’t been considered was that Cork would deliver a second half performance deserving of all manner of praise and adulation. Their composure in the end game was unwavering and Limerick faltered. Gearoid Hegarty was frozen, meandering around the pitch with all the subtlety of a charging elephant; Gillane grew desperate, motioning for energy from a listless Limerick crowd. Hayes’ goal, Collins’ save, all else is lore. A mobile home in Ardagh now beckons for Kiely, a Battleship boardgame awaits Kinnerk.

A jubilant Patrick Horgan brought his young son onto the pitch at full time. Eleven years on from that supposed winner and that impossible equaliser he stands, once again, seventy minutes from his moment of total hurling vindication. Having watched the Clare game on Saturday, one would be forgiven for thinking he need not be overly concerned. But eleven years on from that remarkable debut and that indelible hat-trick, Shane O’Donnell is once again poised. Croke Park and All Ireland final day await.

After full time we made our way back to Juno’s, that recently reformed Drumcondra jazz bar desperately trying to keep pace with gentrification and shed its reputation as the Red Parrot GAA pub (failing miserably, judging by yesterday’s crowd). Jane Kirby, daughter of Limerick great Gary, joined our party with a graciousness and sincerity that could only be attributed to someone who is “actually sick of going to Croke Park at this stage”. And there, somewhere amid the noise and the disappointment and the joy, a man from Cork, a girl from Limerick and an anxious south Dubliner just praying for safe passage home, chatted and laughed and danced until county boundaries, JP’s cash flow and ‘five in a row’ talk faded into insignificance. ‘After All’, that great Franks and Walters song that had echoed from Hill 16 hours earlier was played, an appropriate epitaph for a perfect day of hurling - a sport for everyone, to be shared by everyone. Le monde est à vous? No. Le monde est à nous.