For Sale: Top Man sweatshirt, never worn

I recently overheard a conversation between two Cork men in Dublin city. Apparently ignorant of any social norms or basic manners, the men spoke loudly with accents that could only have been exaggerated for the occasion. There seemed to be a tacit awareness between the two of a common cause, a shared understanding, a special thing that had happened to them by virtue of the fact that they had been born in the great townland. They spoke about old pubs, the Shakey Bridge (?), how economic crises facing the rest of the country hadn’t really impacted them all that much and why, even though they considered themselves to be Irish, they remained very much distant and very much distinct.

I left the conversation tired but somewhat educated. I had learned about great sights and geographical landmarks, the Shakey Bridge (?) and why East Cork isn’t really Cork at all. There is something almost Aryan about their desire for eminence and recognition, but I’m not going to go there today; Nicht heute mein volker.

And truth be told, having worked in Dublin for little over a year, I have developed something approaching love for the people of Cork (one has no choice, they are everywhere). There is an arrogance about them but not a flagrant Kerry arrogance, it is more subtle, more nuanced. They know they are better than you, but they entertain your ignorance anyway, this patience has to be admired. I imagine them snickering after me whenever I leave a conversation: “look at this country imp with his turf and his bog hehe!” Cork doesn’t need turf, it apparently has a perfectly moderate temperature that is never too balmy and reliably refreshing – a south westerly microclimate that combines the warmth of Gran Canaria with the zesty freshness of the Algarve.

However admirable, I fear it is this confidence that will lead 26 other sons of Cork into an inevitable massacre in Drumcondra this weekend. Limerick do not care for geographical landmass, population size or how Cromwell thought Cork would be a far more suitable head of state than Dublin. They will come for blood and violently so.

I have my misgivings about Limerick too, be under no illusions. I was at the All-Ireland Hurling final of 2018 when Joe nearly drove an entire county to the type of collective suicide you typically see in fanatical religious cults (note to self – great description of Limerick hurling fans). I was on the Hill that day with some good friends: well mannered, reasoned and balanced Galway folk, as Galway folk tend to be. It was a hot day, balmy, more uncomfortable than a hot day in Cork, no doubt. I brought a good navy sweatshirt to wrap around my waist for the journey home, a ‘Top Man’ number, well fitted and stylish, as Galway folk tend to be. Limerick, as is well known at this stage, cruised through the first sixty-five minutes of the contest and the smugness was perceptible. I refastened my jumper as the clock ticked towards the red and found, to my horror, that the loudmouthed Treaty man behind me had spent the duration of the game tapping his cigarette ash into the hood of my sweatshirt. I left Croke Park that day with more than one gripe.

This plight was resolved somewhat after our semi-final loss against the county last summer. I left my apartment for the game and found a young Limerick father operating the pay and display parking machine in much the same manner that Homer Simpson would operate a vending machine that had swallowed his cash and withheld the treat. Taking pity, I gave him a free parking permit. Even I couldn’t stand to see a man’s kids witness their father in that light. Being generous and philanthropic, as Galway folk tend to be, I refused payment and made my way back to the Hill (no sweater this time). I returned to a note in my letterbox: “Galway will be back! You’re a gentleman – from the Ryans of Oolla”. I’ll be honest, the gesture didn’t resonate for a couple of days until I realised that Oolla, somehow, is actually a place in Limerick.

I’ll admit, this bridge building exercise was more Robbie Williams and Gary Barlow than Noel and Liam Gallagher. The people of Limerick are not bad in my book. That said, I will be shouting for Cork this weekend. I think players like Patrick Horgan deserve the greatest prizes. I’m hoping his presence on Sunday will have its usual impact on the rest of the team. When you have a miracle worker in your midst and the rock at the mouth of the tomb starts moving, it tends to have quite a galvanising effect.

I will head back to Hill 16 this Sunday with Dave Bourke – a good Youghal man, which by Rebel standards is a very lofty commendation. Cigarettes aren’t all that common anymore, vapes seem to be the new vice. Modernity rebels against tradition and all that. Still though, I’m a well-considered and careful man, as Galway folk tend to be; I won’t be wrapping a good sweatshirt around my waist.