Except for the encouraging words of Father Butler, nobody spoke in the dressing room, which now was reeking with liniment. Mick Duggan sat on a form, like the others, pensive and cradling his hurley in his arms.
Father Butler was roaring away with words of advice, more to kill the tension in the air, than with much hope of his wise words being listened to.
“Lyndon, stay glued to that corner-forward like he was your Siamese twin. None of ye are young any more, don’t let them get ye for speed for Heaven’s sake”.
Mick Duggan grinned affectionately at the old Parish Priest and thought that if the County Final today could be won by words, he was the man to do it. Though deep in his heart he knew that the chances of the “Old Men of the Watery Mall”, as the local weekly had dubbed them, winning this final were about as remote as the hope of meeting Fionn Mac Cumhaill on the top of Sliabh na mBan.
Of course, this was not to say that ‘The Mall’ were going to lay down their hurleys and give an open net to their opponents ‘Borris’. Old men they might be, all on the wrong side of thirty, but the spirit of Knocknagow was wild in them still.
Mick Duggan was thirty nine years old; the real old man of the Mall team, who by some miracle or due to the lack of decent opposition had reached the Tipperary County Hurling Final. Mick had played club hurling since the days of the rural school games and had even spent a stint with the ‘Grocers’ in Dublin, winning a Dublin County Championship medal.
But it was the Tipperary County Championship medal that had always eluded him and his team-mates and so today was probably his last chance for glory. Time was when Mick had been the terror of many a good defence. When he had been fast, young and courageous, almost to the point of recklessness; but there was a bit of a drag in his feet now. Still there was more to hurling than fast trotters, he mused.
It was a matter of family pride to win today for Duggan; as it once had been for his father and his father before him. Which is why Duggan put that extra effort into training for this game, even to the extent of downing a half dozen raw eggs every day, before and after his work in the local factory.
He could hear the familiar rumble of the crowd outside in the stands now and surmised that their opposing team had run out onto the pitch, which conjecture was reinforced by the loud roar that followed from one section of the crowd; a section of the crowd that could see only one result for their fast and skilful young team, latter which comprised many under 21 players from the County Squad.
The Mall players rose as one to their feet, jumping up and down on their toes to lessen the tension. Then they filed out of the dressing room, and as they did so the bold Father Butler liberally sprinkled their jerseys with Holy Water.
“Whom the Gods love, die young”, Duggan shouted mischievously to Father Butler, who in turn retorted with a very unholy exclamation and a hard glare. “Holy water is it, Father ah, now let’s just beat them fair and square, eh?”
The Mall lads were on the field now and after a limbering up period, they lined up behind the pipe band and soon were marching around the field to the strains of “Wrap The Green Flag Round Me, Boys”. The march around was followed by the tossing of the coin to determine choice of ends. The Mall won the toss and elected for wind advantage in the first half. The referee tossed in the ball and the game was on.
Duggan immediately rubbed shoulders with a deadly earnest young man of nineteen years, who had captained the county minor team the previous year. The kid is out to make an impression thought Duggan, but he will have to earn it, by God. He gritted his teeth. Mick noted that the youngster’s eager eyes were following every move he made. “Be the hokey, the garsun is giving me plenty of attention”, thought Duggan, flattered, but thinking that such attention to Duggan could prove costly in the end.
The first half of the game was, predictably enough, a tension-filled battle of wills with both sides giving little away, and the play had developed almost into a midfield battle with the young opposition lads running themselves into the ground, to no avail. At half-time opponents ‘Borris’, although having played against a very strong wind, were level with the old men of ‘The Mall’. Still, the crowd waited for ‘Borris’ to get the wind advantage and a brace of goals to put an end to this foot-shying around and let them home. The crowd, that many-headed monster, waited for the old men to fall to pieces and indeed, the bookies would not give out much for ‘The Mall’ now.
After the interval, during which ‘Borris’ black and amber flags waved triumphantly in anticipation; the teams took to the field again, both steeled to deliver the final punch for the sake of both little villages. Duggan again lined up shoulder to shoulder with the young ‘Borris’ corner-back, who so far had contained Mick’s every effort at goal, though Duggan had made a couple of good openings, whether the young fellow had noticed it or not.
After ten minutes of the second half and with no side having scored, the Borris lads were under strident vocal pressure from their supporters to deliver the goods. “Hit the ball! It’s legal!” screamed an irate and score-hungry fan to one ‘Borris’ forward. This led to some anxious, wayward play among the Borris boys who, despite their best efforts, could not raise a flag – green or white, after fifteen minutes. This led to them, in frustration, throwing away free after free, which the Mall centre-forward was converting into points. Then a desperate burst with a solo run up the field by the ‘Borris’ goalie, saw him blast the leather into the Mall net and the sides were level again and the crowd were now bracing themselves for a grandstand finish, a battle royale.
The young Borris boys were growing in confidence but also getting more and more careless. Egged on by a crowd of supporters, who were now not beyond cheering the efforts of the Mall team. Mick knew it was only a matter of time.
He smiled as he heard the backs in his immediate vicinity swear and roar at one another to play the ball on the ground and hit first time. Too late for that now, Mick grinned. They had lost umpteen scores as a direct result of not doing that earlier. After that titanic battle of the first half, both sets of mid-fielders were now visibly very tired, and as both sides sensed this, the game was now, in its closing stages, developing into a tennis game, between both sets of opposing backs, with the ball going from one defence to the other.
More and more the young men of ‘Borris’ were losing their cool, as time ticked away to the end of the game which by now had both sets of supporters roaring themselves hoarse. The young ‘Borris’ boys continued to give away free after free. ‘The Mall’ old men tired, bruised, but battling for every ball now sensed that victory was a real possibility and Mick Duggan waited for the ball to come his way. The ball that would see the county championship trophy going to the Watery Mall, for the first time.
Both sides piled on the precious points, now one side, then the other. Duggan knew that as the game raced to a close, it would be when the experience and bottle would count most.
With thirty seconds remaining and both teams level, a nervous move by a ‘Borris’ boy gave a 50-yard free to The Mall. Mick Duggan steeled himself. Would Lyndon do the necessary? He surely must! Then came the free. It was a long, high ball that sailed in Mick Duggans direction, in towards the left hand-side of the square.
Duggan gritted his teeth, slightly jostled the young man, and roared: “Here it comes, young fellow!”. As he had so often done throughout the match, the young man stuck to Mick Duggan like glue, shoulder to shoulder, his eyes on Mick’s hurley as Mick gently swung his stick from side to side, as if preparing to pull on the ball, when it hit the ground.
It was while the young fellow was preparing to pull in similar fashion that Mick Duggan leapt with all the strength of his thirty nine years. Leaped like a champion high-jumper he once had been, grabbed the ball and then blasted it to the back of the net, past an advancing goalie.
Almost immediately the whistle blew and the old men of ‘The Mall’ were county champions for the first time in their history.
Mick Duggan, exhausted by the mighty, high-fielding leap, wept as he knelt on the pitch, supported by his hurley. The young man, bitterly disappointed, nonetheless advanced towards him and congratulated him.
“No wonder they call you the grabber,” he smiled ruefully. Mick grinned and managed to pant out a few words: “Never take your eyes off the ball, son…the oldest rule in the book.”
VERY NICE