TV VIEW:MICHAEL LYSTER was a little ashen-faced. "The stadium actually shook," he said to his companions, Colm O'Rourke, Joe Brolly and Pat Spillane, the trio strapped into their seats, their innards still trembling in the aftermath of Kevin McManamon's 64th-minute goal.
And that was even before Stephen Cluxton’s stoppage time winner, which sent Croke Park off the Richter scale. Even the telly was teetering from the tremors.
A few gazillion around the globe and half the country watching; 82,300 in the stadium incapable of exhaling; Dublin’s first title since 1995 within his grasp. Even the dogs in the street quit barking.
No pressure, fella.
And d’you know, it looked like he felt none either. “Sure, what else would you do but stick the ball over the bar,” said his face as he trotted back to his goal, à la Ronan and Jonny in Eden Park. Well, yeah, but.
Epic, the only word for it. Apart from awesome, breathtaking, monumental and the like.
“The greatest smash and grab since Séamus Darby,” said Colm.
Pat nodded, his expression calling to mind that David Feherty tribute to Colin Montgomerie. You know, “he has a face like a bulldog licking p**s off a nettle”.
Not that Pat didn’t try to be gracious. He certainly did. “Seven minutes to go and four points down against one of the greatest teams of all time – what character,” he said.
But when he half suggested that it was more about Kerry blowing it than Dublin winning it, the nation reckoned the moment had come: Joe was going to punch him.
He did, verbally, although he kept his actual fists in his pocket, so there was no need for Michael to summon Croke Park security to have the Derry man peeled off the lad from The Kingdom. “Dublin took it,” said Joe, disputing Pat’s notion that it was all down to Kerry being too “static”.
Meanwhile, the Dubs were, well, ecstatic, “Are you watching, Pat Spillane?” the cry as they vacated Hill 16. He was indeed watching, but he was unrepentant, Joe somewhat begging to differ with the notion that the panel’s punditry had any impact on the Dubs’ mindset ahead of the final.
“I don’t think they care about what we say up here,” he suggested, while gently pointing out to his colleague that “this is not about you on this one particular occasion”.
By now, the contest was proving almost as lively as that Floyd Mayweather v Victor Ortiz tête-à-tête in Las Vegas.
Colm, as is his wont, let the pair of them at it, occupying himself during the bulk of their exchanges by examining the ceiling and the tips of his toes. If they’d tried to apologise to him for their bickering, he’d most probably have gone down the Floyd route and decked the pair of them as they remorsefully bowed their heads. He largely kept his whist too when Pat and Joe locked horns on the idea that a Dublin victory would be a glorious thing for the entire GAA family. Even that wing of the family that lives entirely outside Dublin.
This half called to mind being told by RTÉ folk during the summer, on any given day, that the weather was dire, the rain was pelting down, the skies were inky black, while those of us located outside the pale were liberally applying the Factor 50 and complaining about global warming.
In that spirit, Joe tried to remind the Kerry man that there is a world outside Dublin, and that the kids in, say, Crossmolina, Crossmaglen and Crosshaven would hardly be dancing in their respective streets simply because the Dubs had prevailed.
Pat was having none of it. This was huge, the “city slickers” had seen off the “country cabógs”, and, consequently, it was a grand day for the GAA. Colm took another look at the ceiling, Joe chucked his eyes in the same direction.
Back outside, Dublin captain Bryan Cullen was thrusting Sam in the direction of the heavens. “See you all in Coppers,” he bellowed, and with that the entertainment establishment applied to have its licence transferred to Hill 16. Long after the final whistle, the Dubs were still on the pitch. Bernard Brogan wanted to stay there forever and a day. “The stewards had to ask me to leave,” he smiled.
“As Babs Keating famously remarked, there’s six inches between a pat on the back and a kick up you know where – they deserve every moment of accoloades they get,” said Pat, Joe mad tempted to deliver the latter to his buddy.
An Ireland and Dublin double, then, on the weekend that was in it. And which one of us didn’t predict that? (Be kind to the environment, recycle your failed betting slips).
From “startled earwigs’ to All-Ireland champions in two years? Good going. Life goes on in 31 counties, but in the other: party time. The skies are ocean blue.
