Giddiness would not become him, not even on this damp and perfect day. Yet you could forgive Brian Corcoran if you were to stumble upon him in the bedlam of the Cork dressingroom and found him gibbering and teary-eyed or vowing to finish his days with a shiny medal for every pocket. If he was turning cartwheels or singing La vida loca.

You'd gladly blind-eye any fit of foolishness in which he cared to indulge on what is a day of sweet reckoning for the quiet man from Glounthane.

Of all the shiny countenances here today, for all the good vibes dancing through the fog of Corkonian chatter, it's hard to believe that anyone, except perhaps for JBM, will hold this moment as closely.

Seven years ago, Corcoran visited this stadium. Christ, he was just a boy then, raw and wildhaired, darling on a venerated team back when Cork were in the business of habitually breaking hearts in September. How could he have guessed that the good times were to be silenced with the whistle that day? As this decade flowered into a gospel song for the modern counties, Cork became an afterthought. Occasionally, we'd hear Corcoran's name and were reminded briefly of this unflinching colossus, a natural. But in the years of new colour and stories, Cork were yesterday's news. And through all those years when his county was out of fashion, he held the pain of 1992.

Only now comes the release. He is standing in the middle of the floor, minds-eye whisking us back to the aftermath seven autumns ago.

"I remember when the final whistle went - everyone was allowed out on the field then - and there were just thousands of Kilkenny people streaming by me. Wanted the ground to open and swallow me. "You don't forget it. You go the dinner that night and the next day the winners come with the cup and on Monday, you go back to your county and the disappointment there. You just don't get over it for months."

And this is what set him apart in the white hot confrontations on the front line against Kilkenny. A cloud of jerseys would descend on the sliotar and from the scuffle, Corcoran would emerge, ball in fist. Our eyes would trace the ball as it arced skyward and fell towards centrefield and there he was, perfectly placed as the trajectory met the turf, scything forward and hurtling a clearance as the southern crowd bayed for more. One element spurred him on.

"That fear of losing really drives you on," he explains.

"There's nothing worse. That's why I was saying to the lads on the way up here we had to win this one. "Everyone was saying that because we were so young, we'd be back, but there were no guarantees. Still have to get out of Munster next year. We looked at the Galway footballers last year, they came up here out of nowhere and won. We felt if we played well, we could do the same."

Visions from his 70 minutes: Corcoran striding from the furnace, Henry Shefflin, John Power and Brian McEvoy giving hopeless chase. The heavens rumbling uneasily as he and Pat O'Neill thunder into one another. A fault line registers on Jones road. Resolute and immovable late on. Corcoran singing The Banks on the field as John Power, great warhorse, disappears beneath the Cusack stand, blood coursing down the bridge of his nose, head stooped. All week it was said that Corcoran would have to quell this flame-haired force of will and so it transpired.

"John Power is a great player," offers Corcoran quietly.

"We just said if we concentrated on our individual players and beat them by 51 to 49, we'd be okay. But when we went four down, it looked like we needed a goal. Fair play to our forwards, they turned it on. It was like a haze. Suddenly we were level and then one up. Just went by so quickly. It's hard to remember a turning point right now. I'm sure it'll be obvious whenever I sit down to watch the video."

All of this is related in soft tones. The intensity of the pleasure, the importance of this day to Brian Corcoran cannot be articulated with a few crazy whoops. The joy of this will be as slow-burning as the emptiness he felt in the winter of 1992. Right now, the game is a blur to him, but the hours before he recalls with sparkling clarity.

"Had a meal in the Burlington last night and then went down to the Gaiety to see Juno and the Paycock. We headed to the rooms about eleven. Then this morning we had Mass at half ten.

"Then we had an hour to ourselves and then there was fresh fruit salad and sandwiches. Then we got the bus out to Belfield for a puc around and a chat at 12.40. Same as before the Offaly game. There were Cork songs on the bus on the way in, got us going a bit. We arrived at Croke Park at about 2.20. We were unbelievably relaxed, really."

After that precise and gradual build-up came the blur of the match. Even now, Corcoran reckons it will be days before it all comes back to him. The ending has clarity though.

Sort of surreal, really, with the referee waving his hands and signalling time and no-one quite realising it.

"Yeah, Pat blew and I was looking at him. He was waving his hands and I was thinking: `Is he giving a free?'. Then I looked and saw some of the lads jumping up and down. I looked at him again and his hands were still waving. I knew it was all over then."

A long journey ends for this most gracious of heroes.