Flashing, cutlets, Baileys (no ice!) and another day

When you start the morning by inadvertently flashing your manhood to your long-suffering mother, the day can only get better, right? When the same woman has been sitting on a deckchair outside your apartment since early morning, waiting for you and your pregnant wife to surface, laden down with all the necessary fry-up components (minus eggs!) and bedecked in the blue and gold of Tipperary you begin to wonder are you dreaming. When you get over the shock of it all and try to decipher who got the bigger fright, you realise that the spoils were shared, much like they were nearly eight hours later in the cauldron that is Croke Park.

Tipperary: Sort your shorts and pull your socks up

It’s the little things, isn’t it? The finer details. The small print. As Tipperary took to Tom Semple’s field on the first Sunday in June I noticed (being a man of some considerable style!) that a mishmash of shorts were the order of the day. Why? As the game progressed socks replaced shorts in my thoughts with Tipperary’s alarming inability to pull them up when the going got tough a source of huge frustration. Why?

Hurling was my world and the hurling world was my oyster

He probably doesn't remember it but William Maher stood beside me at early mass. Taller than me, he always was, and let's face it, always will be. Nearly 20 years ago it was normal for mass to be taken of a Sunday morning. Even lads of our age were familiar with the insides of chapels, churches or in my case, cathedrals. I was from Thurles you see, 'The Cathedral Town' and was at mass to ask God to help me, the taller Maher and the entire, assembled Tipperary ensemble in any way he could in that afternoon's final of the unofficial All-Ireland U14 championship, the Tony Forristal Tournament to those in the know. 

Shit love ma x

Taking the turn from Mountjoy Square on to Gardiner Street was my next task. Then I heard it. I felt it. A vibration. A small beep. I pulled my phone from my pocket. The message was from my mother, or 'Me Ma' as she is listed. I'd only talked to her, half hoarse, heart beating quicker than it should have been less than an hour earlier. Just before I did I used the phrase 'hurling heaven' in a tweet. 

To say proceedings took a turn for the worse when the age old rivals returned for battle would be an understatement. An understatement of an understatement. I still hadn't negotiated the turn. Something needed to be written about what I had just witnessed. What would I call it? I read the message from the woman who gave me life. Three words and a letter I'm all too familiar with. 'Shit love ma x'. That'll do.  

#nothingbeatsbeingthere

It was always 'around the next corner'. Always 'just on another bit'. We were always 'nearly there'. Páirc Uí Chaoimh, the spiritual home of the ancient game in the People's Republic of Cork, or just Cork, as it's more commonly referred to. I'd need more than one pair of hands to count the amount of times I've attended matches there. Always the same atmosphere. Always the same tingle. Always memorable. Always.

'An early kick up the hole never hurt anyone'

So I've this friend. Sean Drummond is his name. Actually he's a friend of a friend. A man not too dissimilar to my good self. The ancient games are what float his boat. He'd have little or no interest in the Euros. At least I don't think he would. No, his scene centres around the fortunes of the capital's hurlers and footballers. He posted on my Facebook Timeline this morning. 'Lucky boys against Limerick yesterday,' he said. 'Huge improvement needed after that performance.' I agreed and added that Tipperary 'showed great composure' and that the experience 'will do them no harm at all' in the long run. 

Sean Drummond knows what he's talking about. He knows that custard is no use to anyone without jelly. He knows that one swallow never made a summer. 'An early kick up the hole never hurt anyone'... He knows that, along with everyone else.

The day I met a giant

A few months back a Prime Time debate about secret manager payments in the GAA was chaired by the unusually quiet Miriam O'Callaghan. On the night in question I was following the #primetime Twitter stream (Twitter is all the rage these days!) and decided I wanted to add something to the party. I wanted to say something profound but I was at a loss... In the end I retweeted @HMFerry's offering which read, 'It's the amateur status that makes the GAA unique, and the best sporting organisation in the world. No to payments.' I couldn't agree more. 

The blades have been lowered and the talk of payments to managers has dried up. I've just spent eight euro on a bottle of Nivea After Sun and Aodh O'Fearraigh's aka @HMFerry's stance on the GAA still stands.

The GAA is indeed 'amateur' and 'unique' but what do these words really mean? I'm going to go off on a bit of a tangent here. Stay with me.

Corbett 'happy enough to be just playing like'

We all know that Thurles is the home of hurling. That’s a given. You would assume then that Tipperary would be the team to beat when it came to the ancient game. That’s not a given. Down through the years Tipperary were a team to fear, a team to be respected, a team to measure your sides performance off. But the Premier County have slipped down the pecking order in recent times and it will be seven years this September since a beaming Declan Carr climbed the steps of the Hogan Stand. 

Tipperary have not gone away. Far from it. But the recent emergence of teams in Munster such as Waterford and Limerick and the continued dominance of Kilkenny and Cork have left the Tipperary hurling faithful wondering if the good times will ever return.

ASIWYFA Cody

And So I Watch You From Afar Cody. I thought I'd solve that puzzle for my many, many readers right away. ASIWYFA are a four-piece instrumental rock band from Belfast. Rory Friers, Tony Wright, Johnny Adger and Chris Wee make the sound. Not a Cody (Christian name or surname) in sight. So who is this Cody fella?

A groupie? Former band member? No. None of those. Cody, Brian Cody, is the most successful hurling manager of all time. He's not in the band because he doesn't have the time. Kilkenny don't afford him the time.

They were my Maltesers but I didn't mind

Perched high up in the Cusack Stand I handed the bag around. It had been two hours since we tucked into the salad, or 'cold plate' as they call it in the capital. Sugar levels were running low so I produced them. There was a spread of supporters to my right and left. Not all donning the blue and gold. No matter. 

Let's be clear. We weren't dealing with big-bag Maltesers like the ones you get in the cinema. No, just your ordinary size bag like the ones my mother used to put in my lunchbox. Some people are reluctant to dip into other people's bags of confectionery. Some need no encouragement.

He could go out on top with Tipp

Mick O'Dwyer has yet to decide whether his services will be on offer for the 2012 season. The Waterville legend's five-year stint with Wicklow ended on Saturday night in Aughrim. He had brought them as far as he could.

'I'd like to think my involvement in the game is not over yet,' is how the sprightly 75-year-old responded to queries about his future in football following the defeat to Armagh. So there is hope? Someone could avail of his services? What county would benefit most? And why can't 'Micko' walk away?

I know which Bourke I’d have

Tom Kennedy was always tall. He was wiry. A good target man. Great pair of hands. Not the most skilful hurler but a great pair of hands. Good attitude.

Tom Kennedy sat behind me in Templetuohy on Sunday where a plethora of county stars were on show. He didn’t seem as tall. Holycross-Ballycahill and JK Brackens was the fare on offer - the second part of a double-header. The former had shocked reigning County and divisional champions Thurles Sarsfields in the opening match in Group Two and were on a high going into the clash with the men from Templemore.