Limerick hurlers have enjoyed a run of mystical achievement

GOING into injury time, a relentless Limerick fightback had shaved the deficit back from six points to two, a position they had been in many times before during more than four years of ruling hurling's roost.

Yet even with yet another miraculous finish in sight, Limerick's All-Ireland senior hurling semi-final clash with Munster rivals Cork wasn't quite going to plan.

Sure, Limerick had started badly, recovered coming up to half-time but in the third quarter, always the star act of their show, they were still misfiring on dirty petrol.

Outpaced, outfought and outshot by a Cork side filled with their destiny and roared on by a passionate, raucous and supremely confident support not seen flocking behind the Blood and Bandage for more than a generation, Limerick's lead had been overtaken and they were struggling to stay in contact going into the closing straight.

Still, with enough time left on the clock, Limerick now had the momentum. Another ‘Rebel’ puckout was sent back to where it came from, possession was plundered and the sightline to the posts opened up.

Not easy, mind you, but these were the moments when the ‘Green Machine’ would always shake off whatever imperfections had landed them in yet another cliff-hanger to squeeze themselves over the line.

But the sliotar drifted wide. Then, after a Cork goal attempt was thwarted, the clearance set up a second opportunity. And when that also failed to soar over the black spot, the juggernaut stopped.

Croke Park's teeming terraces and stands drew their breath, those in green with dread, those in red with relief. The five-in-a-row wasn't to be.

We all knew the end would come sometime, that the swashbuckling odyssey through every challenge and attempt at an ambush would one day run out of road. But when it eventually happened, it dropped like a bolt from the blue. For the first time since the 2019 semi-final, we were left to cope with defeat.

The whistle blew, players slumped with exhaustion before rising to salute their supporters, Cork's rising to a crescendo of triumph, Limerick's to a haunting tattoo of handclaps in recognition of what their heroes had achieved.

Within minutes, they had merged into each other to acclaim that this had been one hell of a contest, maybe not the greatest ever in the grandeur of its execution but one of the most gripping in terms of drama and occasion.

For everyone in the 82,300 capacity attendance, they could tell generations to come that they'd been there.

Disappointment flowed in the tears of the young fellas in the replica Limerick jerseys who had never known anything but success, in the pangs of regret of others for whom the immortality of the ‘drive-for-five’ had expired, in the realisation among those now robbed of the fortnight's adrenalin rush of scrambling for tickets for this Sunday's final, in the perverse sense of relief among some of those inured with an Archconfraterniy sense of guilt that there is always a price to be paid for success.

Unlike our neighbours to the south, to the west and to the east, Brother Doom and Brother Gloom have never wandered far from the surface of the Limerick psyche.

But within minutes, the conflicting emotions had dissipated into the pints of the faithful who'd pack every time into the Toyota for the mountainy road to Thurles, into the shorts of the oul fellas who'd endured 78 long years with just a single miserable success marooned between decades of blowing titles there for the taking.

And into the Taytos and minerals of the young fellas slowly realising that they were just as caught up the county's fortunes as their fathers and, now that we've suddenly figured out that they're there in the crowd cursing the ref as well, as their mothers were in the glorious idiocy of following the county's fortunes to the bitter end.

In the seven years of the John Kiely dynasty, we'd put together a run of mystical achievement that, instead of looking on with envy and the frustrations of what might have been, had put us up there with ‘the Cats’, ‘the Premier’ and ‘the Rebels’ at the top table of hurling success.

In a few weeks time, there'll be arguments in the bars of Doon, of Kilmallock, of Killeedy and of the Dublin Road over where the season coming up will find us.

Deep down, we know they owe us nothing and, if they want to step down to the level we mortals use to pass the time, nobody will begrudge any of the squad deciding there's another life out there to be enjoyed.

But Godammit, we'd love if the whole lot of them, the sideline as well as those on the field, all decided to give it another lash, to get themselves caught up once again in the madcap chase of immortal glory and show every pretender that this was the greatest hurling team ever.