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Included below, for context, on entry no.1 is Liam O'Brien's story about being at the 1996 final with his brother

Limerick v Clare 1996: Ciarán’s Gift From The Gods
(by Liam O'Brien)

An idyllic summer's day on Sunday, June 16, 1996 was the backdrop to our preparation at home in Friarstown for the big game at the Gaelic Grounds. Hats and shirts in our county's colours of green and white were being passed around as well as those precious match tickets. This Munster hurling derby game between our beloved Limerick and our fellow Dalcassian neighbours in Clare was a sell-out game. The blessed green and white flag was cable-tied to the branch of the cherry blossom tree which hung over our front wall, a sight that was replicated all over the city and county.
Another big game beckoned, another day of judgement by the Gods of Hurling ….
The mood on Shannon-side in the weeks leading up to this knock-out Munster semi-final game was one of quiet confidence. Though Limerick, under the guidance of manager Tom Ryan had made history by steamrolling Cork in their own back yard three weeks previously, we were now facing the All-Ireland champions, Clare. This was the team that had shocked the hurling world when they beat us in the 1995 Munster final in Thurles and had gone on to win the Liam MacCarthy cup for the first time in over 80 years. This was a highly motivated group driven by the passionate Ger Loughnane, who had banished the curse of Biddy Earlie and at last brought success to the Banner County. We realised the enormity of the task facing us, which was very much in keeping with the Guinness sponsorship slogan of that summer's championship: “Nobody said it was going to be easy” . However, we knew we had more than a good chance with such great players on the Limerick team as Gary Kirby, Davy Clarke, Mike Houlihan and Steve McDonogh; and of course not forgetting one Ciarán Carey!
My Dad drove me into town around midday along with my brother Owen and our good neighbour Roger Gavin. He dropped us off near Sexton St CBS as the rest of our family (including my Dad) had made alternative arrangements to go to the game. So off the three of us went, on our merry way through a sun drenched and atmospheric Limerick city. Even at that early stage there was a large amount of supporters crossing over the broad majestic Shannon at Sarsfield Bridge. All of us making our way out the Ennis Road; the very same way as people had done for many generations before us, to follow our national game. This was a really big occasion and it was already obvious there was going to be a huge crowd at it. It was an absolutely scorching day but thankfully we had donned our straw hats (quite popular at the time!) to cover our heads from the excessive heat. Bottles and cans of cold drinks and ice-creams were consumed with great gusto by all and sundry that day in their attempt to find a cooling comfort from the mid-summer sizzle.
Then finally, we reached our destination amongst a throng of expectant and excited people; all going to worship on a Sunday at that famous old stadium and Limerick's very own Colosseum, Páirc na nGael.
So through the turnstiles we went and on finding the stadium already half full, we made our way through the ever growing masses on the old embankment and took our position at the corner of the City End. It was there we saw people, having failed to secure tickets frantically climbing up ropes to gain entry, as we waited with bated breath for the Clash of the Ash. This day was living proof of the legacy of the great Mick Mackey and his Limerick compatriots who had helped to shape and develop the modern game of hurling back in the 1930s, these were not just men - but Gods!
Who then today would the Gods smile upon?
When both teams raced onto the pitch, the Gaelic Grounds became a cauldron of excitement, passion, noise and colour. From the time the referee threw in the sliothar, until well after the game was over, the air was heavy with a type of frenzied electricity that hung over us in an invisible, yet impenetrable cloud.
Right from the start both teams went at it hammer and tongs; and you could still hear the sounds of battle, so unique to this ancient game, cutting through the thick air and noisy din of the crowd. This was not a day for the faint hearted.
A fine goal scored by Gary Kirby in front of us at the City End seemed to tilt things slightly in our favour in the first half; but the men in saffron and blue battled back, as the likes of Anthony Daly, Seanie McMahon and the ever animated Davy Fitzgerald were not going to lie down so easily. Come the second half and Clare looked to be tipping the scales back again, with the brilliant Jamsie O’Connor picking off some lovely points. As the game entered its final, decisive phase Clare led Limerick by the narrowest of margins. With only a few minutes remaining, the youthful Barry Foley entered the fray and levelled the game with a brilliant point. The heat-fanned tension was unbearable as 45,000 pairs of eyes followed the sliothar up and down the field watched from above by Mackey and his celestial cohorts.
Then, this epic game would get the fairytale finish it so richly deserved. Davy Fitz pucked out the sliothar and much to our delight Ciarán Carey was under it, leaping like a salmon to pluck it bravely from the sky, enveloped by men and ash alike. On and on he went, soloing into the opposition half, roared on by the huge home crowd. Nothing would have stopped him that day; even if the Clare hills had repositioned themselves at the heart of the Banner defence he would still have gotten through; there was only going to be one outcome, one hero, one winner! The Gods had spoken.
When he struck the ball and it sailed over the bar there was an explosion the likes of which had not been heard in Limerick since the Free State Army shelled the Strand Barracks during the Civil War in 1922.
Alleluia Ciarán! Brave son of Patrickswell! had carried the day in the same swashbuckling style of the great Mackey himself!
Shortly afterwards the game ended and the deliriously happy Limerick faithful invaded the pitch in their thousands to salute their heroes. Meanwhile, up at the City End, we were involved in our own victory celebrations, dancing and cheering and laughing and singing. A middle aged woman from west Limerick picked up my brother Owen (a fully grown man) and twirled him around like he was but a child, our neighbour Roger nearly lost his hat over the back wall of the terrace; joy unconfined!
It was such a contrast to see the Limerick supporters hugging and kissing each other in an absolute fever of blissful delight while our Munster neighbours were frozen in shock and disappointment. We then departed the dry, dusty stadium walking on air having beaten the reigning champions. The cooling affect of the evening breeze was welcomed by one and all at the end of a quite remarkable sporting day.
Afterwards, we went up to the local pub in Fedamore to celebrate our victory with our neighbours and friends; all of us feeling blessed to have witnessed one of the all-time glorious hurling occasions, with Ciarán’s point one of the greatest single moments in Limerick’s long and proud history. A score that was a gift from the gods on a day that will never be forgotten.
In days like this shall we live forever.
(In Loving Memory of Owen O'Brien (1976-2019)