APH
Parish Pride
Source: The Tuam Herald, Saturday, April 5,1997
Photos: Herald Staff Photographer Ray Ryan
St. Patrick’s Day, 1997 — the All-Ireland hurling club final and nothing will ever be the same again. Athenry, my home place, has come of age, has taken its place among the all-time greats, and for the next 12 months at least, it is the hurling capital of Ireland.
Nothing compares, absolutely nothing, not the three-in-a-row, not the 1980 final, not Stephen Roche nor Italia ’90. The reason is that this is our very own. We know every one of them, the players, the subs and the mentors. We see them at Mass, on the street, in the shops or in the pubs. We know their families, parents, brothers, sisters, we know their wives and girlfriends. These are not heroes from the television or the newspapers; these lads are our neighbours. For one hour on the hallowed turf of Croke Park they became larger than life, and made an indelible impression on the minds of those of us lucky enough to witness it.
After the great semi-final performance at a wind and rain lashed Thursday, it was difficult to wait. The anticipation reached a peak as the final weekend approached, and even the journey to Dublin on St. Patrick’s morning was exciting. Nothing prepared us though for the appearance on the field of the team, and our hearts pounded. A brief hush, and a fleeting feeling of doubt, as the announcement was made that Donal Moran would be unable to play. Was it a bad omen? We recalled his lifesaving point against Clarinbridge, but the moment passed and the game was on. It seemed it was over almost as soon as it started. The hour flew by — but it was packed full of excitement.
The heart-stopping panic, relieved by the coolness of Mickey Crimmins, and the strength and reliability of Gerry Keane. Young John Feeney playing like a man with twenty years of experience, and the powerhouse that was his brother Brian, the captain at centre-back.
The Keogh brothers, too, Eamon and Brendan, bringing back memories of great Newcastle teams of the past. There too were the “Hardy” boys, Paul, and John coming in late in the game, and the two Higgins’s Brian and Pat, playing fantastic hurling. The big man up front was the great Joe Rabbitte, and we recalled some of Joe’s great days with Athenry and with Galway; his great attempt at goal will be remembered almost as well as if he had scored. Brian Hanley played some good stuff, but it was too much to expect that he would repeat his cheeky goal of the semi-final. Aiden Poniard was given the unenviable task of replacing the injured Donal Moran, and he was not found wanting: a great point from play in the second half left its own mark on the game. Eddie Brady came on in the second half and showed great speed on the ball, and Cathal Moran proved that he is playing some of his best ever hurling. As we watched, we were aware too that it could be the very early part of what looks like being a great hurling career — young Cloonan has the potential to join the elite in Hurling’s Hall of Fame. His performance was superb, and one of his most memorable runs was to the side-line at the final whistle when he embraced his father Tom in sheer delight.
And then there was Paschal. Paschal Healy at midfield, forced to retire due to injury near the end, bloodied but unbowed, battle scarred and brilliant. If ever anyone deserved this victory it was Paschal, in his eighteenth senior campaign.
The homecoming was special, and the arrival of the open-top bus at the Square was the highlight of a memorable day. The brilliant fireworks display of last August’s Festival would have been a fitting welcome home but unnecessary. The welcoming crowd created its own special atmosphere. As P. J. Molloy thanked the crowd, we remembered great teams of yesteryear, the teams who lined out for Athenry, for Newcastle, for Cussane and for Derrydonnell — the parish was united now on the greatest night in its history. I remembered a sunny Sunday in the late ’60s when Bobby Gardiner was looking after the “long puck” at the children’s sports, and he said to me “There’s a young lad out in Newcastle called P. J. Molloy, and if he stays with the hurling he will be the best ever.” How right he was; P. J. has done it all, and it was great to see him as the anchorman in this great achievement.
In the days that followed I wanted to talk about nothing else but huring. My work that week brought me to Sligo, Donegal and Dublin, and I sat in diningrooms and on barstools with my newspaper opened at the hurling page, almost inviting total strangers to ask “Did you see the club finals?” When they did ask, I could triumphantly reply “I was in Croke Park, I’m from Athenry” and the feeling of pride was wonderful.
All through the week, the flashbacks would come at unusual times, and always with a lift to my heart. Flashes of standing on the upper deck of the Hogan, urging on John Feeney to stay with his man, 100 feet below me, and almost believing he could hear me … of Aiden Poniard’s and Eugene Cloonan’s great scores … of the excitement engendered by Joe Rabbitte getting near the goal … of the powerful forward thrusts by Brian Feeney and Paschal Healy, and always there was the blue helmet of Paul Hardiman bursting through all obstacles in an impeccable performance. I remember thinking to myself that if I ever played in a full-back line, I would want Paul Hardiman in front of me.
I know that the players and the subs, P. J and his selectors, the trainers and the club officials have been congratulated hundreds of times since St. Patrick’s Day, and that is as it should be, but I also think that we should say thanks. So, I know I can speak for the entire parish of Athenry, for the people who live here all the time and the people from Athenry who live in different parts of the world, and indeed for those who have never attended games on a regular basis, when I say thanks … thanks and thanks again to a great bunch of people for all your hard work and for giving us this memory which we will recall with pride until the day we die!
— J. A. K.
