Red Mist

Back in 2018, the Tipperary U21s were wiped by Cork in the Munster Final down the Páirc. Their manager, one Liam Cahill, couldn’t stomach it. In the weeks that followed, his charges were instructed to wear their club gear to training until they proved themselves to be of the required moral fortitude to once again don the blue and gold. The way the opening seconds played out last Sunday, you must wonder whether his lads were permitted to wear anything at all over the past number of weeks.

Cahill arrived down the Páirc last Sunday with his men sharpened for war – eyes hard, jaws clenched. You can only imagine the venom-laced broadside that must have swirled around the confines of the dressing room at half past three, the fierce pledges to the jersey, the promises of retribution, the sworn oaths that what befell the poor garsún Darragh McCarthy in the league final a few weeks back wouldn’t happen again. Not while they still drew breath. Not without a reckoning. The trouble here is that this is still hurling. Not war. For all the machismo and warrior language that still clings to it, hurling plays out under the bright lights of sport, not the shadowy codes of combat. And it’s governed not by blood feuds or vengeance, but by whistles, cards, and the letter of the law.

And once you feel the cold hand of the rulebook come down on you, the jig is well and truly up. As we know only too well, there’s just no surviving the loss of a man anymore. Nine times out of ten, all else being equal, the extra body holds the top trump. The last time Cork had a numerical advantage for most of a game, against Limerick in 2018 after Aaron Gillane’s first half dismissal, their opponents still managed to escape Páirc Uí Chaoimh with a draw. But those were different times. The progression of the ball through the lines was still an inexact science, still prone to miscalculations and experimental errors. There was still a chance. Cork’s bacon was saved two weeks ago by dint of a twelve-point cushion, not to mention the generously meagre time calculations of Liam Gordon and his officials. But lose a man before a ball is pucked? Forget about it. Your goose is cooked.

And Tipp’s goose was cooked as soon as Darragh McCarthy made a beeline for Sean O’Donoghue straight after the anthems and proceeded to exchange pleasantries in the time-honoured fashion of the dawk. Twice, no less, like punctuation marks on the promise that it would be different this time around. Moments later, he was being consoled and escorted back to the dugout by the avuncular Noel McGrath. You couldn’t help but feel at least a modicum of sympathy. A fine hurler who came with a point to prove, a young man who had evidently been wound up like a coiled spring by his manager and set to unleash hell. Not that I was pleading for clemency from high up in the Blackrock End or extolling the virtues of Tipp’s rising star. Far from it. Cork’s chances of winning would only grow exponentially in his absence and if a ruined spectacle had to be sacrificed at the altar of an unbending rulebook, well then so be it.

But let’s not pretend for a second that the rest of the Tipperary team didn’t have a hand in turning what should have been another Munster epic in front of a full house into a flat, lifeless procession. After the game, Liam Cahill praised his team for avoiding a 30-point hammering, as if the red card had left them utterly helpless, as if there was nothing else the fourteen martyrs could have done. Did the absence of Darragh McCarthy render Craig Morgan so crestfallen that he was simply incapable of tracking Tim O’Mahony for Cork’s first goal. Would numerical parity have prevented Michael Breen from being sold an absolute pup by Horgan for Cork’s second? For the second time in a month, Cork’s forward line simply overwhelmed Tipperary—and looking back, it’s hard to argue that the result would’ve been any different, red card or not.

We’re halfway through the Munster campaign now and, on paper at least, everything looks rosy. A draw snatched in Ennis, followed by a fifteen-point dismantling of Tipp. You’d be forgiven for thinking Cork were flying, if you hadn’t watched a minute of it. But as always, the scoreboard only tells part of the story, the asterisks slyly concealed. The second half collapse in Ennis pried open a familiar box of old doubts and last Sunday’s mismatch, warped as it was by that early red, did little to tuck them back in. Robert Downey’s latest injury worry only adds to the sense of uncertainty. For now at least, we’ll regard Cork’s second-half laxity as a mere symptom of certainty, a quiet recognition that, much like the Offaly and Dublin games last year, the real battle lies just beyond the horizon. Ethan Twomey was hauled after a couple of particularly careless plays but maybe that’s no bad thing either. Pat Ryan’s own form of dawk, if you will. Let them know you’re there.

The fortnight’s breathing room now offers ample time to step back, take a measure of things and survey the lay of the land. Will Tipp do us a favour and cut our old pals Clare adrift, letting us march on without having to look over our shoulders? Should Waterford be afforded more respect than just the presumed benefactors of the two points that would book our place in a Munster final? And is there any real sign to suggest that Limerick aren’t, well, Limerick?

We’ll find out in two weeks time. But for now though, let’s just relax and enjoy the view from atop our three points. God knows, we’ve spent enough time teetered over the abyss.