The Hype Train

“The Cork hype train has left the station,” he writes. Whatever that means. I’ll tell you now what’s left the station, sir — 60,000 Cork supporters, packed into buses, trains, and any vehicle that could carry them to the capital. Possibly as big an exodus from one county that there’s ever been for a sporting occasion. If that’s what hype looks like, then I’m all for. And I’ll say this much; there are plenty of counties out there that could use a bit of hype.

We can crunch the numbers if you like — get all KPMG about it and talk economic impact assessments or whatever. But you don’t need an MBA to see what’s plain as day: the publicans of Ennis, Limerick and Dublin have been only too delighted with the so-called hype, and Pat Ryan’s doing their businesses no harm at all. Then there’s everyone else riding the wave, the ancillary operations all with a stake in the fortunes of our full-back line. Somewhere on Dorset Street, there’s a café owner who’s spent the last few weeks sweating over Robert Downey’s fitness, the proprietor of an off-license on Parnell Street who should have no business fretting about Seamus Harnedy’s hamstring but whose bottom line might just have hinged on whether we kept the dream alive further into July. Turnover has more than one meaning when it comes to the Cork hurling odyssey.

Sure, they think they have it won. Typical Cork hubris. Arrogant shower. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are an awful lot of people dotted around the county who probably do think that we’ve it won. They probably thought the same at half time above in Ennis. They might have thought the championship in it’s entirety to be a needless obfuscation of things when we had the whole thing wrapped up anyway after the League Final. But so what? Pat Ryan doesn’t believe it. I’d be fairly sure Brian Hayes doesn’t either. Or Mark Coleman. Or any of the lads who actually matter. So if some fella wants to lump a ton on Cork to land the five-in-a-row in 2029, let him at it. Honestly — it doesn’t matter. Believe it or not, it really, really doesn’t. Let people dream. Let people talk bollix if that’s what gets them through their days. Don’t worry about it.

If you actually go to the matches — if you spend the hours beforehand packed into crowded trains and even more crowded pubs — you’ll know the truth: nobody really thinks we’ve this thing sewn up. We never have. We’d have gladly taken a draw up in Ennis before a ball was thrown in. We were more than happy to leave the Páirc with two points against Tipp and Waterford, whatever about the performances. When we went to Limerick, it was with hope at first, and then a few weeks later with the quiet acceptance that things probably wouldn’t go our way. We travelled anyway. So yeah, you’ll have to forgive a bit of confidence before yesterday’s semi-final. Forgive the tens of thousands who made the trip with a spring in their step and the boldness to believe that we might win it handy. And we did win it handy. But in two weeks’ time, we won’t. And anyone with even the slightest grasp of how things work knows that only too well.

So what hype are we even talking about here? What is it, really? Noise? Arrogance? Getting ahead of ourselves? Maybe. But chill out a second. Step back. Strip away the sneering, and you’ll see that hype is just another word for excitement; a natural, beautiful, human reaction to progress, promise and possibility. The possibility that we could win an All-Ireland for the first time in twenty years. Twenty years! What’s the alternative? A few weeks ago, the best footballer in the country had to publicly plead with his own fans to show up for an All-Ireland quarter-final. Another former player was writing in the papers about how his county had the misfortune of having to beat Cavan to keep the show on the road for another week when everyone knew deep down that their race was already run. Is that what we’re meant to be at? A world of yerra’s, false modesty and pretending not to care.

Generally speaking, hype doesn’t breed success; it follows it. Heffo’s Army, for so long the gold standard of maniacal GAA fandom, didn’t become the roaring behemoth it was until after Dublin ended their long wait in 1974. That’s what makes the Cork story so remarkable. We’ve been on this journey for years now, full tilt, and we’ve precious little to show for it. Just a trove of memories — some glorious, most gut-wrenching. Remember, this whole thing truly caught fire ahead of last year’s do-or-die clash with Limerick down the Páirc. That night, a Saturday evening soaked in tension and electricity, felt like something from another world. The place was delirious, but let’s not forget it came off the back of two painful defeats. When the crowd poured onto the pitch to the sound of Springsteen, we still faced a very real chance of not even making it out of Munster. Glory Days it certainly wasn’t. Think Walkinstown Roundabout during Italia ’90, then drop it into the middle of the Eoin Hand era. That’s what following this Cork hurling team has been like. That’s the madness and the magic of it.

And the madness and the magic will roll on over the next two weeks – the talk of tickets and club allocations, the favours being called in from uncles and cousins and old college acquaintances from every corner of the country, the chatter surrounding trains and ‘specials’ and whether it’ll be Harnedy or Healy. It’s all part of it. It’ll be the same in Tipperary too and it’s worth remembering that there are counties with fanbases every bit as passionate as ours who will likely never get to experience a fortnight like this.

And there’s every chance that in two weeks’ time, we’ll be trudging back down the Clonliffe Road, hearts heavy after losing another All-Ireland final. It’s a thought so brutal it doesn’t even bear thinking about it. So for now, embrace it. Live every second of it. Tell anyone who’ll listen that we’re going to do it. That this is the year. Because why not now at this stage. The “hype train” is going to leave the station, with or without you.

Up the Rebels