Getting on with it

There’s a classic scene from The Simpsons where Frank Grimes visits Homer’s house. Grimes, diligent and capable, has spent his entire life grinding away without reward. Homer, meanwhile, lurches from disaster to disaster, yet somehow ends up with everything Grimes thinks he’s earned: the good job, the nice house, the loving family. The moment Grimes finally snaps comes when he notices a photograph of Homer in outer space. “You…went to space? You?” Gallingly, it was hard not to think of that line watching Tipperary over the past few weeks. Because with each unremarkable performance, with every glimpse of their limitations, the disbelief has only grown stronger. You…won the All-Ireland? You?

And do you know what? Fair play to them. You’d nearly have to admire the way they go about it. Donal Óg was on the ball weeks ago when he said that no county rises and falls faster than Tipperary. The trick, of course, is that when Tipp rise, they tend to leave with silverware to soften the impact on the inevitable descent. Last year’s All-Ireland should not be framed as some era-defining triumph by an all-conquering side. It was something far more opportunistic, and you’d imagine far sweeter for that very reason. Tipp arrived without the burden of expectation, slipped quietly beneath the radar, and caught the raging favourite cold. What a way to do it. And there we were, playing the fool, winning Munster and knocking six past Dublin.

Back in the heyday of Irish soccer punditry, Giles and Dunphy were always fastidious in the labelling of ‘good’ players and ‘great’ players. Michel Platini, famously, belonged to the former category. The Frenchman could still point to his medals though. As can any of those Tipperary players. “They’re a good side Bill, not a great side”, you’d imagine would be Giles’ evaluation if such a fantastical instance allowed. He might have said the same about Clare the year before, another side that, in the absence of a truly dominant team, found a way to take the crown. And that, ultimately, is all that ever matters. Nobody’s looking for some great legacy here. Nobody is asking for an All-Ireland to be dressed up as the mastery of a generational team that will echo through the decades. All we want is to get the job done and to get on with our lives.

Tipp have now failed to emerge from the province four times in seven iterations of the Munster round robin. Yet in two of the other three seasons, they ended the year as All-Ireland champions. Cork, meanwhile, have survived the Munster bearpit six times and have precious little else to show for it besides some significant emotional scarring. So, would we swap places? Would we trade those stirring summers, the great days out and all the exhilarating hurling, for a couple of limp early exits if it also came packaged with one All-Ireland triumph? Probably. And if there’s one thing we can learn from Tipperary’s exploits last year (or even 2019 for that matter), it’s that the most important thing is just to stay around long enough to see what might happen. A favourite might fall, momentum might shift and you might catch fire at exactly the right moment.

For a team that has contested the last two All-Ireland finals, has already banked six points, and still holds the title of provincial champions, it may seem faintly absurd to retreat into survival mode this early in the summer. And yet circumstances have a way of lowering horizons. With a full back, a centre back and a captain all now sidelined, perhaps a little doom-mongering can be forgiven. Cruciates and Achilles are one thing, but appendicitis? Give us a break. A tilt at the All-Ireland being scuppered because of a feckin appendix, the great vestigial hanger-on of anatomical function is akin to a team’s season being disrupted due to a scandal involving some peripheral member of the backroom team. This nebulous entity with no definitive role, contributing little of obvious value, until suddenly the whole thing blows up and the entire operation is derailed.

“Four to six weeks,” says Ben. We should probably count ourselves fortunate that the championship is forgiving enough that we could still lose a couple of games in that time frame and remain standing. Defeat to Clare by four points or more, or to Limerick should they dispatch our old friends Tipp, would likely leave us facing one of Leinster’s representatives in a quarter-final. And judging by the fairly underwhelming fare served up on that side of the draw so far, it is hardly the sort of deterrent a healthy championship should be threatening at this stage. That said, there are still enough bad memories lingering from four years ago, where we pitched up to Thurles at some ungodly hour of a Saturday to discourage any great complacency. As far as memory serves, there was scarcely enough time to get the requisite pints on board that might have dulled the blow of Patrick Collins throwing one in after only thirty seconds that afternoon.

Whatever about permutations and fallback routes, the sensible ambition remains the same; win every game and avoid the mental arithmetic altogether. But failing that, the priority over the next few weeks may simply be to keep bodies intact, and pray that no fresh disaster arrives, be that a muscle tear, a tonsilitis or, spare me, one of our young gossuns deciding to have a late cut off Love Island. We’ll welcome Clare down to our own Casa Amor on Sunday and there should be no shortage of motivation. Five games without a win against them is a grim enough sequence on its own, and ending that run should be reason enough to empty the tank. By Sunday evening, we’ll have a much clearer sense of the road ahead. Another Munster final meeting with Limerick may well await, a scenario which would remove the possibility of running into them again in a potential All-Ireland semi-final, when things really begin to matter.

“Sure! You’ve never been,” came Homer’s immortal reply, delivered with complete sincerity when the subject of his moon visit was broached. Knocking around Munster these days, you can almost understand old Grimeys’ simmering resentment, that sense that the world is unfair, that everyone else is breezing through life, fulfilling their potential. It was that frustration that eventually drove Frank Grimes over the edge and into a premature grave. Cork, to their credit, have refused to follow the same path. Despite the injuries, the setbacks and the constant reminders of their own past failings, there’s been no implosion. They’ve simply got on with it, kept going, kept getting results. In a season that always threatened to become an examination of their mental resolve as much as their hurling, that resilience may prove to be worth an awful lot yet.

Up the Rebels