Sunday, 5.32pm CHAOS. FRENZY.
Sufferance. The All-Ireland final was tilting towards the edge, towards uncertainty and precariousness, but everyone was ready to do whatever was required to push our team, county and Clare people all over the world closer to a state of nirvana. I was gone off the pitch since the 66th minute of normal time but the pace and intensity was so frenetic and ferocious that bodies were creaking and cracking all over the place in extra-time.
Next man up, whatever the cause required. Tommy Corbett asked me if I was needed to come back in for the second half of extra-time, was I able? ‘Yeah, no problem,’ I replied. I jogged down to the corner-flag and was hardly able to walk.
I had to be honest with Tommy when I came back up the line. I had nothing left in my legs. Gone.
There was no panic. Despite the pace Cork had on the pitch by that stage, we knew we had the legs on them. We said in the dressing room at full time that we’d outlast and outfight them across that last critical line of the battleground.
I knew we’d be the last team standing, the side to hoist our flag highest on the battlefield when the last shots were fired. And yet, that last shot was like something in slow motion, like I was watching it all unfold underwater, suspended in silence as Robbie O’Flynn grabbed the sliotar and turned to shoot. No.
Please no. Shot. Wide.
Final whistle. Chaos. Ecstasy.
Nirvana. Wednesday, July 17 When my partner Aoife and I moved back home from Austra.