On the morning of a county final there is a hush of expectation and a palpable sense of nervousness in a parish or small town that has the privilege of being involved, muses An Fear Rua...

As you go about your lawful occasions on the morning of the game you're in two minds about what you should say to any of the panel if you bump into them. You want, of course, to say the right thing. An incisive comment that shows 'you know a thing or two about the game' or - although advancing in years – that you haven't 'lost touch' and that gains you a knowing nod or two. Ideally, it might be something the player involved might even quote to his colleagues in the final moments in the dressing room as they prepare to burst out into the wan sunshine and the crescendo of noise.

You could meet a player on the way to or from Mass. You might bump into one or two in the village shop opposite the church. But, it's like meeting someone for the first time since they were recently been bereaved. It's too late to say 'sorry' but too soon not to. Say the wrong thing, though, and you could become 'the worst in the world'.

On a bronzed Autumn morning such as this, nature takes on an intensity that is not there on other more ordinary days. Is the grass greener, are the fallen chestnuts more polished, is the breeze niftier or is that just a trick of the imagination? Your senses are more alive. Eyes anxiously scan the sky and the clouds for signs of impending rain. If it rains, what will the surface be like in the county ground? Will softer 'going' favour our opponents more than our lads and will an excessively slippery ball rule out good passages of football?

Even the kids start to feel a bit tense. So, they get their bikes out, leave the house and we set off on a five mile round trip to the nearest big cross roads – the epicentre of our footballing hopes. The cross roads is bedecked with flags and bunting in the parish colours. Further up to the right, there is a straggle of cottages, each of them with a flag displayed at the gate post. Opposite them, the kids in the national school have festooned the windows with home made bunting and colours.

We are not the only ones with the idea of getting out for a breath of fresh air and soon, the dilemma of what to say to one of the panel is solved for us, not once, but three times over! One of our neighbours, the acknowledged star of the team, has borrowed the family car to drive around for a while with his young sister, who is in class with our two, to take his mind off things. They pull in, and we chat for a while and gently rib the little girl about wearing the parish jersey.

Soon, another car pulls up on the opposite side of the road. In it, the star’s younger brother and one of the full back line. Again, they are driving around and visiting a friend to help keep their minds off the game. We chat for a little while, wish them luck and, as they drive away, I have a clear sense of three young men who are confident of their destiny, but not brashly so.

The match is scheduled to start at four o'clock. But even as we near our house at half past two, one of the parents from the kids' school pulls up and asks are we heading to the county town. Her two daughters are in the back of the four-wheel drive in varying shades of the parish colours and she is already on her way to the game - an hour and a half before the throw-in.

We hurry the short distance to the house, drop Plan A (leave the house at three) and implement Plan B (leave the house immediately). We’re not a moment too soon. On the way into the town, we listen to the sports programme on the local radio station and hop over now and again to Raidio na Gaeltachta. On the Fair Green, the parking spaces are filling up rapidly and we snaffle one of the last ones.

The county ground is a good venue. Plenty of sand has been used in making the playing surface and so it drains well. There is a good view from the terraces and by the time we arrive in, the stand is almost full. We take our seats among a group of decent people from our opponents. On the way, the vans, satellite dishes and 'cherry pickers' of TG4 are on view, since the game is being broadcast live that afternoon. Nor far from us, a man (not in the first flush of youth) has made some kind of a straw boater to wear, with our opponents’ colours around the crown. He is being gently ribbed by his neighbours that he has done this for the benefit of the TG4 cameras.

Down below us, friends and extended family wait expectantly for the team to appear. All around us, we spot neighbours either arriving or already seated. The brass band provides excellent music and leads the parade of the two teams. The National Anthem over, and in the afternoon's only heavy downpour, the referees throws in the ball and the match is on.

At the final whistle, our lads have bridged a forty eight long gap and have taken their first county title since the club was founded. There is a great surge of people onto the field. Where last year there were tears and hugs of commiseration, this time there were firm handshakes, claps on the back and cheers for all the sets of brothers on our team. Our captain makes a wonderful speech and the hard won cup looks a fine trophy to grace any club sideboard. Our young neighbour, whom we had met earlier that morning, deservedly takes the elegant trophy for 'Man of the Match'. A tugging at my left arm made me look around and there was our next door neighbour, Tommy, sporting a straw hat and beaming from ear to ear, proud as anything of his son who has played his part in the victory.

At around eight o'clock in the evening, the team finally make their way into the village on the back of a 'lurry' and in to the huge car park that stretches out before the well-appointed and welcoming club house. After 'All Ireland-style' speeches from each and everyone of them, and deservedly so, they adjourn inside for a meal and a great night.
The following day will bring the parading of the cup to the two local schools - a wise investment this for the future. Many a young boy has been inspired to try for county glory by such a visit.

On the Monday night, around nine o'clock, a bus will pull up outside the club house and, at a nod, players and supporters from our defeated opponents will alight and literally sing their way into the club house. An eye-witness declares that the choreography was as good as Riverdance. A good humoured night is had by all.

That post-match visit is the measure of our opponents. Like us, they too are small parish, probably containing not much more than a hundred or so households. For them even to reach the county final is a major achievement. On the playing field, on the stand and terraces and afterwards, and in our club house they are the epitome of sportsmanship and good humour.

Already there is some talk around the place of us taking on Leinster, but most of us in the village are still content to just savour the making of these memories. A first ever championship title. These past few weeks, similar experiences are being repeated all over the thirty-two counties of Ireland. It is a magic feeling: a singular boost to morale, good for business and lays down a store of memories and stories to draw upon in future years. A new band of heroes has arrived.

An Fear Rua hopes it may not be too long until your club or parish gets a chance to experience this at first hand...