They're Back!

Quite clearly, they haven't gone away, you know.

The biennial spectacle of Tyrone's footballers in full, voracious flow continues. Whatever it is that they do during those even years when they virtually disappear, they should market it to burned-out executives as the perfect rejuvenation therapy. Maybe they signed some sort of pact with the devil, which, along with having to give the Dark Lord's son a regular game at right corner-back, means their particular brand of footballing devastation can only be deployed every second year.

Whatever, they're back now and that's that. Deal with it.

Mickey Harte's responses to post-match questions used that formula that the Tyrone manager swears by: for howsoever fantastic my team are, I will be proportionally humble. "We have to be very careful here, because we weren't a great team coming into this game so we're no world beaters now," Harte protested, codding no-one.

Now, in the all-time list of abject Donegal performances in the Ulster Championship, yesterday's effort will jostle its way among the many other contenders near the top. All the same, this particular Clones cyclone blew Tír Conaill away to such an extent that the county's supporters' scornful words should have stopped in their throats, to be replaced with acknowledgements of the their opponents' incontestable class.

That Donegal are a team who are operating to some arcane alternative calendar which fooled them into thinking that you must play your best football in February is only a side-issue.

Tyrone's relentless support running, intelligent movement and fierce competition for possession were the matters that should have engaged football's chattering classes in the aftermath of yesterday's game. The performance of Brian Dooher alone will send shudders around the nation.

That they threw in a scatter of horrendous wides is of little consolation to prospective victims, given that one Stephen O'Neill joined in for the final twenty-odd minutes, blowing off the cobwebs with two points.

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Events in Clones and the return of the Red Hand will engage the GAA's great minds and strategists, but Thurles was the place to be for less sober-minded pursuits. The residents of the Tipperary town can't have seen a weekend like it since the days of Féile. Even the Stunning and the Saw Doctors put together couldn't have generated the decibel levels and general high-octane excitement of two games that provided yet another reminder of the unique magic of Munster Championship hurling.

Quite what to expect when Limerick and Tipperary do it all over again on Saturday is impossible to know. On the face of it Limerick have simply trailed Tipp like a particularly enthusiastic puppy: every time Tipp have tried to shoo them away, Limerick have scampered happily back to their heel. Will Tipp finally rid themselves of the troublesome mutt, or will Limerick eventually bite them on the bum?

If that metaphor is too fluffy to fit the slash and gurn of Munster hurling, then happily Cork and Waterford's canine likenesses tend more towards brawling pit-bulls. Waterford got their third win over Cork this year, and will be hoping that the habit remains unbreakable.

But the loss of the suspended Cusack, ó hAilpín and O'Sullivan for such a game would have felt for Cork like one of those anxiety dreams where you go into a job interview with no trousers on. Add in a sense of grievance over the suspensions that the Rebels can place neatly on their shoulders alongside the chips that reside there already, and Waterford's mood this morning will be a cautious sort of elation.

******

Cautious elation is rarely the prevailing mood of Dublin supporters when they are cheering their team home to victory against Meath. But most will be aware that pulling away from a doughty Meath side late on is not quite the push-start for the Dubs summer juggernaut. However, the amount of criticism that Dublin get when things go poorly dictates that, in the interests of fairness, if not human decency, they should get some credit for the win.

They did manage - just about - to avert another backslide from a winning position, which they'll hope represents the end of that particular pesky foible.

And there were a few more of those long-sought answers to longer-extant questions. Ross McConnell has improved exponentially in the full-back role for one thing. Mark Vaughan is a very Dublin type of darling, but he kicked frees satisfactorily, and, more importantly, showed a lot of character in that period where Dublin's familiar fade began to reappear. Importantly, he never provided any other message to his team-mates than "give me the ball", an enthusiasm which eventually lit the touchpaper for the Dubs win.

An Offaly team at leisure while Dublin have been at war await on Sunday, so caution is justified - not that it will last that long, mind you.

Definitely Not 'Grand Slam Weekend' Ok?

One of the most familiar complaints of we compliant, huddled masses as we are force-fed our Premiership staple is not so much the content, but rather the packaging. Does the world's most exciting league need to be wrapped in so many sparkly labels telling us so? This weekend's instalment of the GAA Championships provides an interesting case study in the value of the organic, wholefood approach to sports marketing.

Essentially, had the sharp-suited gents in the Sky Sports marketing department got hold of the Championship weekend ahead, there would not be an event short of the Second Coming itself (no, not Price Naseem's return to the ring, the actual one) subject to so much drooling anticipation.

As it is, the mouthwatering program on Saturday and Sunday stands by itself and, soberly noted in the GAA fixture list and the RTE television schedules, looks none the less exciting for not being called 'Weekend of the Titans' or somesuch.

Hell, the GAA even languidly muttered "bovvered?" at the prospect of the Dublin v Meath replay not being on the telly, until the unsatisfactory fudge was reached of having it run against the just as eagerly anticipated Cork v Waterford battle on either side of RTE's channel portfolio. It's an unfortunate circumstance, as one imagines the neutral public will veer towards the low-brow entertainment at Croke Park rather than the high art on display in Thurles (and with my purist kudos now secured, I will secretly don my Beer Helmet and join them).

The weekend's main features divide into two distinct categories: on one hand, both codes see proven recent champions (Cork, Tyrone) take on hungry and in-form contenders (Waterford, Donegal); on the other, two stonking drawn games throw up replays between teams whose bitter local rivalries guarantees zest, but whose ultimate All-Ireland credentials are questionable at best (Limerick v Tipperary, Dublin v Meath).

There's no harm in expending a little hot air at this time of the year on the timeless battle of Leinster's big two, there being space in the early Championship rounds for a bit of hype. The press have passed the time between the drawn game and the announcement of the teams with the traditional tireless deployment of the word "bonanza" in relation to the ringing of the GAA's tills ahead of Sunday's replay. I saw the word so many times I thought Lorne Greene and Michael Landon had been called in to shore up Dublin's troublesome full-back line.

Meath won a lot of friends in that first game, which is an unusual thing to say about teams from that county. Their brand of old-fashioned, give-it-long football was so refreshingly retro that I half expected The Sunday Game to be followed by an episode of Murphy's Micro Quizm. They have firepower as well, which will be augmented by the return of their NFL top scorer Brian Farrell. If they eliminate their poor starts to each half they could spell the demise of another sad, sullen Dublin team.

Cork and Waterford's duels in recent years have been some of the most transfixing in GAA, from the 2003 Munster final, through the classic 2004 version to the damp but thrilling denouement to last year's All-Ireland semi. There has been little between them in that time, and as much epic heroism as any Norse saga. The momentum is with Waterford and a look of steel that won them the league final tips the edge in their direction.

Conversely with Limerick and Tipperary, although the Shannonsiders finished in bravura fashion last weekend, Tipp retain a smidgeon of extra class, evident in the fact that their scores seemed easier crafted than Limerick's, whose effort expended in getting the draw could leave them flat tomorrow evening.

Finally (apologies to Sligo, Roscommon, Louth and Wexford, but you know how it is, pressures of space etc.) to the second test of Donegal's credentials, Tyrone. Armagh were negotiated in a manner about as unconvincing as a performance could be and still be a victory.

Which, for Donegal, could turn out to be a very good thing. Had they breezed past the Orchard county in rip-roaring style, they would have already been subconsciously booking Dublin hotel rooms for September. Now, with a very grave reminder of their own fallibility fresh in their minds, they can apply themselves studiously to a weary-looking Tyrone, a team that, for all their greater achievements, do not petrify Donegal like Armagh do.

And there you have it: a weekend heaving with the promise of pulsating drama, and not a hairy-handed host nor a gravelly-voiced Scotsman in sight.

TSA Report: Stadium of Light

So you organise a few tickets for some friends for the Dublin v Tyrone match. You figure the occasion of the turning on the Croke Park floodlights to be one worthy of a bit of a night, maybe a few pints to end the January season of temperate introspection.

Also, like quite a few of the almost 82,000 teeming into Dublin 3, several of your party are not regulars around these parts. Not that they're Pale-embedded-what's that, bogball?-Gaelbashers or anything. No, just members of that part of the population who have never shuffled hurriedly down Clonliffe Road on a summer Sunday; who were as likely to line out on a hurling or Gaelic football field as they were to head down to their local dojo for a spot of sumo.

In other words, the people who have been drawn in by the GAA's great glasnost of recent years. The people hitherto without a context for the organisation, except maybe a second-hand scepticism about cultural oppression and being in cahoots with Fianna Fáil and the Church and that lot, but who instead are curious now.

Invited in by the majestic buttresses of the new Croke Park. Drawn to investigate the commotion of an incendiary Championship afternoon. Charmed by the technicolour passions of the supporting factions. Hooked by the association's smart marketing and blue riband sponsors. These people might never have gone to Croke Park in any other generation. But they were coming to this game.

Or at least they said they were. But 7pm came and went on Saturday evening and you're standing on Dorset Street, in the cold as even the beeriest Dubs (the ones who'd started their supping with the Merseyside derby at 12.45 and seen the day through) have made their way into the ground, and you're waiting for some taxis to grind through the traffic with their cargo of interlopers. Grrrr.

Still, even glasnost had its teething problems.

Despite missing the Great Ceremony of the Flicking of the Switch and the Saw Doctors and the frickin' Dublin Gospel Choir and the bloody Artane Boys' Band and - goddamnit - the points that went to make the score Dublin 0-5 Tyrone 0-1, there was amply sufficient time on arrival to pause in wonder and awe (Awwwww!) and the sight of the place.

It was like seeing the fresh-faced girl from school on her debs night, transplendent in radiant evening wear.

The mind started to wander. Will this ever happen again? Or are most of these people day trippers like my tardy friends? Or seekers of a novelty Saturday evening diversion? Or moth/human mutant crossbreeds involuntarily attracted to bright lights?

But I mean, isn't it fantastic? This fantasmagorical stadium, fuller in its glory than it had ever been, the pitch framed like a stage in a glamourous wash of light.

But the only time that a crowd like this might gather again - once the novelty of oooh-sooo-bright! is gone - in this uniquely atmospheric setting would be for the Championship. Which happens in summer. When the evenings are long and lazy and full of promise but do not lend themselves to the use of floodlights.

Shame. Still, maybe down the line when inter-county GAA's exponential development has turned its Championship into a longer-spanning affair, we might see these nights regularly. For now the next time the arena will dazzle like this will be two weeks on Saturday, when England attempt to deflower the rugby-virginal Jones' Road venue.

There was a game to enjoy as well, Tyrone eventually showing their class against a Dublin team who have become specialists in letting winning positions slip. The quality of the match just about befitted the occasion. Dublin played confidently and with Championship intensity in the first half, while Tyrone were as limp and unimpressive as the first half streaker's chilled appendage.

The roles were reversed in the second period, the northerners overturning Darren Magee and Declan O'Mahony's midfield dominance and bringing on the influential Kieran Hughes to match-turning effect. Hughes dovetailed with Owen Mulligan and Sean Cavanagh to master the half-forward line and Dublin shrank in that familiar way.

So before the new tenants move in the householders got to throw a fabulous party for all their friends, and a few new ones. Like my dawdling pals, or the kids from 18 different nations who played a Cumann na mBunscoil game at half time, which quickly turned into the first soccer match played in Croke Park. I couldn't quite hear the múinteoir shout "pick it up, boy, pick it up", but I could picture it.

Thin end of the wedge, I'm telling ya.