Food for Thought

Kenmare, Ireland. A Saturday in early June.

On holiday, alongside my wife and two sons, I enjoy an evening stroll. Suddenly, without warning, comes an explosion of noise from across the street. The din emanating from Foley’s, a local pub.

Intrigued, we venture closer, peek our heads in. Rapt faces stare up at the various television screens. Voices, mixing together, encourage, shout advice, lay blame, scream invective, castigate the officials.

Spying a small corner table, we hurry to the available seats. Cramming in together, we order packets of crisps and pints of Guinness. Now fully part of the assembled throng.

Little do I know that a real sporting lesson awaits. On display a game of ancient Gaelic origin. Called hurling.

Our server, a chatty bundle of energy, quickly frames up the contest. A much-anticipated playoff encounter between Cork, decked out in red, and Limerick, clad in green. At stake are bragging rights for the province of Munster. The pub crowd seemingly split 50-50 in terms of allegiance.

Apparently, the sport dates back to the 12th century. It is certainly no place for the faint of heart.

Indeed, the contact is spellbinding and ferocious. The raw physicality never dips. Powerful athletes, with only flimsy, mismatched helmets and skimpy, wire masks for protection, collide like monster trucks in some type of large-scale demolition derby.

On the other hand, in one of the fastest team sports on earth, there are umpteen examples of outrageous speed, skill and dexterity. Attackers twist and pirouette like ballet dancers. Using an ash wood stick, two to three feet in length and called a “hurley,” they move the ball, a “sliotar,” towards or at the opposition goal. A solid strike will propel the ball over 90 miles per hour and the length of the field. Yet, to assist in short-range passing, to help keep possession, at times the ball might be caught, kicked, or slapped with an open hand.

The actual playing surface is something of a hybrid, about the size of a rugby field. At each end stands a soccer goal, complete with netting and framed by goalposts. A ball whacked over the crossbar and between the posts results in one “point.” A ball hit under the crossbar, and into the soccer goal, is much more rare. Considered a “goal”, it is worth three points.

I seek to comprehend the many other rules and regulations. Must consider a multitude of unfamiliar terms, including wides, puckouts, frees, sideline cuts. Try and process a variety of defensive maneuvers, from chops, blocks, hooks, side pulls, and shoulder barges.

Indeed, the game has a bit of everything, as befitting a titanic sporting clash.

Cork, having been pummelled two weeks earlier by the same opponents in a regular season game, takes initial advantage of a strong wind. Four points to the good after the opening 35 minutes. A decided underdog rising to the occasion in a battling display. Full of heart, sizzle, and aggression.

Perhaps not surprisingly, tensions boil over during the half time break. The rival managers swarm the match officials, both incensed with a number of controversial decisions. The head referee later suffers cramp and is replaced.

The game continues apace, the drama unrelenting. Limerick closes the gap, tails up, momentum in its favour. Still, Cork shows plenty of character, hanging tough under extreme pressure.

Along with the 44,000 fans actually in attendance at the TUS Gaelic Grounds, we watch both sides miss glorious, grade A scoring opportunities in the final, frantic moments. The score remains level at 33. Then is still tied at the end of sudden death overtime.

And so, it is on to penalties. As so often the case, to decide a magnificent contest that neither team deserves to lose.

Five shooters for each side. From 20 meters out, each player to flip up the ball, then step forward and smash it at frightening speed towards the goal. The goalkeeper, armed only with a helmet, his own oversized hurley, and mountains of courage, faces long odds to make even a single save.

Yet, one is all it takes. Diving to his right, the Cork keeper somehow blocks then smothers the sliotar. Other misses hurtle fractionally outside the goalposts. A tense and gripping evening of sport comes to a thrilling conclusion as Cork prevails 3-2 in the shootout.

The pub slowly empties. Back on the street, I reflect on what has been an exhilarating, thoroughly enjoyable evening. I may be a neophyte in understanding all of hurling’s many nuances, but the myriad reasons millions of fans and I love competitive sport shine, nonetheless.

Certainly, in an epic encounter, the players battle through extreme exhaustion. In addition to outlandish skill and laudable bravery, there is defiance, ferocity, and fight in equal measure. Then, to an electric, supercharged atmosphere, add a healthy dose of resilience, resistance, luck, and genuine excitement.

The server sums it up best. Pointing out that hurling is the preferred pastime of countless Irish people, she goes even further. Gushing, she suggests hurling to be "the best sport ever invented. And that had the Irish colonized the world, nobody would ever have heard of football (soccer).”

Food for thought.