Mark Sidebottom (BBC) visited Pairc Muire on Thursday night and got a taste of the Senior Team's preparations ahead of the All Ireland Semi Final...
It's the kind of night that's so wild, when you spit the saliva is whisked off in the wind before it hits the ground.
OUT there in the January gloaming Lurigethan stands sentinel. The hulking table topped mountain is immune to the gathering squall which shrieks in off the North Channel. The coastal village of Cushendall isn’t.
In Páirc Muire, storm "Gertrude" has made a huddle of the hurlers. A human knot woven so tightly, that like the sticks in their hands, they too might have been hewn from some giant swathe of ash. They are steeling themselves against the night and stealing what warmth they can from one another. This is hurling country. As an accident of geography the cruel elements have also come out to compete. No matter. There's a game to be played. A game to be won.
John "Smokey" McKillop surveys his squad like a North Antrim hill farmer might his sheep. Sarsfields of Galway await in Navan on the first Saturday of February. "Smokey" doesn't say much, but when pushed ventures, "The only soft thing that ever came out of the West was rain…but hurling is hurling, in these parts, it’s as aul as the hills and in many a man's opinion more important.”
One such man is Leonard McKeegan. Still lithe and willowy, a veteran of Antrim's run all the way to the All-Ireland final in 1989, Leonard has long since removed himself from the thicket of players. A call from "Smokey" prompted the lone wolf to return to the pack, as a mentor. Leonard views a ‘pressman’ like he might a policeman; with suspicion. Leonard doesn’t say much. "This storm will blow itself out but our boys won't. They have it in the lungs and the have it in the legs. They're an unbelievable bunch.” The words drop off: the rain persists.
To watch Terence ‘Sambo’ McNaughton hurl for club and county was a visceral experience. An All Star from another generation, he was a force of nature. The Mongols had Ghengis Khan: the Saffrons had Sambo. Tonight, like ‘Gertrude’, he is whipping up a storm; roaring, cajoling, driving players on, pushing them at a frenzied pace. ‘Sambo’ has plenty to say…"History boys, history. No one from this club has ever played in an All-Ireland Club Final, no one…you boys can make history, but sport won’t guarantee you a second chance...."
Surgery and medical science have given Shane McNaughton a second chance. Still a few years shy of thirty his career has been blighted by serious injury. Shane is what students of the game might call a ‘stickman’: wristy, lightning sharp and on his day unerringly accurate. Hurling is in the genes. Shane is Sambo’s son (his younger brother Christy scored one of the finest goals I’ve ever seen in the Ulster Club Final against Slaughtneil). During a recent lengthy rehabilitation he decided to try acting. It came naturally. He has since strutted his stuff at Belfast's Mac Theatre and will soon appear in a production at the Lyric. He will make his TV debut shortly in the next series of the popular BBC drama the ‘FALL’.
"It’s only a small part but Jamie Dornan, Gillian Anderson – it’s all a little surreal," he muses.
"So then hurling or Hollywood?” I ask.
"I’m not sure how long the body will let me go on, but right now it’s hurling...I love it.”
A pillow of cloud is massing over Cushendall bay: the night is bruising the day; the trees are forty shades of green and the sky fifty shades of grey.
Neil Mc Manus and Arron Graffin are two of the last men to leave the field: one a captain, both leaders. Graffin, plagued by a knee injury, recently came through a good work out against Cork. He would go through a wall for Cushendall and his "big mate" would be right behind him. Neil McManus' first senior outing for the Ruairí Ógs came before his first shave. This evening he is wearing such an abundant beard he could comfortably double as Leonardo Di Caprio in the Revenant. Both men will shortly take six months away from the game to travel the world but for now it’s the short trip the changing rooms.
IN the club house kitchen the Kearney boys are sweating more profusely than any of the players. Brian, the Chairman, has rocked up with a bumper basket of bread rolls and a steel pot as big as a fishing trawler’s belly. Niall, his cousin, is stirrer in chief.
"Steamed Dover sole tonight?" quips one of the squad...
"Chicken and pasta," says Niall (who wields a wooden-spoon so impressive, it could double as a goalkeepers stick).
"It was chicken last night," came a faux grumble.
"And it will be tomorrow." mocks the chef.
Elliott, the BBC cameraman and I are invited to dinner. The servings are generous as are the people of Cushendall.
The Ruairí Ógs are just one win away from hurling’s top table! Here’s hoping we all get to pull up a seat one last time.