FROM THE ARCHIVE: Cavan minors win Ulster, July 2011

Paul Fitzpatrick was in Clones in July, 2011 for the Cavan minors' first Ulster MFC final win in 37 long years.

A DAY of days in St Tiernach's Park. A magical afternoon that lifted the soul and made us proud.
What's seldom is wonderful; what's unexpected is even better.
There was no grandiose talk about the Cavan minor class of 2011, but they proved to be the best of the lot. Maybe that was a reason why.
The Under 21s' momentous run to the All Ireland final had taken the sting out of this one. We were all hyped out, and, if we're honest, we feared a little for these boys.
The signs weren't good. A look at the roll of honour in the match programme revealed that in Cavan's previous two Ulster final appearances, in 1988 and 1985, they were beaten by 10 and 11 points respectively. Sixty years ago this summer, Cavan lost to the same team by 3-1 to 1-5 in the same fixture. And, lest we forget, they were Armagh, a county about whom a modern day mythology has sprung up. Armagh, with their skin tight jerseys and funny little signs and psychology and diet of fruit and steak. They say they have muscles on their muscles up there...
Then again, we were Cavan. Our Under 21s showed what can be done. The corpse began to twitch when they reached the Ulster final last year. Then, they took their second chance by toppling Tyrone in March.
Now, on the third day, could we rise again?
Questions, questions. Heads spinning thus, to St Tiernach's Park we ventured, along with a couple of thousand Cavan folk. All the familiar faces filtered in, the broad Breffni accents mingling with Donegal and Derry and Armagh, as if, as we wrote before, someone was turning the dial on the radio.
Ulster Council President Aogan Farrell and his wife took their seats in front of us. Tá an t-ádh le hAogán; he has brought us luck, maybe, and handed over two cups to Cavanmen, this season.
His clubmate Patrick Moynagh was there, too. His journey started not in rainy Maudabawn or Drumgoon but in the sand and searing heat of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. He would, he said, have walked the 5,000 miles to see his son Conor cover every inch of Clones. We missed him in the raucous aftermath, but his trek was worthwhile. Maith thú, a Phadraig.
They say in boxing that a good big 'un always beats a good little 'un. They're right - usually. Cavan were big, but by God, Armagh were monsters. They emerged first and took the field with Paul Brady's The Island ringing over the tannoy. Mighty cedars of boys.
But the days when Cavan wilted at the sight of blood-red or bright orange are nearing their end. We glanced around the stand. Jim McDonnell, Frankie Kennedy and Brendan Murtagh, football men with more medals than most of the stadium combined, were here. Maybe the wheel would come full circle. The thought struck us then as we watched them chat: how great would it be if Cavan could somehow, some way win this one?
Fifteen minutes into the match, we were still dreaming. Cavan were swarming on breaks like wasps on a jam jar. Conor Finnegan pointed, so did Joe Dillon. Andy Graham, Gerry Smith and Graham again followed up. A rout? Now this we were not expecting.
We were wise not to. With the help of a couple of dubious calls, Armagh sprung into life. Having spluttered and backfired, their engine was now purring and they rattled off a few white flags and then added a green one to go in four up. The pale faces of the Cavan boys as they trudged off told a tale. This wasn't good.
We thought we heard sirens wailing. Wait, they were sirens – it was the Donegal team bus, the top of which could be seen bobbing along above the wall (through the curled barbed wire, there to keep “patrons” in at some matches, perhaps) at the town end.
There was no such commotion on the sideline as the Cavan players were shepherded in. Safe in the dressing room, a poster on the wall saying “I AM READY”, Dermot, Gary and Michael calmly talked things over. McCabe told us ten days ago that he'd try to advise his boys about what might happen, “so that there'd be no surprises”. No cause for alarm.
He could've told Armagh.
Another adage beloved of boxing sages, and bluffers such as your correspondent, tells us that “you can't grow muscles on your chin”. The Orchard lads tried, but failed, and they walked blindly into a classic blue and white haymaker in the second half.
The third quarter was attritional but Cavan reveled in the trenches and finally began to win the little skirmishes around the pitch and make ground. The defensive line held firm under shelling. Conor Smith was razor sharp in the corner, and clubmates Killian Clarke and Brian Sankey controlled the skies. In front of them, Moynagh, Smith and the tireless Ciaran Brady soaked it up.
Finally, Cavan broke the deadlock through Michael Argue. Within seconds, Dara McVeety added another and the swashbuckling Nevin O'Donnell tacked on a free.
The jinking Graham struck next, with six minutes on the clock, and it was level. We dared to look up for a second. Armagh still hadn't scored. We took a breath – back to the action.
The next point was crucial. We got it through Graham. Then the swaggering O'Donnell curled one in. Please God, no goals.
Blue jerseyed men and women were on their feet everywhere. “No 'effin jaysus goals!” screamed one man.
He needn't have worried. This team is imbued with a rare spirit and an assassin's temperament. Armagh were wounded; up stepped Finnegan, whose presence alone caused panic in the rearguard, to punch over and put them out of their misery.
We knew then that we wouldn't lose it.
Then there was the presentation, the war whoops and back-slapping, a water fight in the dressing room and, everywhere, heads shaking in disbelief. Say it slowly - Cavan, the most successful footballing county in Ulster for 2011.
A cameo to sum up the day? How about this one. A blond Armagh lady, so tanned that it was hard to see where her jersey ended and her face began, and her portly husband, took their seats in the stand a quarter of an hour into the minor match, shades perched atop her head, busy as a bee. She shuffled and ruffled but settled into her seat eventually, like a hen on an egg, and finally found a second to glance at the scoreboard to see, presumably, how close her team was to its coronation.
Her face dropped. Hubby received a stern elbow to the love handle as she pointed excitedly.
“That scurrburd's wrong, there's no way Ur-maw are losing four-nawhin!” she exclaimed aloud.
The Cavan supporters around her burst out laughing. You're right, love, said one - it's five-nil!
Changed days, indeed.
 

Postscript:

There was craic with the stewards, too. Weekly update on our ongoing battle? Go on then...
So we hit the barrier at the bottom of the hill, flashed our press pass at the guard like a Fed flashing his badge and were waved through. Bingo!
Could it be, a place in the Promised Land of the car park? We found ourselves trembling at the thrill of it all. Alas, one Travis Bickle in a bib bearing the name of a security company spoiled the party. He blocked the way like a hired goon from a Scorsese movie. No go.
“Press? Round to the left,” we were directed with a dismissive wave.
So round we went, and parted with a fiver for the pleasure of parking at the back of a slatted shed. Dry dung merged with the waft from the burger vans. Lovely.
The guardian of the farm yard relieved us of our euros with a grin that seemed to say “gotcha!”, like a teacher confiscating sweets.
And back we trotted towards the gate.
“Are you on commission or what?” we gibed the Don from ACME Security Limited as we enterted the stadium.
“Huh?”
“Forgeddaboudit.”
You have to laugh.