Everything out there you see
is a version of reality
As heroes triumph over doubt
And bring their kind of truth about.

Each, according to his way,
Engages on the field of play,
And, urging on, the faithful crowd
Are cheering, praising, cursing loud
For beauty only will suffice,
Beauty to infuse our lives:
No cup, no trophy will redeem
Victory by ignoble means.

And, so, we take the field today
To find ourselves in how we play,
Out there on the field to be
Ourselves, a team, where all can see,
For nothing is but revealed
And tested on the football field.

He was a county minor,
Played midfield but was slow,
Won an All Ireland Medal
But was smart enough to know

He’d not make it playing Gaelic
So he switched to rugby and
Became an international hero
Playing for Ireland.

Playing Gaelic football’s
Not too lucrative,
The rugby network
Had more to give,
Now instead of commercial travelling
He’s an executive.

At the famous playwright’s funeral
The papers all were there
Noting the famous faces;
They noted this great player,

And in the queue I overheard
An old GAA man say
“If he was a small bit faster,
He’d be a poor man today”.

The trophy all aspire to
But that’s not why he played:
If he played with another county
He’d feel he had betrayed

Himself, his art, his people,
So he plays out his career
Away from the glare of headlines.
And yet sometimes you’ll hear

From followers of football
The mention of his name.
It’s enough that they believe in him,
His way, his truth, his game.

Now grace eludes its maker
Creating its own space
While grim defenders
Flounder in its wake;
And the ball you won from conflict
Yields to your embrace -
Goal beckons like a promise…
And you take.

It’s not about the winning
And it’s not about the loss,
It’s about what life throws at us,
How you face into your cross.

Matt Connor, we remember you,
The man you dared to be,
The one who with a football
Broke through to poetry;

And when, young body broken
And you could play no more,
‘Twas life then, Matt, not football
That called on you to soar

For many men are broken
But few men have the grace
To rise out of their brokenness
And bless the cross they face.

And rise you did, Matt Connor -
The cup that wouldn’t pass,
You accepted it and raised it up,
A hero, for the mass.

How soon great deeds are abstract...

Hence the songs -
The mighty deeds the tribe sings in the bar:
Gaisce diminished by the video.

Men I never knew still star
In North Kerry Finals,
Their deeds not history but myth
Alive upn a singer's breath;

Again local men are martyred
In a lonely glen;

Now love is lost,
A Rose is won-

Things insufficent till they're sung...

So sang young John Bradley
As he dashed from the TV
His head full of hurling,
Great deeds and bravery

On that Sunday in September,
All Ireland Hurling Day,
The All Ireland Final over;
He dashed outside to play

With a hurling stick and rubber ball,
He hurled on his own-
He'd He'd no brothers or no sisters
And so he played alone

Whack! against the gable
Then run and leap and catch
Re-playing the All Ireland,
Making it his match.

And then, his mind-game over,
He ran home to Dad
And they talked of hurling heroes
And the mighty games they played.

Dad told him of the exploits
Of Big Mick Hennessy
Who played football for Knockauling
And hurling for Ballylee;

And how once upon a championship
He was called to play
In the local football Final,
And on that selfsame day

When the football match was over
He played for Ballylee
In the County Hurling Final
In the great park of Tralee.

In the centre for Knockauling,
he scored five points that day
and when the match was over
he left the field to play,

No time to celebrate and lift
The cup to victory-
He dashed out to the hackney car
That would take him to Tralee
And changed Knockauling's colours
For the green of Ballylee.

Just in time for the second half,
His team a goal behind,
Big Mick Hennessy took the field
And hurled into the wind;

And when the game was over
He'd scored three goals to win
And thousands knew they'd never see
The likes of him again.

The time is some weeks later,
The place - the park, Tralee,
The County Hurling Final,
Tullybeg and Ballylee.

John Bradley and his Daddy
Have travelled here this day,
A treat for young John's birthday-
Eleven years today.

The game is fast and factious,
And at half time they see
The men of forty years ago,
Knockane and Ballylee,

As thirty men in suits walk out,
The hurlers of that day
When Big Mick Hennessy showed to all
How the great can play;

And as his name is called out
Each man waves to the crowd
And at the name "Mick Hennessy"
The cheers are long and loud.

But young John Bradley's puzzled-
The man he sees out there
is not as he imagined:
With glasses, thinning hair,

To young John he looks no different
To the other men
Standing out there on the field.
He realizes then

That Mick Hennessy's a story -
One that will be told
When Big Mick is dead and gone
And young John Bradley's old.

For a giant lives in story
Among his people who
Believe in deeds of greatness
And honour all that's true.

Yes, Mick Hennessy's our story,
A giant with a ball
Who once upon a championship
Won glory for us all.