Slagging sessions are over as Tyrone bring Sam back at last

Only the exodus south for the Papal visit of 1979 was on a bigger scale than this, but those pilgrims didn't return in this sort…

Only the exodus south for the Papal visit of 1979 was on a bigger scale than this, but those pilgrims didn't return in this sort of style.

The thousands that had made it to Dublin from Tyrone seemed to converge on home territory at once as if pre- arranged. Only the scale of the welcome lived up to its billing - everything else had been confounded.

The match may not have been pretty, but it was far from the foul-peppered war of attrition some had predicted. The rival fans, many of them inter-related or living now on the wrong side of the River Blackwater, did not live up (or down) to the Northern stereotype and run riot on the streets of Dublin.

Instead there was much hand- shaking and back-slapping and more than a little stiff-upper-lip magnanimity in Armagh.

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Armagh manager Joe McKernan told the BBC yesterday: "There are no quitters in Armagh and we'll be back, the whole lot of us." That's the footballing equivalent to a bullet in the post for those with an eye on glory.

But for the moment, glory is coloured red and white. The red hand of Tyrone has a white- knuckle grip on 17 lb of silverware named after an ex-pat Protestant.

To say that the fans had a hunger for last night's delirium in the villages of south Tyrone and along the road to Omagh was an understatement.

Over the past 11 years when neighbouring wannabes like Donegal, Armagh and Derry all made it to the top flight, Tyrone stood almost alone and last in line, fertile yet barren at the same time.

And so it was when the team's open-topped bus eased through the melee and into Aughnacloy. The team looked down on the anarchy and a century of longing and frustration born of countless slagging sessions from the neighbours dissolved into the crisp autumn evening.

Road signs were "altered" to read "Sam on the move - delays inevitable 2003-200?" The Tyrone bus revved up to more cheers and started on the road for Omagh.

"Where y'a for now boy," shouted one wag to his friend in a passing car.

"Omagh," he replied. "Where the f... else?".

It was at moments like this when you understood the meaning of "sport imitating life" - or should that be the other way around?