The afterglow from last Sunday's jubliant symphony is such that the prospect of Monday's replay pushes the two provincial football finals into the shadows. It would be foolish to hope that we can have a better hour of sport this year than that presented by the hurlers of Clare and Galway.

This Clare team seem touched with a Shakespearean flair for high drama and pathos and, as on every memorable Sunday, the consequence of their efforts were all the more exalted by one of the Loughnane soliloquies which have so illuminated all our recent summers. It can have been of little novelty to them to find themselves knee deep in an old fashioned tale of white knuckle heroism just minutes after the throw in. They are tailored for such occasions.

The joy was that Galway were instrumental in establishing the scale and tempo of the game. Hurling needed that Galway show as much as the county itself did.

Images from that epic will remain ageless. The likes of this Clare revolution won't be seen again. Players and crowd alike are infused with a belief so deep-rooted that it is difficult to comprehend. At a time in the first half when the team were struggling badly and just about in touch, Anthony Daly could be seen sweeping his arms skyward and urging the Banner crowd for noise. The response was that of an orchestra to the flourishes of a conductor. Bedlam.

The Galway crowd were less sure, at times disbelieving, of what they were witnessing. Behind the press enclosure - its inhabitants for once childishly giddy at what was unfolding - was a Galway section. One elderly man, strong-faced and handsome, only truly saw light when Galway went nine points up.

"Don't blow it now," he implored repeatedly as around him they whooped the good times home.

Ten minutes later and Clare were a point up. The same man sat in bewilderment, half smiling at the absurdity of it all. And to think that not so long ago they had empathised with Clare hurlers, listened to their provincial woes with fond neighbourly sympathy.

It was hard to recognise them now.

It is impossible not to divide the Clare team into sections personified by key figures. The two Lohans at the back, solemn and resolute whatever the occasion. After Ollie Fahy whipped over the game's first point after just 14 seconds, Brian Lohan trotted up behind and sighed quietly as though he had seen in that score a portent of what lay ahead.

Seanie McMahon, dignified and faceless under that black Darth Vader visor, calmly slotting over distance scores as though they were 20-metre frees. And Ollie Baker, thundering away at midfield, plucky little Galway forwards bouncing off him like hapless flies all afternoon. At one point, he bent over Ollie Canning and looked as though he was about to engulf him.

That Jamesie O'Connor is the essence of the Clare attack was set in stone on Sunday. You could but smile at the timing of his introduction. They ought to have fitted him in a Roy of the Rovers shirt instead of the outlandishly large garment in which he was presented to us. That number 25 jersey looked as though it could have accommodated the entire O'Connor family. The fear was, at one point, that Jamesie might trip over the baggy sleeves.

But it was heartening to see him back and no surprise that Clare's revival began shortly after his arrival.

More impressive than Galway's dash and early scoring blitz was the manner in which they responded after their lead disintegrated. Lesser teams would have bowed to Clare's sheer force of will at that point. Rory Gantley, though, is imbued with an innate cockiness and it was his impetousity as much as anything that maintained Galway's spirits when the might have flagged.

Sunday also confirmed for us the shame it would have been had Joe Rabbitte not returned to Galway colours. In the bad years, it was easy to make a scapegoat out of the mild-mannered Rabbitte and his gangly, natural athleticism. On Sunday, he once again unearthed the brilliance which set him apart in 1993. The fetch and hand-pass which sent Ollie Canning bearing down on goal in that frozen moment was perfection. Canning didn't even have to adjust his stride, so measured was the weight in the pass. That Ollie was denied by a centimetre of woodwork was just typical of the devilry which coursed through this game. Things were balanced by Seanie McMahon shaving the upright with another transatlantic free right at the death.

Afterwards, it was difficult to envisage some of the Galway lads even walking properly in a week's time. They are sleeker but less big boned than their neighbours.

The intrigue will resume again in earnest from tomorrow on. Hard not to imagine Liam Doyle gladly contemplating another hour in the company of the electric Alan Kerins. And this drama has yet give breathing space to Eugene Cloonan and his bag of tricks.

There are a hundred ways of interpreting the fallout from last Sunday's draw. That Galway invested their very souls in that game and fell a few steps short. That they will come out fired with a new confidence having hurled with a proven team in the hot months.

That another replay will sap the ferocity from Clare. That they need these sequels and trilogies to reach the plane which has brought them two All-Irelands. That the replay could well be tame and one sided. That it will be just as heavenly.

This weekend's GAA calendar is what summers are about. Clones on Ulster final day has always been alive with its own version of charm. Narrow streets awash in orange and red, chip wrappers and beer cans, hooters sounding in Francie Brady country. One last shot for Mickey Linden.

And in Dublin, the fascinating, on-going war of attrition between Meath and Dublin. Who can watch without flinching?

Fine occasions both. But whatever sort of surprises they produce, it won't seem as important now. No field sport can enchant as totally as that hurling game did last Sunday. Perhaps it is inevitable that the replay falls flat in comparison. But no matter. Even if the rest of the season is mundane, we will have enough memories on which to warm ourselves when the athletes go into hibernation again. Sunday was a once off, a rare privilege to behold.