It hurts to even think of a Cork double

It was September 1951 and Cork were playing Galway in the All-Ireland minor hurling final. A sister of one of the Cork players was living in Paris at the time and was heartbroken to be missing out on her brother's finest hour. It was almost a week before she got word of the result and the wait was tortuous and agonising. Finally the postcard arrived, with a picture on the front of the main street in Naas, where the rest of the family had stopped off on their way home from Croke Park and where they bought and posted the card. In time her Parisian neighbours regained their hearing, but it was touch and go for a while. But they forgave her for the eardrum-bursting shrieks, because even they understood it's not every day you learn your brother has won an All-Ireland winner's medal. "Cork won, 4-5 to 1-8, Jerry never played better, love Ma," said the card. She still has it. It's usually brought out and dusted for special occasions, like on the eve of a Munster final that involves Cork. It hasn't been brought out much in recent years, but it's hardly seen the inside of its box in the past couple of weeks.

In 1990, when Cork won the double, it very nearly had its own place at the dinner table. It was a particularly hellish time to be a Dublin relation of a Corkonian. Funny, I never knew the Banks had so many verses.

And what exactly did the St Finbarrs do to the Rockies to dissuade them of the idea that they were stars? I missed the last verse of that tune after finally finding my ear muffs.

The whole experience left me believing that inter-county marriages should be outlawed, and that there should be an amendment to the Constitution stating that parents must ensure that their children are born and raised in the same county as themselves. That way young Dubs of bygone days wouldn't have minded as much being told, daily, that Jimmy Barry-Murphy was the son of God. "So Charlie McCarthy's his Da then, is he?" they'd ask. But that tricky theological question was never answered satisfactorily.

Barely had the pain of the Cork double eased when, two years' later, Donegal came to town. Most of Letterkenny stayed in our house, leaving no room for Killybegs, which had to make do with the nearest B&B. Ballybofey travelled down that morning and arrived in time for brunch.

They were playing Dublin, of course. "God love yiz - we hope you have a nice day out anyway," we said to them, sympathetically, as we gave them directions to Croke Park on the Sunday morning. ("Take a right at Nelson's Pillar," we chuckled. "Huh, we'll see if you still have a sense of humour this evening," they replied). We didn't. They returned from Croke Park that evening in a horn-hooting convoy up our road with Sam Maguire in the boot. I never knew the Hills of Donegal had so many verses.

Our local shop was selling blue and navy cigarette lighters, at half price, with `Dublin: 1992 All-Ireland Champions' tastefully inscribed down the sides. I sent one to a Donegal cousin; he sent me an identical one, except it was green and yellow, with `Donegal: 1992 All-Ireland Champions' stamped on it in big vulgar lettering. It worked, the Dublin one never did.

He still has his but I threw mine out because the framed photo in our kitchen of Anthony Molloy raising Sam Maguire was a sufficient reminder of that awful day.

The following summer in Donegal was worse. You wouldn't mind if they gloated audibly, but instead they just winked. And grinned. And winked again. "So, it's Donegal for the holidays and Donegal for the Sam Maguire," they'd say. At least it's just Donegal for the holidays this year, but Cork? Please God, no. The postcard's out again. A little yellow around the edges, but then so were the Cork hurlers when they went in to battle against Clare and look what happened then? Yes, there's a very long way to go but the mere threat of another Cork double is too horrible a thought to contemplate. There's only so much sporting and playing you can take, especially if they happen to beat the Dubs along the way. Tomorrow afternoon, when Cork play Kerry in the Munster football final, the brother with the minor medal will have his tonsils at the ready in Australia, where he moved 40 years ago. For a while he had to rely on newspaper-cuttings, at least a fortnight old, sent from home, for word on matches. Reports on Nemo Rangers successes were savoured and read and re-read a thousand times; All-Ireland victories by Cork were greeted in much the same manner as the rest of us would welcome our six lotto numbers being drawn from the pot.

Tomorrow, if the local ethnic channel isn't showing the game, his friend up the road will keep him informed of the latest news from Pairc Ui Chaoimh, via live commentary on the internet. Yes, Micheal O Muircheartaigh is out there in cyberspace.

If, a couple of years ago, you'd asked an emigrant what they missed most about home they'd probably have said "the rashers, the tea and me Ma," if their Ma was listening, but they'd really have meant "the rashers, the tea and Micheal O Muircheartaigh's commentaries on a Sunday afternoon". But now all they're missing are the rashers and the tea because they can tune in to Micheal on RTEs internet site, even if they're in Bombay, Brisbane or Belgrade. Or anywhere else. No more weeklong waits for postcards from Naas. Then again, should Cork win the double in September Bombay, Brisbane or Belgrade sound like good places to be.