Who's sorry now? No more Clare to pick on and the Championship is an emptier entity. "If they win this one, they're a great team," Cyril Farrell declared solemnly at half-time of Saturday's All-Ireland hurling semi-final. At that stage the experts were looking a little wan.
It had all started out cheerily enough, with Michael Lyster breezily wondering "where the time has gone?", a pun which doubtless had Jimmy Cooney sobbing with laughter. The idea was that Clare would restore order by winning soundly and the Offaly lads could get back to doing whatever they do when they aren't being enigmatic hurlers.
But the relentless drama which has followed them all summer at last left them with frayed nerves and as the match entered its final quarter, Clare looked vulnerable. Hence, the sight of Ger Loughnane patrolling the sideline, fists clenched and brow furrowed in angst, took on a poignant air. The gradual quietening of their followers left us neutrals feeling churlish.
Headlines, dodgy watches, boardroom plots, arcane rules; we threw the whole damned lot at the Clare lads and finally they buckled. Even when Seanie McMahon's last desperate lob floated behind the goal line, you held out hope. Maybe Dickie Murphy, loathe to end the thing early, mightn't blow it at all. Let them blaze on until it got dark. Maybe the Clare supporters would protest on the pitch while Ger Loughnane demanded a round-robin All-Ireland final affair through the tannoy.
Some chance. We probably won't hear another murmur from the Clare lads all summer. All they wanted to do was hurl. Recalling the incredible scenes of lost time and peaceful insurrection in Croke Park, Michael Lyster assured us that to "err was human." And sure everyone make mistakes.
Someone suggested before Saturday's game that if Clare lost, they should just retire from hurling, deny the public their skills. If that transpires, Ger Loughnane, who has done more than anyone to elevate the cult of manager to mythical status, should take the boat across the water and become a Premiership manager. Matters are taking a decidedly turbulent turn over there. This week was billed as the one which saw "the return of Ruud Gullit", at Kenny Dalglish's expense. Ruud was filmed arriving at Heathrow, locks impeccable, jacket by Versace, declaring that life was full of speculation. Kenny, meanwhile, just looked more worried than usual and made vague claims about mobile phone conversations and conspiracies.
(An authoritative source has sworn to this column that three Priests attending the Newcastle match against Charlton were overheard saying that that Kenny "was for the chop").
So it proved. Kenny gave one final grimace and headed off while Football Focus sent Garf Crooks to investigate how the affair had affected the players.
"That's football, Garf," explained Warren Barton, not one to indulge in prolonged bouts of sentimentality. Warren was instead keen to extol the virtues of the bold Ruud, who at this stage was probably trying to renegotiate his contract after learning the alarming news that his social life would be confined to downing vile ale and participating in karaoke nights at the men's club.
"'E's a triffic manager, marvellous," Warren declared loyally. If that's the case, then Warren's days at the club might be numbered. Encouraged, Garf decided to solicit the opinion of Stuart `Psycho' Pearce, to ascertain how he was dealing with the strife.
"As any professional would," he growled. (So presumably he went on a three-day bender and "told all" to a dubious publication for an undisclosed bundle of readies).
But at least we know the players still care. Playing for Spurs against Everton on Saturday, David Ginola threw the most spectacular tantrum of the 1990s when his beautifully executed dive failed to fashion a penalty. Given that Ginola has already been done for diving twice this season, his frustration was understandable.
After this latest trick, he allowed that most unpredictable of beasts, the Gallic temperament, to go into overdrive. It was Depardieu meets Kevin the Teenager. Rarely have Premiership lips looked so tremulous, never have a footballer's locks been used to such effect. While his team mates - Philistines that they are, they just kept on defending - David gallantly turned his back on play and knelt down, hands in head. "We have passion, enthusiasm and now despair," chortled Alan Hansen on Match of the Day.
You felt that if Hansen had been playing alongside Ginola, he wouldn't have been quite so amused. Meanwhile, another icon of English football, Paul Gascoigne, was strutting his stuff with Middlesbrough. It must be a howl to look less athletic than most of the middle-aged fans wearing replica jerseys and still get on the pitch. Before the game Gazza was pictured trotting up and down the pitch with a little ball girl, and to be fair, he stayed the pace over the first 20 yards.
During the game, though, he cut a motionless, fairly uninspiring figure, one free-kick aside. Bryan Robson says he needs to work on his match fitness. You couldn't help but think of his salary and of the Clare players, running themselves into the ground all winter.
Last word must go to Ger Loughnane, who appeared on Saturday's main evening news to deliver his final words on an astonishing summer. Surely now, he would allow that Clare were hard done by.
"We have no complaints. Offaly were tremendous all over the field, they have fantastic players. Now they're in the All-Ireland and we wish them the best of luck." He is of a rare breed.
