Munster SFC Final: Keith Duggan gets inside the head of Limerick goalkeeper Seamus O'Donnell ahead of his meeting with Gooch, Brosnan, Hassett and co.

There is Gooch, so pale and easy in his movements he is like a trick of the light. And Mike Frank moseying out to the corner with the face of an angel. Mike Frank is terrifying. And 20 yards out, straight ahead of you, there is Ó Cinnéide, solemn and deliberate. Mr Reliability. You let a yell at Sheehy, your full back and friend, just to clear your mind, to make some noise. The Gooch glances in at you, as if surprised and inquisitive. As if he is sizing you up the way all sleek forwards do. Yum-yum.

You, you know everything there is to know about the forwards. You read about them and see them on television and you watch them and just purr at their quality. You think they are great. They, well, they know your name. Seamus O'Donnell. And they probably have these sketched notes on you: quick feet for a big lad; good to stop a thunderbolt; no leaper. But at heart, they see you as no different than the rest of your brethren. They see you as an obstacle. They see you as an individual they must punish not because they particularly want to, but because you are in their way. They see you as the crumpled figure in the goal as they wheel away in celebration. That is the least that they hope for. And the most that you can hope for is that that doesn't happen.

"I abused you from the terraces today but I'll congratulate you now."

That came from someone in a bar the night that Limerick took over Cork city. Beery and sentimental words that captured a mood. You could not get over how gracious the Cork folks were just hours after watching their own boys walloped.

Larry Tompkins stood not yards from you in the dressing room, steam rising from the hissing showers as he spoke with such grace that you got the goose bumps.

And that set the tone all over the city. It was a beautiful night.

"You're the 'keeper, boy? Ya had a feckin' blinder. Good luck to yez."

Cork is great anyway. You remember the nights you spent on the bench for Cork City and it was so cold that the floodlights caught your breath and you would follow every move made by Noel, the older brother. And your father watching in the stands and then the two of you driving back up the road home, the radio low, talking about the game, the brother, about if and when you might get a run. Not a sinner on the roads and a drowsy head back in school the next morning.

It was worth it, though. Before Cork, you were an accidental goalkeeper. They turned you into one for life. Noel put the word in and next thing there was a scout watching you playing for Creeves in deepest Limerick. The scout was also the only spectator. The drama of it all. And before you knew it, you had signed papers and you were on the books.

The road not taken. The year Limerick won the under-21 football championship, you decided to play in the Youth Cup for Cork City. Maybe 500 people watching as you won the final 3-1 in Thurles. It was an own goal that went past you and they don't count. And that medal, you would not swap for anything.

Strange, 500 people or 50,000, it doesn't really matter. Croke Park flashes into your mind. That is the place you associate these guys with, Gooch and Brosnan and Hassett. The September boys.

Playing there yourself didn't blow you away as you thought it would. You saw it on television for years and the scale of it dazzled you. In a weird way it was more manageable to the naked eye. It was still just a pitch and Westmeath were just a team. And you lost and you lost partly because you fucked up. A high ball and you leave home to collect and seconds later realise that you are in no-man's land, that there is a maroon jersey and he is airborne and it is his ball and suddenly you are just a bystander. You are there to pick the ball out of the net and you hear the cheers. The last act of the game.

"He just got a run on me and that was it. I was jumping from a standing position."

That's what you say when people ask because it's the truth. Goals are inevitable when you are a goalkeeper but that doesn't stop the fact of them stinging and so you get off this field of dreams and you sit in the sumptuous dressing rooms and you could puke. And Liam Kearns is there beside you and he is talking about the next day, about Cork, about the need to move on. And you do.

You sometimes think Liam is a magician. Whenever anyone sinks low, he scoops in and next thing they are flying again. Just a word or two.

But sometimes, you wonder if it wouldn't have been easier to stick outfield. Who cares or notices if you drop a ball on the 50-metre line? Because you always had game in you. When your grand-uncle is famous for being a member of the last Limerick team to beat Cork, you can say you have pedigree. You think about Tony Carrig and his brother John, who died just months ago. And of your grandmother, Maisie O'Donnell, a GAA fanatic. All gone. You promised her you would win her a Munster senior medal some day. Yeah, you had enough game in you and you still float frees for St Ciaran's and win ball for them, becoming the tormentor of 'keepers in the Limerick championship.

And it is strange, but you feel no empathy for their situation. Why they choose to be the last man standing is their business.

Maybe it would be easier living with the forwards. But then you look at the way Dessie Dolan shimmers 40, 50 yards out from you and then stops dead and fires these points that arc way above your goals and over. You see the dancing feet of big Colin Corkery, even on a poor day for him, and you reckon these guys are different class. You reckon you are happy enough trying to stop them.

So here you are, in front of names so sharp it cuts you just to say them. You stand alone. Through the netting, the fans on the terraces see a big guy in an all-white strip. You know your bulk makes you stand out and if a lad with a few jars in him wants to act the smart-arse, it makes you an easy target. You live with it.

Yeah, you want to get the weight down. Three seasons of specialised training as a soccer 'keeper made it hard to return to Gaelic's regime. You do the same training as the others but notice that it takes a lot more out of you.

You all but die twice a week and the days in between hurt. You want to lose the weight but not overnight. Not so it affects your game.

In the meantime, if someone wants to shout down at you, well, they paid their money in. Abuse in the afternoon, congratulations that night. It is all swings and roundabouts.

So, a Munster final. A big day for the O'Donnell family, for the lads in St Ciaran's which is pure football country. You are playing for a county that has not won this occasion, this Munster final, since 1896. It is an absurd date, it means nothing to you. It is not, after all, as if you have been playing since 1896.

No, you are 22 years of age and you have been Liam Kearns' first choice 'keeper for a couple of seasons. That is exactly where life is at.

Funny thing, but Kerry have never scored against you. Not in your county minor years or at under-21 level or at last year's senior match. It is all just a big blank sheet. You share this small fact reluctantly. You don't want it to be a damn jinx. But there is no such thing as a jinx, only shots that go past you and shots that don't.

"We are under no illusions," you explained to people when they stopped you to wish you well during the week.

"We will go down and do our best but Kerry are the best team in Ireland."

And suddenly it is you looking out upon the glamour end of them. Lean and sinewy as panthers. You get the butterflies just seeing those green and gold hoops on the television. Now, they will be running at you in waves. You let a roar but the noise of the stadium drowns it out. Nothing for it but to take a deep breath. It is you against the world.