“Ssh Helena, don’t look them in the eye,” Monica whispered as we rolled slowly through Athy.

The mob stood either side, solemn, angry even.

“Go back where ya came from Scum!” a balding man roared from his rolled down window.

What had we done? One hundred strong, two wheeled, Kilkenny cats set off from various parts of our marble county that sunny Saturday morning, with thoughts of Croker and Liam and all things good. We wore black and amber with pride and were greeted with rapturous applause until we crossed the county line. Once in foreign lands, we were a swarm of bees at a picnic.

“I don’t think anyone wants us to win Aine,” I said as we careened through Kilcullen.

“Up Galway!” a wheel chaired woman roared waiting at the traffic lights for the peloton to pass.

“She’s from feckin’ Kildare! Like that’s not even near Galway!?”

“It’s in Leinster,” Sinead smiled.

I shook my helmeted head, Geography was never my strong point.

Naas was no better, though we got the odd smile from a Cat in hiding. The motorway saved our spirits, honking horns of fellow County folk on the way to the big smoke spurred us on and even the lack of a Garda escort, all called out on account of the IRA, couldn’t dampen our spirits.

As we free wheeled down the tree lined streets by Pheonix Park we were alive, like we knew the boys would be on Sunday. The blood pulsed in our worn out veins, we pucked the points, gloried the goals, were there shoulder to shoulder with Shefflin and had Tommy’s back. We were the Cats who’d get the cream.

Sundays sore legs and heads told a different story as we took Kavanagh’s 9.30 to Kilkenny. Galway gave it a shot but when you’re the Man United of hurling (and modesty knows no bounds) it’s hard to feel down, the tails not between the legs yet!