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I now know that Seanie O’Shea and I have one thing in common when it comes to Kerry: heart. And plenty of it.
mmediately after Sunday’s never-to-be-forgotten finale against the Dubs, Kerry manager Jack O’Connor said it was a ‘good test of the heart’.
I can now confirm this to be true.
Being hooked up to a Holter monitor on the same day Kerry face Dublin is to place technology in a no-win situation against passion and physiology.
When they hook you up, they give you a diary sheet to record details of activities, and any subsequent reactions.
My eyes immediately scan the part of the diary that reads ‘Sunday’ and wonder what reading my heart will return between 3pm and 5pm.
A Holter monitor is a portable electrocardiogram devise that records the electrical activity of the heart continuously over a specific time.
It checks the impulses to show how fast the heart is beating, the rhythm of the heart beats (steady or irregular), and the strength and timing of the electrical impulses.
When one equates all of the above with the pulsating excitement of last Sunday, you start to see where I’m going with this.
Whether Holter monitors were designed to withstand the rigours of championship football remains to be seen.
My Holter monitor diary entry for Sunday (I kid you not) is as follows:
‘10.7.22. Watching the Kerry game. A lot of hyperactivity, a few palpitations, but nothing too severe and no negative reactions.’ (Only in Kerry!).
This might yet prove the most understated diary entry in living memory, for the monitor is sure to return a reading which suggests my heart rate – particularly in the 76th minute – was capable of generating enough energy to run a small wind farm somewhere in north Kerry.
I don’t handle pressure situations well when Kerry play, I never have. Usually, I lose all sense of perspective: the blood pumps faster and breathing techniques are about as effective as attempting to light a menorah candle in the height of a Code Red weather warning.
What I’m describing here is a collective cardiology report for the entire population of Kerry on Sunday last.
Bushels of newspaper columns have since been written covering the substance of Kerry’s performance on the field. This column is, essentially, the cardiology report of its people.
RTÉ pundit Kevin McStay is the first to put my Holter monitor to the test. Kerry are five points up and I’m relatively comfortable at this stage.
McStay’s impersonation of the annoying school master, a stickler for discipline and an unwavering proficiency in rulemaking, puts me on the back foot. Dublin tack on two quick points and I immediately blame McStay for this.
At the peak of football frenzy, all reactions have merit. I briefly consider emailing a letter of complaint to RTÉ Sport when the game carries me down river again.
As the game flows, rapid movements around the sitting room – moving into the hall and kitchen when Kerry are up against it – is better than any workout for the heart.
I regularly check to make sure the three electro plugs are still hooked to my chest with the attitude, ‘are you getting all this?’.
You felt this was Kerry’s breakout game the more time ticked on. This was the day Kerry would come of age and the brutal Dublin Empire would crumble before our eyes; a day when our cubs would grow up to became lions.
Dublin’s Ciaran Kilkenny – who I have down for at least four heart palpations on the day – kept Dublin alive late on.
Can I just say at this point that Kerry need to be careful regarding turnover ball. These are not good for the heart, and they use up way too many expletives.
David Moran – who is a colossus leader we can’t do without – made a tired turnover that led to Dublin’s goal.
The fear that things were slipping away was compounded when Kilkenny eventually kicked the equalizer.
For a split second my compulsion was to rip the Holter monitor completely off and try and do something. No cardiologist should have to see me in this state.
A full-blooded temper takes hold as my heartbeat reverts to autopilot in an attempt to navigate me through the crisis.
Our backs stand firm. Their tenacity and courage send electro currents of renewed hope my way again (I’m sure the monitor will prove this).
And then the ultimate test. A 55-metre free to win it. It’s all too much to take and I wish I was like those kids in school who hated football. At least their heart rates were normal at this point.
As Seanie places the ball, I close the sitting room window to trap the sound of me losing it should the ball sail over the bar.
By now, heartbeats no longer have rhythm, it starts to feel like Keith Moon is banging out a drum roll on my chest.
I think how fitting it is that a Holter monitor is in my life considering the number of times Dublin broke my heart since 2011.
And then it happens. A placed ball kicked from roughly the same distance as the GPO is to Croke Park goes over to spark delirium in Kerry.
All self-control succumbs to the brilliance of O’Shea’s right foot at this point. The monitor picks up a bizarre combination of heartbeats and howls. Today is finally the day.
I check that my monitor is still attached. I’m sure I smell smoke coming from it and give my chest a gentle thump to say, ‘we did it’.
I await the results of the Holter monitor. I’m certain last Sunday’s reading will resemble more a Richter scale measurement than a heart rate.
But what does one do when Kerry is in your heart?
There is no cure for that.
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