At one stage last week, I said to the wife that I couldn't wait for 6pm on Sunday evening, when the whole ticket frenzy of collecting, swapping, and distributing was done, the match had been enjoyed, and the hope was that I and everyone else in red would be basking in the glory of a 31st All-Ireland.
Instead, there was a collective scratching of the head by the Cork public. We wondered in unison at what the hell had just happened. Leaving the ground and filing out onto Jones Road, there was genuine shellshock. We were almost in a daze.
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