Gaelic Star requested last month fans should write in to us, telling us of their own  personal highlights of the summer. An anonymous Antrim fan wrote in about his memorable journey in the championship. It was a great article and published in Edition 6 of Gaelic Star Magazine.

 LOOKING back over the crazy few months we’ve just had, sometimes it’s hard to believe we were there at all.

Antrim players celebrating after the game. Antrim v Cavan 2009

It was a Saffron summer – a time of a great awakening in Gaelic football when, for a brief moment at least, Antrim and their beleaguered supporters dreamt of being
crowned high kings of Ulster in hurling and football.
Those heady days in Ballybofey, Clones and Tullamore seem hardly even real, but we have the programmes, the newspaper clippings and in time the DVDs to remind ourselves and our children and grand children that in 2009, Antrim were the team everyone was talking about.

Did we really reach the Ulster final, our first in a generation? Were we really beating Kerry in the last 16 of the All-Ireland series after 60 hard fought minutes? Did we really sweep majestically past Cavan at Clones?

And, tell me I’m not dreaming, did we beat Donegal in their fortress at MacCumhaill Park?
 
The dream began on a hazy summer morning in the relative calm of the pleasant market town of Ballybofey.

I drove to MacCumhaill Park in time for the minor game and to avoid the traffic. The first thing to note was the complete lack of excitement in the town.

The few Antrim supporters who had made the long trip from Belfast and surrounding
areas weren’t making their usual noise.

Perhaps, like me, there was a general feeling of apathy. It was another long trip to another provincial ground for another inevitable 70 minutes of effort but ultimate failure. It had been six years since our last Championship win, and most of us weren’t even born the last time Antrim left Casement Park to secure a win on the road.
As the minor game came to a disappointing end, the sky clouded over and down came the rain just in time for the start of Antrim’s biggest match of the year.

Was God trying to tell us something?
Liam Bradley’s team selection and tactics weren’t giving us any other reason to see beyond the gloom. CJ McGourty, our best natural talent in the forward line, had pranked his way out of consideration back in March.

There was no Sean Kelly, probably our best defender, opting out after walking away from the squad the year before.
As the match began, Terry O’Neill, who had only rejoined the panel a few weeks before, was playing as a spare man at the back. Terry O’Neill is many things but he’s not a defender.

Sean Burke, a 19-year-old rookie midfielder, began at the edge of the square joined by our best player: Michael McCann, a natural midfielder.
Sharp shooter Paddy Cunningham was pulled out deep as a half forward, the first time I’d seen the little red-haired genius anywhere other than the corner forward position.
But, as the game settled, Antrim started to look like a slick outfit.
Donegal were applying the pressure but were hitting some ridiculous wides and O’Neill had grown into a colossus at the back, picking up all the loose ball and initiating every attack.

As the game wore on, Donegal began to panic as Antrim tacked on the points, inspired by the McCann brothers Tomás and Michael.
Then, on the hour mark, Tony Scullion sent a Donegal defender flying with a hefty shoulder just down below us to win a sideline ball. Scullion sent wee Mossy McCann in on goal and well, I don’t remember much after that.
The fingernails were gone by the time Paudie Hughes blew the final whistle and we danced and sang all the way back to Belfast.

“We’re all going to Clones” got the loudest rendition in Jacksons Hotel that evening.
And so to Clones, and for many of us the first time we’d been to the Monaghan venue to see our own team. Just like the Donegal game, the opponents started brightly but once Antrim settled down, there was only one team in it.
Looking back, though we probably didn’t appreciate it at the time, but this was the football highlight of the summer.
Antrim were outstanding in every quarter, not least Mick McCann and our full back line. Justy Crozier and Locky Loughrey flew forward at every chance and all of us on the hill played our part too. It mightn’t be very nice, but we booed every decision that went against us and booed louder still when Cavan retook the field after half time.

I honestly think we had the game won when the Breffni men stared up at this crazy, yellow mob on the hill yelling down at them and wondered just what the hell was going on.
The sun shone very late that evening in Clones, the Saffron clad crowds saluting each other and their defeated Cavan cousins long into the night.
The Antrim bandwagon was rolling, the next little obstacle in the way was Tyrone in the Ulster football final.
I’ve never seen so many yellow and white flags in Belfast. I honestly believe if Benedict himself decided to take the Pope mobile up the Falls, he wouldn’t see as many flags as were flying throughout the city on Ulster final week.
The biggest scramble was not for tickets, we were all sorted early on, but for the bunting arriving and disappearing again from Casement all that week. They were selling the stuff quicker than they could unload it from the lorries.
Even the snobs on the Malone road got in on the act.
If any Antrim fan got lost on the way to Clones, the route was fairly well marked by a busload of pissed up Antrim fans stopping to take a slash by the side of the road every hundred yards or so.
Again the sun was shining and Clones, and the hill, was packed with a sea of Saffron. As I watched the parade from the Gerry Arthurs Stand I wondered where all these Antrim fans had been hiding up to now, but it made me swell with pride to see us out-sing and outnumber the supporters of the All-Ireland champions on Ulster final day.
Of course, we were probably Antrim’s best performers on the day, but we brought more colour and passion to the Ulster final than any other county in living memory.

Sean Cavanagh and Kevin Hughes ripped us to shreds early on and the Anglo Celt dream died, but immediately thoughts turned to the following week.

We were still just one win away from Croke Park, and, with the likes of Wicklow and Roscommon left in the draw, maybe Lady Luck would shine on us?
She did not, but she gave us the next best thing – a plum tie with the Kingdom. I was disappointed when the draw was made, but was almost deafened by the roar of those around me in the Casement social club.
’Tulla-feckin-more’ was our destination for what would prove to be the final stop on Baker’s Magical Mystery Tour.
Four hours in the car (with the obligatory relief stops en route of course) and we found ourselves at O’Connor Park facing a Kerry side in supposed turmoil.

The Gooch and Tomas Ó Sé were expelled for a little trip to the pub, but Kerry looked OK early on as Tommy Walsh fired them in front.
But then the Antrim swagger returned. Locky and Road Runner Scullion started bombing forward, and combined for a goal. Cunningham was stroking over frees after a shaky start and Mick was looking class.
At half time we were beating Kerry, the aristocrats of Gaelic football and, after a rally at the start of the second half, we came good again and were leading by a point when Paul Galvin tapped home the ball to end a flowing move and end Antrim’s chances with ten minutes to go.
We were right behind the Antrim bench and could see the Baker and Niall Conway at their best, adjusting the Antrim side, instructing and encouraging the Antrim players and, when necessary, giving them a bollocking.
As we trooped off the terrace and across the pitch at the end, the Antrim players were sitting on the grass in tears. They had come so far but ultimately came up short.
Losing to the best two teams in Ireland is no mean feat for a side who had been playing Division Four football all season. 

As we climbed back into the wretched minibus, we knew the dream summer was over, but what a time we’d had along the way.