By Colm Bradley
As I was driving to Omagh on Saturday night huge fat drops of rain fell on the windscreen. Not good I thought, these conditions won't suit our boys. Longest day of the year and it's lashing, just our luck I cursed. As the week had gone on I had grown more confident that we would win but the inclement weather was beginning to make me have a few doubts. Looking up at the heavens it did not look like we were going to get any help from the man above. Please God let it calm down I said to myself. It didn't look like it would. He must be from the Lough Shore I thought.
Trotting up the Gortin Road I pulled the old jacket up around the ears and tried not to breath in the intoxicating aromas of the burger vans - Jaysus them quarter pounders looked tasty - and got to the ground just as the second half of the ladies match was starting.
I made for the relative shelter of the press box. No, not the fancy glass fronted one on the terrace side but rather the good old fashioned one at the back of the stand.
Slipping in I went to find a little spot in the corner but just like Mary and Joseph there was no room at the Inn. It seemed that this was the spot for the radio press only while the glass palace on the far side was for TV, Daily and Sunday papers. Where to for the poor old local papers then? The papers which carry pictures, teams and reports for eight underage finals which take place on one day. The papers which have 350 word reports on Junior football, the type of football which keeps the heart of our Association beating? Oh right, the back row of the stand. Cheers. Thanks very much! Huddled together we took our place with notebooks on knees and pens between teeth. Hands were kept in our pockets. It was vitally important to keep the blood flowing to the digits, which were only to be set free from their cloth prison when absolutely necessary.
A Jack Lemon look alike from the Ulster Council insists on seeing Damian Campbell's press pass before dishing out a programme. I look around to see if Walter Matheu might be a little more accommodating but I can't seem to find him. I decide not to ask for one. I will share with my more illustrious colleague.
The time ticks down and Derry are first out. A full 25 minutes before the game starts. Madness I think to myself. Fermanagh are out a good seven or eight minutes later and look far hungrier in the warm up but. The game starts and the atmosphere hots up.
I look to my left during a break in the opening moments and can see Ronan Gallagher has taken a little stroll from the goal. He seems to be talking to Paddy Bradley. Having a wee word in the ear as the saying goes. Oh to be eavesdropping I think to myself! Instead we have to guess the conversation.
'Hey Paddy, do you sit polishing your All Star at night? They say it is harder to win the second,' the big Belleek native might say.
'Hey Ronny, where have you been for the last three years,' Paddy could retort.
'Excommunicated Paddy, but there is a new Pope in town now,' Gallagher explains, getting the last laugh in.
On fifteen minutes it has turned into a nightmare though. Derry lead by five and all week I had prayed for a good Fermanagh start. Derry, I felt, would be next to impossible to reel in if they went five or six ahead.
God is definitely a Derry man tonight I convince myself. And then it gets worse. A penalty for the Oak Leaf men. Rattle the net here and we can all go home.
Up steps Gilligan. Gallagher narrows. Gilligan blasts. Gallagher saves! Magnificent stop. Buffonesque in style. Redemption for the big goal keeper who is truly back in full communion with Fermanagh football.
The boys outfield now begin to play. Tommy McElroy and Damian Kelly get their gallop up and Eamon Maguire does what Eamon always does, plays superbly. Mark Little and Ciaran McElroy begin to drop back and Derry can't get through. Paddy Bradley fouls McElroy in front of the Derry dugout. Booked for his troubles he gives the Derry trainer a mouthful. Great I think. They are rattled.
Shane McCabe plays the pass of the night to Mark Little who is fouled. Most of the crowd think nothing of the pass. Pity. There are only a handful of players in Ireland who could have played that pass and we should be thankful we have one of them.
It's only two points at half time and Derry look deflated. Fermanagh are on the up and we can win.
We kick a few wides at the start of the second half and a worrying feeling begins to creep in. The notebook is discarded. Hands are out of the pockets too, chewed down to the knuckles. The reporting can wait. Just a simple fan now.
We need a goal. Time to call for Lazurus. Barry Owens gets warmed up. He comes on at the edge of the Derry square. A minute later Eamon Maguire drops a shot short and Owens swoops. Goal! You couldn't make it up. We are ahead and we drive on, McGrath, Keenan, Little and Maguire (twice) score. Derry are a beaten team. This is our night. 26 years of waiting is over. Fans invade the pitch and grown men cry. We are in an Ulster final. Go on pinch yourself. An Ulster bloody final.
Sitting in a line of traffic on the way out of Omagh I spot Fr Brian D'arcy. Rolling down the window he leans in. Tears in his eyes and a frog in his throat. He can hardly speak, but his face says a thousand words.
The boys were absolutely brilliant. They fought, battled and played some great football.
Everything seemed to be against us. Bad conditions and a whirlwind Derry start looked to have us beat. And I was cursing the big man in the clouds. As I reached Irvinestown I flicked around the radio stations and landed on a Gareth Brooks classic and smiled, I even sang along with the chorus.
'Sometimes, I thank God, for unanswered prayers.'
