Dyeing For The Treaty Cause. The Amazing Cian Lynch

Could greatness be worn any more lightly than it is by this year’s All-Ireland hurling winning captain Cian Lynch?

Or by seemingly the whole victorious Limerick hurling panel and all their coaches, nutritionists and mind gurus — and never mind the odd grand financier.

And the dancing-eyed philosopher principal himself, John Kiely?

But first, there came that second-half green and white tsunami that engulfed the black and amber beast and reduced him to a floundering tabby, as the Treaty unleashed their full pulsating repertoire of power, athleticism, stick wizardry and impossible point-scoring.

Awesome. Hurling as both high art and practical physical expression under extreme pressure, a cultured venting of spirit, will and love of play and place, a symphony of practised precision, dexterity and unity of purpose and application.

And try doing all that while being thundered into by a ferocious, sinewy, hurl-wielding Kilkenny man, risking limb, reputation and the wrath of his county to frustrate you and repel you.

Individual artists all, these Limerick hurlers, but team — and by extension county — the real driving force behind it all. The eerie notion too of all frailty of body and mind weeded out over the years it took to build this perfect human machine, only the ultimate Spartans making it through to carry their swords into the round robin cauldron, and earn the honour of competing for the greatest prize of all, the Liam MacCarthy Cup.

And this latest triumph gained with a captain sidelined, an All Star among All Star defenders down, and numerous would-be distractions, but no matter, better call Cian to lead them out on to Mount Croker, and fetch in another protector to guard Sean Finn’s patch with equal ferocity and beady-eyed vigilance.

Unstoppable, as they have been for four years and more now, when it really matters.

Unrivalled greatness on the biggest hurling day of them all, but grit and conviction aplenty on the days when artistry and ambition did not rhyme.

But that man Lynch, eh?

A purring ginger pussy cat with badly-dyed blonde hair strolling the field before the battle and after, but a purveyor of otherworldly excellence and faultless application under pressure when the battle raged its fiercest.

Those moments before half-time, as the men in green were forced to scrap and chase, captain for the day Lynch just darted in among the swirling bodies and weaponry to gather a ball here, lean back and lay off a point-yielding hand pass there, and pop over another score himself.

No chest-beating call to arms or ‘look at me’ showboating, merely an artist going about his art, and rallying his buddies to follow his nonchalant example. A leader of leaders. Doing it his way.

And up he bounces afterwards to claim the bauble on behalf of his tribe. The bones of his speech laid out, but charmingly fleshed out with a word for everyone, and everything that had led to this day.

And sharing the stage, and lifting the cup with ‘my captain, our leader’ the injured but beaming Declan Hannon.

The same Hannon who the previous year had summoned forward the pink backwards baseball cap wearing, earringed ginger gringo Lynch, to raise merry Liam with him, as his comrade put his crutches to one side to roar his unfeigned delight.

If Lynch was upset or angry about being denied another victory on the field, he did one hell of a job disguising it.

And besides, the word from the camp had been he was never less than good-humoured paragon of positivity, advice and bonhomie as he helped his comrades prepare for war without him.

It’s hard to say this without being patronising, but how lovely was it to hear Limerick leader after Limerick leader expressing their bonds of excellence, endurance, and camaraderie in their own unvarnished vernacular?

Indeed, all the more eloquent for it. Perhaps best captured by the six minutes of unfiltered wit, wisdom and insight that poured forth from ‘going full demented’ midfielder Darragh O’Donovan, from his perch on a picnic table in a busy Limerick park. Check it out, if you haven’t. A classic.

How eloquently Kiely and Lynch spoke to RTE’s Joanne Cantwell on their own before the madness of the full party on their own Limerick patch. And just as Lynch had effortlessly avoided the closest attentions of Kilkenny earlier on the greenest sward, he leaned back to cooly evade Ms Cantwell’s right-on admonition to do his own washing, rather than leave it to ‘de mudder’.

Let’s not get too heavy about it, but what a model Lynch is too, a deft exponent of a very modern Irish masculinity — one equally at home with daft hair-cuts, backwards baseball caps, earrings and easy expressions of love of comrade and place as with competing fiercely on the field of play.

He just seems to be enjoying it all!

This man knows from whence he has come, not just in terms of the hurling dynasty that has spawned his spectacular talents, but he has also met the disasters of injury and family tragedy with unfailing grace, unaffected charm and affability.

And always ready to dye with his boots on for friends, for family, for county, and for us.