All hail the mighty Cats, who as prophesied in the last instalment of Foul Play, made light of their inexplicable underdog status by putting the young upstarts from Tipp in their place. I couldn’t resist throwing a modest wedge on Cody’s crack troops just before kick-off, in deference to their unbelievable record in Championship hurling over the last decade and the nagging feeling that far too much had been made of the presumed shift in the power-balance. Five unanswered points in the opening quarter-hour signalled an emphatic statement of intent, and though Tipp never gave up trying, they were never really in touch either, and would probably admit that the eventual four-point margin flattered them.

Hindsight suggests that the warning signs had been there all summer for the now-deposed champions: that scary opening against Clare in the Munster semi, followed by their lethargic first half against Dublin in the All-Ireland semi, fell some way short of the standard needed to truly terrorise the ferocious Kilkenny killing machine. Tipp had, of course, been racking up ridiculously large goal tallies which (not unreasonably, in view of their display in last year’s final) served to convince the pundits that they would colonise this decade as completely as Kilkenny had the ‘00s: but we should, by now, know far better. The last time Kilkenny had entered a championship match as underdogs was the final of 2006, when Cork were hunting three-in-a-row: the Cats bossed that game from start to finish, and Cork haven’t even come close to troubling them since. Certainly there is no cause to fear that Tipp will go the same way: they’re young, hungry, talented, physically imposing, and it’s unlikely that Lar Corbett will ever again have as unproductive an afternoon as he did on Sunday. But have they done enough to earn the status of frontrunners? Not yet, no.

It has to be considered extremely likely that the pair will collide again in next year’s final for a fourth year running: the Dubs are on a relentless upward curve, Cork fans are pinning their hopes on the return of Jimmy Barry-Murphy to the hotseat, Waterford might be revitalised if Davy Fitzgerald moves on, Galway always have a kick in them when you least expect it, and Limerick appear to be progressing gradually in the right direction. But it takes a vast leap of the imagination to look past the leading pair. I note with some bemusement that the bookies, undeterred by the weekend’s events, have yet again marked Tipp down as marginal favourites for next year, a hypothesis which may well be worth challenging. 7 to 4 against Kilkenny winning a sixth title in seven years? Doesn’t quite add up. The more you think about this one, the more appetising it looks.
Onto oval-ball affairs, as Ireland head down under in pursuit of the World Cup. Optimism has subsided considerably after four defeats out of four in the warm-up, but that may be no harm when you recall the 2007 fiasco, when most of the nation seemed to have convinced itself that winning the thing was a straightforward matter of turning up. By contrast, the mood this time seems a little subdued. The team is battle-hardened and has a point to prove: they will feel with some justification that one Six Nations triumph (in 2009) doesn’t adequately reflect their contribution to the game over the last decade, and having singularly failed to do themselves justice on the biggest stage of all, the team’s more seasoned operators will know this is their last shot at a World Cup.

With all due caution, I am expecting nothing less than a semi-final berth in what looks set to be a breathless adventure. The Aussies will prove a hard nut to crack in the first-round group, but we will have enough in hand to see off the Italians, and our quarter-final opponents (anyone from South Africa, Wales, Samoa and Fiji, most likely the Springboks) all look ripe for the taking. Winning the thing would dwarf any achievement in Irish sporting history and would surely provoke ballistic levels of nationwide euphoria that would make Italia ‘90 look tame, but before we get too carried away, the spectre of New Zealand looms in the semi-finals. They have the world’s best forward (Richie McCaw), its best out-half (Dan Carter), an awesome tight five, a settled coaching team which has been in place for the last seven years, the benefit of home advantage, an almighty incentive after 24 years of hurt, and appear to have no discernible weaknesses. Of course, everybody thought the same in 1991, 1995, 1999, 2003 and 2007, and on every single occasion, they have found a way to fuck it up.

Why this has happened remains arguably the biggest mystery in the sporting universe, but a few theories have been advanced. One plausible explanation is that, after routinely mutilating opponents by hundreds of thousands of points in the opening skirmishes, they buy into notions of their own invincibility and then feel genuinely shocked when finding themselves in an actual battle against decent teams in the knockout stages. Thus rattled, their decision-making under pressure has repeatedly proven suspect. They try to bite off more than they can chew and seem a little too hell-bent on establishing a 20-point lead, burying opponents and throwing away the spade; chasing tries where the wiser option might be to take their penalties and eat up plenty of clock. Witness the failure to consolidate an early lead against France last time out in the quarter-final. In truth, though, they fell foul of some dreadful refereeing on that occasion, were badly coached in 2003 and suffered a mysterious bout of food poisoning in 1995, while the failure in ‘99 can only be ascribed to a devastating burst of French brilliance in what remains the greatest Test rugby match ever played.

I cannot see past the All Blacks, and expect them to account for our good selves in the semi-finals. The savvy, streetwise Aussies are the only crew who seem genuinely capable of stopping them in their tracks, having recently claimed the Tri-Nations title under Robbie Deans’ expert stewardship, a development which may however serve to douse whatever complacency may have existed in the Kiwi camp. The somewhat lopsided competitive balance of world rugby means that shocks will be nowhere near as plentiful as is the case with soccer’s global showpiece, but I can sense one or two unexpected developments in the ether. So much of modern rugby is subject to the wisdom (or lack thereof) of the men in charge, a reality which means that for all their talent, it is not difficult to draw a line through France and South Africa. The world champions were led in 2007 by the astute Jake White: for the last four years, they have been crippled by the stewardship of the buffoonish Pieter de Villiers, a figure of fun in his own country who is taken seriously by no respected analyst. A second-row of Victor Matfield and Bakkies Botha obviously can’t be taken lightly, but I would have no fears at all about taking them on.

All the Pacific islanders must be accorded the greatest of respect. The mercurial but flimsy Welsh may be in for a nasty shock against Fiji in their group (it happened four years ago), and going even further out on a limb, I honestly believe that Tonga may cause a sensation of seismic proportions if they catch the crazy French on one of their off-days. Marc Lievrement’s team selection, by this stage, seems devoid of any pattern or reason. It helps to go into a World Cup knowing that the management and players, if not exactly best pals, are at least on the same page and have a healthy confidence in one another’s capabilities. In that context, Lievrement’s observation that “The players are lacking in courage. They are cursed with what is obviously cowardice. They are not even capable of admitting their own mistakes” amounts to something less than a ringing endorsement. This may be a horrible accident waiting to happen, and the monstrously imposing if raw Tongans could well be perfectly placed to take advantage (at what would surely be a colossal price).

The quarter-final line-up may be: New Zealand-Scotland, England-Tonga, Australia-Fiji, and South Africa-Ireland. Look for the Aussies to smite their Pommie nemesis in the last four, gleefully extracting revenge for defeats in the last two tournaments which undoubtedly still hurt to this day. Meanwhile, Ireland will give it everything we’ve got against the rapacious Kiwis: it won’t be enough, and the hosts will finish the job in the Final against their nearest and dearest. But first things first: a September 11th battle against, of all people, the United States, coached by our old mate Eddie O’Sullivan. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war...