The Wrists of Joe Deane

21st Apr 2009

For years he worked hard to make his opposition look silly,
For Cork and for Killeagh and for dear Imokilly,

On difficult days he seemed more like a machine,
When things were rough then up popped Joe Deane,

Out at the forty or inside in the square,
With ash and a sliothar there was no better player,

With minutes to go and a deficit looming,
The crowd on its feet all ready for crooning.

A long ball played to Timmy, into Ben or Niall Mac,
They could always rely on Joe Deane coming back,

To take a hand pass or a pull along clover,
Deane would gather up and blast a point over,

Whatever the angle, corner or tight spot,
Deane would still manage to squeeze over a shot.

His magic never faded, down the Pairc or in Semple,
Hurling his religion, Croker his temple.

To hurl in East Cork whether a saint or a sinner,
You can only make hay if you're a natual born winner,

Always up for a game, a knock-about or a session,
Training with Deane always answered that question.

Whether working on fitness or honing his skills,
Deane was not one for drama, hysterics or frills.

Direct or running, passing or straight,
Down in the corners he'd patiently wait.

Then he'd scoop up loose ball or take a low pass,
All his marker would see were the grass stains on his ass,

As he'd power towards goal, with a pace that was manic,
The backs would all duck and goal-keeper would panic.

All in a tizzy at the sight of Joe Deane,
No more dangerous a player they ever had seen,

No mercy he'd show, all around him would fret,
As ash struck the leather, ball bound for the net.

The posts they would shake as Deane rammed home his score,
Half of Cork on the terraces in unison would roar.

Defeat soon averted, and with victory in sight,
Our boy wouldn't let up, he'd keep up the fight.

Harassing the back line, he'd block and he'd hook,
Converting all the chances and frees that he took.

With your best hand at the top, a hurley to hold,
Is the unquestionable law or so we are told.

But Deano liked grappling his stick with his left,
And still managed to leave his marker's bereft,

Of any minor success as he'd mop up the ball,
No possession conceded or interest in a brawl.

The only solution to stop Joe on the prowl,
Was to grab on to his jersey or to do him a foul,

To stop the scoreboard looking ever more bland,
But we all know Deano could point from the stand.

He'd stop and he'd steady with that familiar old stance,
His low flying shot would Cork's tally enhance,

Deano-o! Dean-o! would ring out round the ground,
The other crowd silent, hardly making a sound,

All wishing they had players as quick as young Joe,
With plaudits and medals a-plenty to show,

But only in Cork do we make them so great,
So simply he served teams up on a plate.

With beautiful wrists to watch him was magic,
But no longer we'll see him in red now it's tragic.

No longer the rocket from Killeagh will scramble,
Out to the touch line and with his swing gamble,

A beautiful point just glancing over his shoulder,
Tiz no wonder of so many accolades he's a holder.

All-stars, All-Irelands, minor wins and two counties,
His fireplace has no room left for the bags full of bounties.

A railway cup medal and history he has made:
Never once did he lose a Fitzgibbon Cup game he played.

Like Ringy before him we'll miss him so much,
Trying to grapple Liam McCarthy from Kil-kenny's clutch.

Dear Joe, your commitment and dedication was super,
We'll miss your deft touch, you were a stalwart, a trooper,

Your sharpness and wrist work were a pleasure to behold,
And as long as stories of Cork hurling are told,

You'll be up there with Christy and all of those greats,
Your name on the team sheet pulled crowds through the gates,

We'll miss you dear Rebel, oh what a joy it has been,
To witness the great skill of the wrists of Joe Deane.