Richie Hogan book extracts: ‘Look at me now, lying powerless on the ground, pretending I can keep doing this’

Outside, on the pitch, the 2023 All-Ireland semi- final had started between Kilkenny and Clare, and I was staring at the ceiling.

During the warm-up, a sharp, searing pain had shot through my back as I struck the ball. That piercing dart of agony was a harbinger, the red warning light flashing in my mind. I knew that a crippling back spasm was mere seconds away. If that happened, it was game over for me.

Not only would I be unable to play, but I wouldn’t even be able to walk off the pitch.

I managed to retreat to the dressing room and asked our team doctor, Tadhg Crowley, for a couple of painkillers.

With a back spasm, your muscles completely lock up because they believe you have seriously damaged your back. The aim of the painkillers was to get my muscles to relax.

Getting down on the floor was an effort to decompress my spine and aid me into a more relaxed state. Calmness was required. Small, controlled movements while lying down would avoid me tensing up completely.

When a back spasm hits me, my body undergoes an abrupt shift to one side. One glance and it appears I have scoliosis, as one side has tightened up and is pulling the rest of my body towards that side. I am not hunched over, but my spine has been bent into a C-curved shape and it is difficult to flex out of that fixed position.

The game has started. I should be sitting amongst the Kilkenny substitutes, watching on, but it wouldn’t be unusual for a fella to disappear from the bench, head into the dressing room for some foam-rolling or get the eye in with some rapid striking. There’s a television in the dressing room; I ask the steward there to crank up the volume so I can listen to the commentary and monitor the flow of the game.

Throughout all the injury setbacks over the years, I managed to maintain my resilience. I never allowed myself to feel any form of self-pity. My body may have been breaking down for several years, piece by piece. But mentally, I had always been too strong for it to affect me.

I would talk myself through it.

“Get up. Stop being soft.”

“Why shouldn’t this happen to you? What made you so special? – 99.9pc of players would give anything for the talent you have.”

“Your body will do what your mind tells it to do.”

More often than not, I was right.

But this time was different. This time it really was over.

Whether we won or not today, whether I played any part or even managed to get off this greasy shower floor, I knew that I was done.

In general, on match day, I am a really cold individual. No laughing. No joking. No major interactions with Anne or my family. I’m never tense, never emotional.

Just calm.

This time, however, I realised the bleak situation that I was in and for once I indulged in a little self-pity. God knows, I deserved it. For a second, my eyes started to well up. It seemed a long time since I was one of the best athletes in the game. Look at me now, lying powerless on the ground, pretending I can keep doing this.

Outside, 48,360 people were in the stadium, and another half a million were tuned in on the TV at home, all watching some of the best athletes in the world competing against each other.

Underneath the Hogan Stand, however, I was crumpled on the ground like an old man, hoping to scrape myself off the floor just to sit on the subs’ bench, never mind take part in the action.

I kept my back nailed to the ground and tried to move my legs from side to side, hoping to hear a pretty decent crack in my spine to give me some sort of relief. After a few minutes, I rolled around and got up on one knee, being careful not to move too quickly. I walked over to my bag, stuck my hand in the side pocket and pulled out a bottle of anti-inflammatory tablets, Vimovo.

At this point in my career, having a stash of Vimovo in my gear bag was more important than having my own hurl. If push came to shove, I could play without any hurl, but I couldn’t get through a game without these tablets. I took one to add to the paracetamol that Tadhg had given me earlier.

I shuffled back out to my seat. Our S&C coach Mickey Comerford took a look at me and asked if I was all right. “I am,” I said, “I’m just trying to stay moving in case I get stiff.”

I moved over towards John Kearns, one of the Kilkenny physios, often a confidant in these scenarios. He would know when I was in trouble but always kept it under wraps.

John knew I could play through the pain barrier but, more importantly, he understood what playing for Kilkenny means to every player in that dressing room. If there was a one per cent chance that the player could play, then John would do his best not to be the one to rule him out to management.

I invoked client confidentiality on him straight away.

“John, I felt a little bit of a shot in my back, you might have a quick look at half-time. But if anyone asks, I’m good to go.”

It wasn’t an attempt to deceive the management. They had enough occupying their minds with those who were playing; the last thing they wanted to be bothered with was news that Richie Hogan was injured. This was more a strategy to keep going, hoping that, if called upon, adrenaline would sustain me for whatever time I was needed.

The previous four weeks of uninterrupted training had provided me with a ray of hope as to my involvement. If the management got word that I couldn’t even get through the warm-up, however, then I knew that I would never play another minute in a Kilkenny jersey, regardless of whether we reached the final.

The choice for me was pretty straightforward. I can go on, risk that I play badly and never play for Kilkenny again. Or I can tell them I can’t play and never play for Kilkenny again anyway.

The benchmark among forwards in our squad at that time was Eoin Cody. He was in outstanding form that summer, causing chaos for defences with his ball-winning ability and his elusive running style. He was blitzing defenders in training, too, but I hadn’t been too far behind.

And then on game day, my body had collapsed. Coping with that tension, that uncertainty, made it difficult to keep going. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to let go either. So I took my seat in the Hogan Stand and kept my mouth shut.

And somehow in the 60th minute I found myself standing upright, preparing to enter the action, replacing Tom Phelan. I could feel my feet sinking in the ground as I went on; I wasn’t sure if I could function even while lightly jogging.

But I got involved in the play and made a couple of contributions. The full-time whistle blew.

We were through to the final. I had done my bit for the Kilkenny cause. My body was falling apart, but my mentality was iron-clad and that prevented it from tearing me down.

Brian marched in, took one look at me and roared: ‘You shut the f**k up and sit the f**k down’

We were sitting in the dressing room and everyone’s head was down. After five All-Irelands in six years we looked like a group that couldn’t figure out where things were going wrong.

It felt like we were going to just fizzle away in the second half and watch on as some other team walked their way to an All-Ireland title. I stood up to get lads going rather than sit there and wallow in self-pity.

Brian was so angry outside the dressing-room that day in Semple Stadium [for an All-Ireland quarter-final against Limerick in 2012]. That fury built up inside him and when he came in to address us, he unleashed the full force of it.

I was standing up trying to rally lads and get things going. Brian marched in, took one look at me and roared at the top of his voice. “You shut the f**k up and sit the f**k down.”

I completely froze and stood there silently. It could have been anyone that got that initial burst; it wasn’t planned. I was just the one in view when he entered the room. He turned around and I was still standing.

“I said sit the f**k down! When the f**k are you going to start living up to the potential that you have?”

Everyone put their heads down in disbelief for fear that they would be next. He proceeded to abuse a few more before turning around to look for someone. “Where the f**k is Richie Power?”

A trembling voice came from the physio room to inform Brian that Richie had been taken away in an ambulance. “Well, he’s lucky he’s not here or he’d be getting it as well!”

He pointed over to TJ.

“TJ, you are coming in. You’ve been crying all week to Martin Fogarty about how you’re not in the team. Well, you’re in now, so do something.” I went out in the second half, completely pumped up, playing with this furious energy. And 12 minutes in I was walking towards the sideline after being shown a red card.

We won the game, and there had been definite improvement in the second half, but I was raging coming back into the dressing-room. Colin Fennelly and Aidan Fogarty had both started, scoring 1-2 apiece. Lads were hitting good form up front and now I was facing suspension.

Brian wasn’t finished and he waited until everyone had togged in before lining every member of the panel up on the bench around the dressing-room. He tore into us again one-by-one this time, victory didn’t mean we were immune to post-match criticism.

There was no solace for those who didn’t feature on the pitch either, they too were challenged and warned in equal measure. He came down the line and reached me before pausing, perhaps sensing my anger over the day’s chain of events and that I was on the brink of a volcanic eruption. “Richie … we’ll have to see what happens the next day now. Red card, don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

We made our way across to the Anner Hotel in Thurles for our post-match meal and the players headed out into the lobby while the backroom staff and county board officers, who were served last, finished their food.

I was sitting down by myself when the troops were eventually being rounded up and Brian, sensing that I had calmed a little, came over to talk.

We discussed the red-card incident; he didn’t feel it was justified. He would never come down too hard on fellas sent off, he viewed it the same as injured players: focus on the collective, push on with who is there.

It had been an old-school approach from Brian in the dressing-room, but it worked. It was the approach that we reacted best to and the approach that was most effective.

The fury he created in the dressing-room had influenced our second-half performance. I happened to be collateral damage on this occasion, but I wasn’t about to take it personally.

What has just happened? I was still dazed, I felt I’d been screwed over

I turned as I heard the whistle and saw him lying on the ground. “Get up you little weasel!” I roared at him, having felt the extent of the contact myself.

I knew exactly what he was at: trying to find an easy way out instead of standing up like a man and getting on with the game.

I looked over at Johnny Murphy, the linesman who was right next to it, and he was shaking his head while looking at Barrett sprawled out on the grass.

A free had been awarded to Tipperary. James Owens made his way from the middle of the field across to Murphy.

“Ask the linesman, I didn’t really touch him,” I said to Owens.

“Right,” Owens responded.

The linesman then spoke to the ref. “Right … I’m not so sure he got hit. Did he say I didn’t mean to catch him?”

“No,” Owens said.

Murphy responded, “Yeah, I’m not so sure that he got hit now; it could be a slight little bit, but I’m not sure. I think he’s playing.”

“He’s playing it a bit?” Owens asked.

“I think he is,” Murphy said. “I’m not so sure now but he didn’t … I was right beside it … I don’t think he got hit.”

“Right,” Owens said.

“I think this fella [Barrett] knows what he’s doing,” Murphy continued.

Owens made his way off to look at Barrett and the Tipp physio interjected to plead Barrett’s case. Then he returned to Murphy.

“What did you think?” Murphy asked.

“There is actually blood there,” Owens said.

“Is there?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“OK.”

Owens called me over and I was raging with Murphy because I thought he’d done me with a yellow card. I gave my name when asked for it by Owens and I was visibly unhappy with the booking.

The referee then said, “I know, Richie, you caught him late, up high, head-high.”

“Very little in it,” I said.

And then he reached for the red card in his book. He flashed it and sprinted back down the field before I had time to question him. I was stunned.

“What?! Where are you going?”

My mind was scrambled. I had been half- expecting a yellow card, and so the sight of the red left me shocked.

I walked towards the sideline. Derek Lyng was the first person I met. We were both stunned.

I went up the steps of the stand, threw down my hurl and helmet, and slumped into my seat. My mind was a mess, ablaze with thoughts.

What has just happened? I was still dazed. I felt I’d been screwed over. Refereeing is not an easy job and 50-50 decisions can go either way – but I just couldn’t believe that Owens wasn’t taking the word of the linesman who was five yards away from the incident.

Half-time came a few minutes later and there was this howl of disgust from Kilkenny fans towards the referee. The boos vibrated throughout the stadium.

Later that winter I was sent the video clip of the incident by the GAA, capturing what happened and the subsequent conversation.

We all trooped down the tunnel. I was asked to speak and initially struggled to string the words together, although eventually I did mumble something to the team before they went back out. Padraig Walsh tried to rouse the lads further.

“Look at what that man has done for Kilkenny hurling.

“How many times has he gone out there and won games for us?

“How many of us wouldn’t have All-Ireland medals in our pockets without him? Are we going to let this happen to him today?

“It’s our turn now to win this game for him. Or are we going to look at Barrett lifting the cup in 35 minutes’ time with a smug f**king head on him?”

I got a WhatsApp from Bernard Brogan … I had to look a few times to see if it was a wind-up

When you’re a veteran and your game-time becomes restricted, plenty fall into an assumption that you’ve retired – out of sight, out of mind.

On a regular basis I would be approached by someone in the street for a chat about hurling. The conversation tended to go in the same direction.

“What are you doing yourself now?”

“Are you still playing a bit with your club?”

“Do you miss not being involved?”

Often, I was too embarrassed to admit that I was still training hard and desperately trying to wring one last drop from my Kilkenny hurling career.

Instead, I played along and said I was playing a little bit of club hurling but nothing too serious.

At the start, my heart would sink when those conversations happened. As the year went on, however, I grew immune to it and it only fuelled my determination.

One of these interactions happened on the All- Ireland final weekend in the middle of July 2022.

The Friday before the game, I got a WhatsApp from Bernard Brogan.

“You working at the game on Sunday? I have a Q&A in the Croke Park Hotel if you were around for 30 min pre-game?”

I had to look at the message a few times to see if it was a wind-up. As I read it again, I laughed. I thought, “I would love to see the look on this lad’s face when I come on the field on Sunday”.

I never replied. Better to let him sweat it out. Sure enough, he followed up with an apology for his ignorance a few weeks later and we both laughed about it.