Cup joy for Tullamore in midlands derby final

There are certain Sundays that ask to be remembered, and this was one. A day when God lit the stage Himself—blue skies, soft breeze, and the golden sort of sun that would have coaxed the last blush out of a peony. And under that generous sky, two neighbouring tribes gathered not merely to play a match, but to write the last page of a season's story.

Dunne Cup Final: Tullamore 31, Midland Warriors 12

Tullamore and Midland Warriors—it was more than just a rugby final; it was a reckoning. It had the scent of a family argument, with all the affection and none of the forgiveness.

From the first whistle, the drama began to simmer. Warriors, perhaps over-eager, knocked on the opening kick-off. Tullamore, grateful and gracious in equal measure, took the early offering. Their scrum did the honest work, their forwards carried like men chasing lost youth, and then came the first penalty. McIntyre—a man who kicks like other men breathe—sent the ball over with the ease of a postman folding a letter.

Tullamore 3 – Warriors 0.

The crowd had barely finished whispering admiration when the next chapter unfolded. Alex Halpin, a man born with quicksilver in his boots, tiptoed through defenders like a ghost in the attic. The ball zipped from Brennan to Brady, then to Milne, who with a pass both audacious and sublime, unleashed Luke Wyer. Wyer didn’t so much run as vanish along the touchline and reappear in the right-hand corner. The conversion stood little chance against the wayward wind, but the damage was done.

Tullamore 8 – Warriors 0.

The Warriors, as if woken from a dream, marched downfield with quiet fury. A lineout maul was their weapon, old as warfare and twice as effective. They pushed Tullamore backwards like a tide. Their backrow burst free and plunged over. The conversion, like a wish on the wind, blew wide.

Tullamore 8 – Warriors 5.

Then came the sort of try you tell your children about. Kevin Healy, eighteen and playing like he was born for the stage, burst up the left touchline with the kind of urgency that belongs to youth and prophecy. Just when he was about to be swallowed whole, he slipped a pass inside to the flaming-haired Cian Dunne. If you blinked, you missed it —Dunne tore through three would-be tacklers and crashed over.

Tullamore 13 – Warriors 5.

McIntyre added another three before the break—measured, methodical, inevitable.

Half-time: Tullamore 16 – Warriors 5.

There are some leads more fragile than they look, and the Warriors emerged after the interval as if they had unfinished business with destiny. Seven minutes of granite-hard rugby and they found the gap they needed. A try under the posts and a simple conversion left them a breath away.

Tullamore 16 – Warriors 12.

Now came the war of inches. For half an hour, it was blood and elbows, carried out in a narrow corridor between the two 22s. Not a man blinked, not a tackle was missed. It was old-fashioned rugby, the kind that made you want to stand up and sing. Eventually, the relentless pressure told—Warriors strayed at the ruck. McIntyre, with all the poise of a country doctor writing a prescription, knocked it over.

Tullamore 19 – Warriors 12.

Then came the moment the world tilted. A misfired lineout fell into the arms of Donal Milne, who, at an age where most men are considering golf or gardening, chose instead to defy gravity and convention. He set off down the line like a man late for a wedding. Through the heart of the defence he went, scattering disbelief in his wake. He dived in the corner like a man answering a higher call. The place erupted.

And McIntyre—because it was his sort of day—curled over a touchline conversion that belonged in a museum.

Tullamore 26 – Warriors 12.

But still, the gods weren’t done. Brennan, who had played the role of conductor all day, saw a glimmer and kicked over the ruck. David Dunican, part salmon and part poet, leapt into the air and landed like prophecy fulfilled. Another try, another cheer that could rattle windows.

Tullamore 31 – Warriors 12.

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And so it ended—not just a match, but a passage of time written in mud and sunlight.

The Dunne Cup now lives in Tullamore again—but more importantly, something deeper was won. Young men became players. Old warriors became legends. And for one day in May, the world made a little more sense.

Man of the Match: Shane Brennan, who played as if he was writing a sonnet with every pass, every kick, every step.

Honourable mentions: Brady the battering ram, Milne the miracle, Halpin the dancer.