"Liam!" he called. "I've bad news, I'm afraid." I walked over to him. "Two points", he said. "Louth beat ye by two points."

I laughed.

"They did, you know, " he repeated, walking on. And I stood there, being slagged and booed by my fellow first years, still holding my butter dish.

The Knockbeg College annual sports day was slowly ending, and I was just after competing in the junior 100m final when Fr Lennon stopped me in my tracks. The race was of the handicapped variety. I've never forgotten it, but never written about it, or spoken about it until now, funny enough. The first years had to run 90 metres. Second years had to run 95 metres.

And third years had to run the full 100 . . . and I was one of two first years who made it to the final. Came third, and won the strangest prize I was ever to receive in my running, or football, life.

Don't know what first prize was, or the second. But, I had a butter dish to bring back home to Meath with me for my summer holidays. That's my memory . . .

that's where I was, and that's what I was doing on the Sunday afternoon when Meath, triumphant, ecstatic, newlycrowned national league champions, lost to Louth in the first round of the Leinster championship.

It was one hell of a Meath team. Household names every last one of them, Mick Ryan, Mattie Kerrigan, Ken Reynolds, Cormac Rowe . . . men who would have walked onto the Meath team of the 1980s.

Then, they would have shared in the two All-Irelands, five Leinsters and three national leagues of that decade, no doubt about it.

But all they ever won with a Meath jersey on their backs was one single national league title and they were never allowed to forget about losing to Louth.

Almost everyone in Meath has a memory of where they were that day. Next time Meath won a national title . . . the Centenary Cup in 1984 . . . guess who we got to play in the first round of the Leinster championship? Lucky us. Poor, unlucky Louth!

After that, it was easy for our Meath team. We were always ready. There was never any chance of Louth catching us dozing on a Sunday afternoon. For good measure, we had three men posted on Meath's tiny border with Louth and given even half a chance, Mickey McQuillan, Bob O'Malley and Bernie Flynn would talk for hours about what they were seeing and hearing in the football fields in the Wee County. The three of them would always try to put the fear of God into us, and often they would succeed.

Louth folk, for some reason, like to talk a lot about beating Meath. It appears to occupy them for great portions of their waking hours. They've always made big plans, and equally big promises, before playing Meath. McQuillan, especially, would love to listen to them . . . and then, at training, recite every last word to the rest of us. "They're big. They're talking it up. They're playing well, " he'd say, before adding, and sending a chill up our backs, "I'm telling ye, they think they'll win!"

We were always ready to make sure Louth never won. But someday soon, they'll beat Meath once again.

It might happen this afternoon. Louth think they'll win, but there is nothing unusual about that - except Louth people have hardly ever been more confident in the county's GAA history.

And Meath? Meath are absolutely petrified that they might lose, and there's nothing unusual about that either. Except this time, they are more prepared than any Meath team has ever been, for Louth.

Meath have seen Louth go 10 games in the national league and only lose once.

Eamonn Barry and the lads have seen them polish off Limerick very easily, and go toe-to-toe with a big, strong and talented Donegal team before taking the division two title with a unanimous decision on the scorecards of every single spectator in Breffni Park.

Over the same number of months, Louth have seen Meath win some, falter, win again and be relegated to division