Cinaedh's pass lands the sliotar squarely in my path, and I usher the ball of leather in a burst of speed forward. My confrontation with the three Sons of Tuireann was not pleasant, but it ended quickly enough when my point was called, and the carnyx blew to call half-time. Saved by the horn, as it were. I am now given another chance to score against Eire's most illustrious race. Manannán hunkers down, determined not to let me get the sliotar past him a second time. With a feigned swing, I secretly pass the ball to Scathach, who sends the missle just beneath the Son of Lir's giant barricading arm. The carnyx blows again - a blast of victory for the Milesians! Abú Fir Miled! We have won! "So you have," the Dagda answers, his honour untarnished, his pride untouched. "But then your world is above the hills. Ours is below, and has been since your grandfathers arrived. Prepare to face us again at Samhain, in the Otherworld, and we shall see who will be drinking and dancing at the local tavern by the end." With that, the Everliving Ones fade into the shadows, taking their wonderous camáns with them. The rest of us are left battered and bleeding on the field, feeling a mix of pride at our victory and excitement at the prospect of a rematch at year's end. Exchanging smiles and pats on the back, the Tara team swings their camáns over their shoulders and heads toward that ever-flowing watering hole - Tailtiu's Tavern!