Behind every All-Ireland medal was a mother's love, a grandmother's memory, and a boy from Littleton who refused to give up."
It was the best year of Rhys Shelly's life. And the worst.
To understand why, we need to go back to the start.
In the heart of Tipperary, between the fields of Littleton and the shadow of Semple Stadium, hurling isn't so much a pastime as a pulse.
For Shelly, it's the rhythm of his childhood -- the echo of a wet sliotar off the ash, the sight of his mother standing on the sideline, and the feeling that, whatever happens, she always had his back.
This was Shelly's breakthrough year, not just Tipp's.
Now, with an All-Ireland medal in his pocket and the No.1 jersey finally his own, Shelly can look back and see the small moments that shaped the big ones.
He grew up in a house where sport was oxygen -- a family of competitors and believers. But if you're searching for the reason he became Tipp's latest star, look to one woman and one field in Littleton.
"Yeah, very thankful to grow up in such a big family," Shelly begins. "Especially my mother. We moved out to Littleton when I was about five, and the land beside the hurling field would be my grandmother's. So, you'd be down there nearly every day when you weren't in school.
"I just remember my mother always having us out pucking the ball around. There used to be this little hurling challenge show on RTÉ -- can't even remember the name of it -- and she'd have us doing the drills. Hurling tennis, touch games, everything."
He laughs now, thinking back on her homemade training regime -- clever, improvised, and rooted in love.
"For a woman who probably never played, she was so invested. I was telling a few young lads up in Westmeath the other day -- they asked how I got my puck-outs so far. I told them: my mother used to soak sliotars in water overnight to make them heavy. She'd have me out pucking them the next day. So when you hit the real match ball, it felt light as anything."
Shelly's voice softens when he talks about her -- the sacrifices, the quiet belief, the persistence when discipline sometimes wavered. You see this year his mum suffered a stroke. Worse again, his grandmother passed away.
In this context, the Tipp All-Ireland win was extra special.
He says: "When I got to my teens, I was probably struggling a bit -- disciplinary stuff with the club. But she was always there for me. Always my biggest supporter. I wouldn't be where I am without her. Making her proud has always been the goal."
And this summer, he did exactly that.
After the All-Ireland final, Shelly was spotted sharing a quiet moment by the sideline with his mother. It wasn't just a post-match embrace. It was a culmination -- of faith, of fight, and of family resilience.
"Yeah, it was unbelievable," he says softly. "We had a tough year at home. Mam had a stroke at the start of the year, and then her mother passed away the week of the Clare game -- the same week I got my first start this year.
"So, yeah, that moment meant a lot. It's something I'll never forget. It was such a tough year, but knowing she was there, and my grandmother looking down -- it was all worth it."
For Shelly, success has never been an individual journey. It's been about those who stood by him when few others did.
"There was a point there when nobody had our backs," he says. "Only our families and teammates. So to win the All-Ireland, for them as much as for us, that's what it was all about."
If there was a turning point in Tipp's campaign, he doesn't hesitate to name it.
"The day in Ennis," he says. "That was the big one for us. We went down there needing a win, and it was basically their home crowd -- Clare's crowd. That result knocked them out and kept us in it. It gave us belief.
"After that, we knew if we beat Waterford, we'd get out of Munster. We relished being underdogs. We'd had bad games -- people wrote us off -- but inside, we were confident. The Clare game, that was the big turning point, the one that drove us on."
That sense of belief mirrors Shelly's own path to becoming Tipp's first-choice goalkeeper.
"It's been a serious battle over the last three years," he admits. "Between myself and Barry, it's been tough. I came in in 2023 thinking I was good enough, but I also knew Barry had been there a long time.
"So I just went in, put my head down. I got my debut that summer. The next year, it didn't go as well. I probably didn't put in the effort I should have. But this year, I just focused. Trained hard. Kept my head down."
That quiet determination -- learned from those evenings in Littleton -- finally paid off.
"I picked up an injury here or there, but I just stayed at it. That's probably the main thing. Just keep at it."
The result is that when he stood by his mother after that final whistle, he wasn't just celebrating a medal. He was closing a circle that began years earlier -- with soaked sliotars, long evenings in the field, and a woman who never stopped believing.
"I'm just happy to give something back," he says. "To give her that delight. To make her proud."