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Saturday morning, and the gods had decided to be kind. No rain, no howling winds, just an uncharacteristically mild February air settling over Waterford like a held breath. Eight degrees Celsius, but let’s leave Anders and his thermometer out of this. The point is, for Ireland in early February, it was decent. It felt like the world itself was holding still for what was to come.
I left the house at 07:20, that strange hour when the streets are empty enough to belong to you alone. By 08:30, I was stepping into the SETU Arena, and from the first glance, I knew this was not going to be an ordinary day. The car park was full. Inside, the banners greeted me, bold and unmistakable—IFAF National Indoor Championship, Na Loch Dall Archery, SETU Arena, Waterford City! That familiar feeling settled in my chest. Excitement, reverence. The quiet understanding that I was about to witness something that mattered.
The hall was packed, 124 archers from Ireland UK and Malta, all gathered for one reason. Some faces familiar, others unknown but carrying the same weight of anticipation. There was that unmistakable hum in the air—the sound of a hundred minds focusing, of bows being checked, strings being tested, fingers stretching, bodies shifting from rest to readiness.
Warm-up began, a necessary ritual. If I had been shooting today, I’d call it nothing more than a handshake with the bow, a last-minute whisper before stepping into the storm. But the storm was coming. The real game, the IFAA Indoor Round, was about to begin.
Two standard units. Six ends. Five arrows per end. That was the rhythm of the day. Adults and juniors from twenty yards, cubs from ten. Two archers per lane, side by side, the competition measured not just against others, but against themselves. The scoring, precise and unforgiving—the 40cm target face with rings from five at the centre down to one, the 5-spot target offering a sharp contrast between the five-point white zone and the four-point blue. Precision, discipline, mastery. No room for hesitation.
The arena became something else entirely once the signal sounded. Thirty shooting lanes, sixty archers at a time, all in a line, their bows raised in quiet defiance of the chaos beyond this moment. Compounds and metal recurves dominated, sleek, clinical, engineered to perfection. The kind of bows that belong to the modern battlefield of precision shooting. But amidst them, standing as if plucked from another era, were the longbows—a different beast, a different soul entirely.
The first signal. Three sharp beeps. And the storm began.
Some archers shot fast, their arrows cutting through the air with machine-gun efficiency, relentless and unwavering. Others moved with deliberate slowness, each shot an act of meditation.
Suzan Agnew, steady as the tide, remained on the line long after the others had finished. A lone rock amidst the surging current. No panic, no rush. Just breath, stillness, control. The arrow released when it was meant to, not a second sooner.
James Byrne in his red fox Tee, familiar to many through Blackbird Podcast, wore his nerves like a carefully arranged mask. That trademark grin was there, but beneath it, a battle was being fought. Not against the competitors, not against the target—against himself, against the pressure that every archer knows too well.
Bill Cashman, IFAF safety officer, shot with the ease of a man who has done this a thousand times before. No excess movement, no wasted energy, just precision and purpose. A performance like an actor who knows he belongs on the stage.
Nick Anton, National Head Coach, radiated something almost unshakable. He was at ease, whether by nature or by sheer force of will, part stoic, part Epicurean, a man who seemed to genuinely enjoy the battle rather than endure it.
Charlie Ryan—too young to carry that kind of unwavering focus, and yet, there he was. Every movement measured, dissected, perfected. He didn’t find the target. He knew where it was before the arrow ever left his fingers.
Chris Ocampo, TIFAM Youth Editor-in-Chief, carried himself like a hawk circling its prey. His arrows flew one after another, clean, precise. There was admiration in the eyes of those watching him—envy, even. The kind of talent that turns heads, that makes people wonder how something so effortless can be so devastatingly good.
Jasmin (Chris sister), no less formidable, stood with the same quiet intensity, her presence a testament to skill honed through patience. Where Chris was the hawk, Jasmin was the steady mountain wind—unshaken, deliberate, her arrows landing with a precision that spoke of instinct sharpened to a razor’s edge. Those who watched her knew: talent ran deep in the Ocampo bloodline.
Andrew Waylan, TIFAM Deputy Editor, moved through the day like it was nothing more than a casual stroll. While others clenched their jaws, swallowed their nerves, he seemed perfectly content to just be here, as if competition were secondary to the experience itself.
Dave Leigh, Galtee Archery Range, was a man who had made peace with his bow long ago. His arrows flew as if they belonged to the target from the start. No hesitation, no struggle. Just instinct and execution.
Anto Corcoran, in his lucky yellow T-shirt, stood apart in his own way. No rush, no urgency. The bow was not a tool in his hands—it was a voice, and he let it sing. There was Zen in his approach, a patience that few could match. And the results? They spoke. The monk always wins against the monkey.
Then there were the longbows. And among them, Colleen Moore, TIFAM Chairperson. Her movements spoke of humble anticipation, of a quiet understanding between herself and the bow. A longbow does not forgive. It does not assist. It only obeys—and Colleen knew exactly what she was asking of it.
And then, Tom Joyce. A legend. A man whose simple longbow carried more weight in its silence than any compound bow in the room. But it wasn’t just the bow—it was the arrows. Handcrafted, shaped not just with skill but with something bordering on sorcery.
People hushed their voices when they spoke about Tom’s arrows. As if afraid that speaking too loudly might break the spell. They flew too true, too perfect, as if Apollo himself had touched them, or perhaps touched Tom, lending him a spark of godlike precision.
Fatigue crept into the room as the hours stretched on. I set my camera down for a moment, exchanged words with Doc Smith, a man whose humility never masked the sheer skill in his hands. He looked exhausted, but there was no doubt—he was moving toward a medal. Nothing less.
The final shots were loosed. The scorecards handed in.
The judges took their places. And the waiting began.
The room did not quiet. If anything, it grew louder. The bird market had begun—the flurry of whispered conversations, archers dissecting their performances, speculating, waiting for the numbers to tell them what they already suspected.
It was 17:00.
And I had no idea how these archers were still on their feet.
For me, it had been a long day—one spent with a camera in hand, capturing everything, writing as I went, shaping this account while the ink was still wet. If I was exhausted, how must they feel? But they stood, some talking, some still lost in quiet reflection.
Archery is not just a sport. It is an endurance of mind and body, a battle fought in stillness and fire. And though the final scores were yet to be read, the true contest had already been won.