There are legends and then there is Sean Cavanagh

Of all the people for Derry men to envy, one name tops the bill.

Growing up, it was easy to hate Sean Cavanagh. He was tough, he was skillful, he was too powerful to stop in his tracks. He was successful and he was damn well relentless. You mix that with the fact that he's from Tyrone and it's an impossible concoction for a Derry native to swallow. The fact that the fear grew around those four syllables of Sean Cavanagh only increased the hatred. It became harder and harder to ignore him so the only option was to actively dislike him. That he's doing it nearly a decade and a half later has only served to ram it down the throats of his begrudgers and it's only forced the respect he's earned. Even if it's through envy. Mickey Harte took another Tyrone side into another Ulster final on another big day in Clones on Sunday. Three teams now, the Red Hands legend has built. Three teams. And yet, here's Sean Cavanagh: central back in 2003, central, still, 13 years on. As captain's performances go, the 2016 provincial decider was warrior-like. It was almost god-like. It will be spoken of in Tyrone folklore forever. When the chips were down, when Donegal were cruising four points to the good, their defensive structure looking impenetrable and their experience telling, it was Sean Cavanagh who turned the tide. He came out the field, demanded the ball and carried the game to Donegal with no fear and no inhibitions. It didn't matter where on the pitch he was, he took possession, squared up to the posts and started bulldozing his way forward. And the opposition simply couldn't handle him. Players like Sean Cavanagh don't come around very often in this lifetime. You don't get footballers with the package so full that it's overflowing. When he was only supposed to be cutting his teeth, he formed one of the deadliest midfield partnerships with Kevin Hughes. He grew bigger into his frightening frame, his right foot grew more accurate and Mickey Harte started throwing him in and out of full forward, running at shit-scared defenders from half forward and back in midfield whenever it was necessary. Wherever he has played, he has always been terrifying. Wherever he has played, he has always done so with a smile on his face and a care-free freedom safe in the knowledge that he's going to keep winning the ball and continue to make things happen. Hiding is not in his DNA. Nor is shrinking. Periphery is not part of his vocabulary. When Sean Cavanagh pulls on a white jersey, you can be damn sure that he is all-in and that he is all-action. For the love of the game. For the love of Tyrone. And even in this career of seemingly endless accolades, Sunday was a special case. The Ulster final took some flak as generally happens when two defensive teams face off with one another. But by the time the second half began to free-wheel out of control, anyone that wasn't transfixed by the Tyrone captain's performance should have a look at themselves. It was like time had stopped and Sean Cavanagh was playing in another dimension. Three seconds ahead of everyone else, a foot higher, a stone of muscle heavier. He could do nothing wrong even as he tiptoed on the edge of disaster and immortality. The great ones always do. Sometimes you watch on at a game and you can see a player who's almost possessed by the occasion. It's animalistic, committing yourself so wholly to a football match as if it's all that matters in this world for those 70 minutes. Cavanagh was wired and he threw himself into the Ulster final as if it was life or death and to hesitate was the end. He played on the edge, he played to win, and it was a thing of beauty. Twice, when losing the ball would've been catastrophic, the Tyrone number 14 lined up the posts from tight angles on the right hand side and curled two absolute screamers inside the near post as if a tractor beam was drawing balls from his right foot. By the time the full time whistle had been blown, Sean Cavanagh was dead on his feet having sacrificed his body into an instrument of weaponry for his county. He had ate up the yards of St. Tiernach's Park to track back and hound Donegal men. He had fetched high balls in the middle of the field, lifted the siege charging out from the back and led from the front with pure, unhinged fearlessness and a desire to win. For 70 minutes, he had elevated above the human species and became nothing more and nothing less than a footballer. That was his whole being. And, after 14 years, there's not even one sign of extinction. He's stronger, hungrier and better than ever. After 14 years, he's still just a Tyrone footballer. Now more than ever. And Sunday was just another special day in the career of Sean Cavanagh. It was just another magical performance that we were all privileged enough to witness. Even the Derry folk.