(Photo by John Mee)
About three weeks ago, I was sitting right here where I am now, at my desk, in my room, on my PC, when I started to become aware of a strange faint noise. It was a fluttering of sorts, soft but insistent. At first, I thought a bird had got itself trapped in the attic or in the eaves. It was than kind of noise. I went outside to investigate.
It was bunting. Red and
green triangular bunting. My next-door neighbour had hung it out quietly, along
with flags and, as I saw when it got towards dusk, lights that flashed in those
same home colours.
It was that time again.
Mayo had won the All-Ireland Semi Final and were on their way to meet God Knows
Who in the final in two weeks’ time. The ‘God-Knows Who’ turned out to be Kerry.
A highly formidable adversary, a practically unstoppable force.
Mayo’s excellent manager,
Andy Moran, set the tone for the encounter in a candid press conference.
"Does anyone here think we're going to win the
All-Ireland final?” he asks, “No. Thank you.”
The question he had been asked concerned the Mayo fans and
whether they would now get caught up in the hype. Andy was unequivocal.
"Our county has been starved the last four or five
years. If they go a bit nuts, let them.”
And it started there. With two weeks to go until the final.
But here’s the thing, or my view of the thing at least: Mayo fans are exceptional. They don’t ‘go nuts’. They never ‘go nuts’. What
they do is they support their team. Through up and down, thick and thin, they support
the team.
And that’s what happened.
Mayo, where I have been pleased to live for the last 29
years, went into full-on support mode. Nobody went nuts. The task ahead was
undeniably difficult, a positive outcome unlikely. But the good people of Mayo
got behind the mule. And they pushed.
Two feelings existed simultaneously. Firstly, there was a
sense of realism. This excellent young team had already exceeded expectations
in this formative year. To reach the final was a colossal achievement in
itself. Maybe there wouldn’t necessarily be more this time but it would still
be a great year.
That was the first thing. The second thing… well, that was
hope. But also something more than just hope, something intangible: a feeling,
a sense that maybe, just maybe, this team, these men, could actually pull it
off.
Nobody went nuts. But the town of Castlebar along with, I’m
sure, the rest of Mayo moved into a fifth gear of support mode. Every
discussion had was peppered with amateur analysis and prediction and good sense
and, yes, hope. Every conversation ended, like an amen at the end of a prayer,
with the exact same sentiment; “Have you any tickets?”
I put out my own flags. Two red and green fabrics looking a
little apologetic next to my neighbour’s bonanza. I have never been talented
with flags. I think they are a little like dogs; they sense when you are
uncertain about them. While other flags on the street waved proudly, ours hung
limply and projected only a sort of mild dejection.
The day arrived...
You may be reading this in another part of the world. That
happens sometimes, I know. You may not be aware of how it all played out last Sunday,
on the day of the All-Ireland Football final, but if you’re in this hemisphere,
you probably know.
We won.
Mayo won.
Context is everything. Mayo had not won for a very, very
long time. This is not so terrible for some counties, like my own, where the
expectation of a win is hardly ever realistically there. But it’s different
here in Mayo. Here, the team have been contenders to once again win the Sam
Maguire Cup for the longest time. And many times they have come tantalisingly
close. Within an inch. But always, in the living memory of most people alive
today, the coming close has ended the same way; in heartbreak.
But not this year. After Seventy-five long years of Championship
drought, the bright young team of Mayo stalwarts brought it home.
Mayo won.
So now, in the week
that just was, so many Mayo people have had something that they never had
before in most of their memories. At least outside of marriages, children being
born, and lottery wins. They have had a taste of unbridled joy. Nobody knew
what would happen if and when Mayo finally won again and what happened did not
disappoint. Tens of thousands of people took to the streets, the bars, and the
public places and their faces all beamed with delight. Horns were blared and
car roofs were ridden upon by ecstatic youths waving huge flags. Old men,
stuffed into their team jerseys, were linked through the crowds by over
stimulated granddaughters, telling anyone who would listen, in quavering
voices, that they had been there the last time, only they had been very small
back then.
These young victors stand
on the shoulders of those who have gone before, some of whom earned
well-deserved medals from the sideline, some of whom commentated on the match,
some of whom watched infirm from their rooms, some of whom who are now gone.
The ones who went before showed that the power and the skill and the talent
were all there, it only required one final unbridled effort to make the impossible
real again.
It’s been quite the
week here in Mayo. To tell the truth, I’ve been a tiny bit divorced from it
myself. As a 29-year resident of Mayo, but originally from up the road, I feel
a little bit of an outsider in the midst of all the melee. But then, wherever I’ve
been in my life, including home, I have always felt the same. But enough of
that. I burst with pride and joy for the team, and I celebrate with my friends
in the town. Anything else is just down to me.
As I look out of my window
now, trying to think of my next sentence, a stray breeze catches my own meagre flags
out in the front garden. Like one more small miracle, the red and green
material raises itself off the grass and billows confidently out in the bright air.
Bravo, Mayo.
Bravo indeed!
