I had to make an unexpected drive to Dublin on Friday evening. My son needed to get there for early on Saturday and this was the best way to make it happen. I didn’t mind at all. Sam is always fun company in the car and the playlists on his phone are unerringly great. I stayed over for the night and got back on the road home the next morning.
This was Saturday
morning. The morning of the All-Ireland Football Final.
I was
heading firmly west while meanwhile, over on the other side of the road, everybody from my entire county was heading east. That’s how it seemed anyway.
Looking
back on it now, exactly one day after, the drive seemed like something of a privilege.
It was a view of something that I might never have otherwise got to see. Not to
overstate things, it was a small joy to behold.
A line or
two of context. Bear with.
The Gaelic
Football team of my adoptive home county of Mayo are, without question, one of
the most powerful forces in the game. Few could argue against that. But the team have not
won an All-Ireland Final, and thus the coveted Sam Maguire Cup, since 1951.
That makes it a round seventy years this year. For many years, the team to beat
has been Dublin. A team could do very well against all comers and then face
Dublin and find an immovable block wall in their face. Dublin won five in a row and
were looking for a sixth this year. Except this year, Mayo beat Dublin in the
semi-final. Suddenly, the block wall was gone. The final lay ahead, as it had
done so many times before, but this year was different. Dublin would not be
there, waiting.
So, as I
made the three-hour drive home to Castlebar yesterday, the football faithful
were making their way to Croke Park in the hope and expectation of seeing
history made.
I had
expected something on the road. I silently gave thanks that I wasn’t going the
other way, trying to get into the city in all that traffic. I expected there to
be cars whizzing past me on their way. What I got, though, I didn’t expect that.
It was a
parade. A quite wonderful parade. More than that, it was a legion on the move.
The Mayo fans, heading to Croker.
When you’re
in Castlebar in the weeks before the big match, you may see little flags
attached to a car. You may see a licence plate, illicitly changed out for a red
and green ‘Mayo4Sam’ sentiment. Individually, these things look fun and nice.
But when practically
every car going the other way is decked out in the red and green, when every
car is packed with families and friends, it’s an entirely different effect.
Every petrol station along the way was replete with fans and flag-ridden cars.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh they went past me. I couldn’t help but wave and
occasionally toot my horn at people I didn’t know. I glanced in my rear-view mirror
and figured that the person behind me thought I was a damned lunatic. Who cares?
Wave, toot, wave toot.
Even more
than the legion of vehicles, there was the people and the gestures that lined
the roadway in every county. Tractors sat in the highest point of fields,
bedecked in the colours. Cherry pickers raised as high as they go with
kitted-out mannequins up on the platforms, watching out. But the people. Ah,
the people. They were the best of all. Outside of houses and farm gates, all along the way, entire
families in Mayo garb bounced up and down and waved and cheered as the parade
tooted past. Rare bridges above, all Mayo clad and cheering. It was like how I
imagined the Tour de France might be. It only happened yesterday but I don’t think I’m ever going to forget one man alone on the grass verge outside of his house, easily
eighty years old. Beside him, his trusty ride-on lawnmower and, on it, a massive
teddy bear in a Mayo Jersey. The old guy bouncing and waving his flag like a good thing,
the cars responding in kind.
I smiled
all the way home. I felt I knew a little more about the passion and the glory of
Mayo football. How it raises its people up.
Mayo fans never give up, never will. It is a key part of what defines them/us. Every year that they can, they will ride in that parade, filled with pride and hope and expectation. All the arid years that have gone before only adding further to the love and respect that the place has for its mighty team.
The parade
thought that yesterday was going to be their day and, in truth, so did I. I
said it out loud where most townsfolk concealed their hopes and anxieties in
endless discussions about tickets. As it turned out, it wasn’t our day. We
couldn’t get more scores than Tyrone. Pages will be written. The exact ‘whys’ will
be addressed by people much more qualified than me. We will be gutted for a
time and then we will regroup and reassess and go for it again, the passion
undiluted, the drive undimmed.
I’ve written
it before, I think. Ours is a team of superheroes who walk among us every day.
They give their everything for so little reward. History and glory and the victory
itself being the primary goals. In consistently pushing as hard as they possibly
can, they elevate our little place to something so much more than it would
otherwise be.
So, thanks
for the ride, Mayo. Even if, for me, it was in the wrong direction.
Next year
will be great.
2 comments:
Ah Ken I am sitting here in tears. Thank you. I still don't understand why it affects us non football types so much but it does, every year I pace the kitchen as I shout at the TV and hope hope hope. Is it for myself or the generations gone. My Uncle played for Mayo in 52, my brother played minor. My father and uncle played every week in England and Dad told of trying to find players among the Irish in Birmingham. Often homeless due to drink. Football saved many of them, giving focus and friendship. So we will wait and hope and I will shout at the TV next year again.
I fear this going to be something of a repeat of my previous post. I don't get football. As a form of exercise, yeah, sure, but that’s about it. I’ve never supported a football team in my life and can only remember ever going to one football match where our local teams were playing against each other. I played rugby at school but only because I was the fastest runner in the school and that’s what you want from a winger. I was the last line of defence and my job, once the ball reached me, was run like the clappers and not get caught. My parents were English and although I was born in Scotland because I somehow retained a Lancashire accent the kids never looked in me as fully Scots and so it was hard to be passionate about anything Scottish for the longest time. I’m better now but I’m not sure how proud I am to be Scottish or even British although I’m grateful I’m not American and I’m not sure my wife ever wants to go after recent events. I don’t find I look outside myself for validation. I find groups mostly decisive. Yes, they unify some for a time but only by setting them in competition/opposition with others.
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