Farewell to the best season ever

It is an idle pursuit, for so many reasons.
As if anyone can, like the witches in the Scottish Play, look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow; which will not; speculate on how long Davy can coax unconditional devotion from his young charges; and guess the identity of the enemy manager who will find a way of negating that favoured weapon in the MacCarthy Cup holders’ armoury, the arrow from the left flank directed into the channels for the inside forwards to come out, latch onto, jink inside and work their mischief.