John Coleman: 'That ball' will forever haunt Rob Hennelly. I know

Today, everything is immaterial. The strength of Dublin’s bench? Irrelevant.

Cormac Costello’s three points? Forget about them. As for Cillian O’Connor’s late miss? Another minor insignificance.

The fact that the Mayo forwards only managed eight points from play across 140 minutes of championship football? A footnote that time will deem pointless.

Refereeing inconsistencies? Are you serious?

Right now, in Rob Hennelly’s world, none of this matters. Because in his mind, it’s all his fault. On Saturday night the last thing he probably thought of was ‘that ball’. It was more than likely the first thing he thought of on Sunday morning too. That sequence will continue for a long time. It will wake him up at night.

There will be a day when ‘that ball’ no longer bookends his day, but that doesn’t mean it won’t haunt him. It will torment him at times that have no relation to football. Cutting the lawn, making a cup of tea, buying a round at the bar. I know because I’ve been there. Were the stakes as high? Of course not. But I know that it’s the simplicity of the moment that will hurt him the most.

The role of a goalkeeper has changed beyond recognition over the past 15 years. The restart, the stats, go short, go long, possession, free man… whatever. What hasn’t changed is the fundamental fear of doing something simple, badly.

Because it’s the bread and butter that you pride yourself on. There’s more satisfaction in doing the apparently simple thing well than from any heroic save. The save is for the spectator, a game of chance as much as it is of skill or wit.

Catch the ball and kick the ball. The basics. The basics. That’s what’s probably running through Rob Hennelly’s head right now. How did I get the easiest thing so wrong?

Just before, he might even have thought that he’d gotten away with it. His kick-outs hadn’t been what they were supposed to be. But Mayo had just taken the lead. There was a feeling that the dream might become a reality.

What happened after that will be forever etched in his mind.

He’ll forever see Paul Flynn’s abject effort drop into him. He’ll forever watch the ball dropping into his hands. He’ll forever have the feeling of panic when he realises that the ball hasn’t stuck. He’ll never understand how he let it happen.

I still see the one that haunts me. Colm O’Neill, off his left foot. I assume it’s going over. I switch off. It drops short. I flap at it. Someone has followed it in. Goal. Game over. Shame. Disbelief. Embarrassment. Self-loathing.

Dark, dark places where demons will forever lurk.

Your teammates tell you that there were chances; that the game doesn’t boil down to one moment. Your family remind you of the times you’ve got it right, that there are many more important things in life. Your good friends explain that it’s a lonely place and that you’re brave to play there. Your best friends look into your eyes and see that there’s nothing to say.

They’re all right, of course. But that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t take away that nagging feeling that everybody is talking about you, that everybody is looking at you, that everybody is judging you, that some people are even laughing at you.

Nobody understands. You’ll nod your head and say thanks. You’ll agree and say that they are right; it is a hard place to play.

But you won’t mean it. None of that matters. All you want is your own space, all you want is a chance to go back and do what you were supposed to do. No critic will ever be as acerbic as your own internal one.

Months later somebody will ask you what you are thinking about. You will lie. You want to appear ‘ok with it’.

It happened Stephen Cluxton too, in the semi-final. A goalkeeper that had previously seemed unflappable all of a sudden looked ordinary. All the intricacies of his game were gone and it was a case of bombing it up the middle. He’d lost his nerve.

However, Cluxton was lucky in the end. His team dragged him through and it’s forgotten about now. We all know that 140 minutes cannot be boiled down to one moment. Try telling Rob Hennelly that.