Galway in danger of becoming Gaelic footballing equivalent of the Fyre Festival — all promise, no product

Three Sundays ago, at the midpoint of a Connacht SFC final nobody was loving too much, you could have forgiven Galway manager Kevin Walsh a micro-breath of presumptuous relief: his side leading by five, at home, the expectation was they would consolidate their advantage — albeit in monsoon conditions — and reclaim the provincial title.

The manner of triumph would’ve been deemed largely irrelevant in the context of the bigger picture: another provincial title — a third under Walsh — and a victory that would leave Galway’s two main provincial rivals; Roscommon and Mayo, winded on the canvas while ensuring the Tribesman safe passage to the Super 8’s.

Crucially for Walsh, it would have provided the most compelling evidence yet to strengthen a case that his project was working, and reason for those doubting to stick with him. There is many a slip between cup and lip, however, and what followed in Salthill that Sunday evening was enough to evoke abject horror. That second-half performance by Galway will go down in history as the worst witnessed in Pearse Stadium since Bob Dylan in 2004. And that’s saying something.

Life in sporting terms cannot have been too comfortable for Kevin Walsh since. He must feel like Fredo Corleone in The Godfather II, skulking about the family compound, praying nobody asks him to go fishing with Al Neri on the lake. Defeat tonight in Limerick against Mayo could be far more damaging to Walsh and his team than to their neighbours.

If Mayo do lose, James Horan can point to an injury ravaged squad, and the consequential promotion of much needed new talent — not to mention a national league title — as reasons to be cheerful. His project has just started (again).

For Walsh and Galway, patience is wearing thin. His entire regime has played out like the TV series Lost, which opened to rave reviews, had moments of brilliance, but ultimately frustrated twice as much as it excited. As with Lost, nobody seems quite sure how it will end. For every memorable day under Walsh, there have been subsequent setbacks so shuddering in their manifestation, all that’s left is despair in a Galway football public as unforgiving it is often sadly absent.

Galway too have been a victim of a public desperate for an alternative cause to believe in. Their toe-to-toe battle with Dublin in last year’s league final was held up as a blueprint of how to compete with Dublin, when all it really was was a blueprint of how to lose to Dublin, but by fewer points.

This was borne out come summer.

In Walsh’s defence, he has been let down more than once by his charges. Can it be so brutally cold and simple? At what point does personal pride usurp apathy to a voice they may have heard once too often? How many times have their young stars “arrived”? None, bar the force of nature that is the returning Damien Comer, have justified the hype.

There may not be an All-Ireland in either squad, but it will be a defining night nonetheless. Mayo’s legacy is assured, while Galway are in danger of becoming the Gaelic footballing equivalent of the Fyre Festival — all promise, no product, lots of wind and distraught revellers.

There is of course a deeper existential identity crisis at play within Galway, which on the good days is forgotten, but on the bad seems as profoundly divisive as ever.

Nothing fits. Pearse Stadium doesn’t fit. The town doesn’t fit. Maybe it’s time for those with the power to do so to admit defeat, and relocate to Tuam — their Dome on the Rock — which may have little by way of comfort, but for a county recently not displaying one, it at least has a soul.

Galway the city may care little, as success to them is a good Oyster/Racing festival. The town at its heart remains an Association Football enclave. Rugby, for all its polished propaganda, is a dilettante invader who may pack them in on a Friday night with the promise of pints and pick-and-goes, but does little by way of emotional reach.

It’s idea of weaving itself into the fabric of Galway society is chin-ups off the diving board in Blackrock, and for a city that likes its vacant affectations, it’s a good fit. Such shenanigans may hold sway down Sea Road and Ravens Terrace, but it means jack out in Cortoon and Leitir Mor, and likely never will.

Whatever disregard they might have for the egg-chasers in the North and West of the county, it will be nothing like the violent frustration another limping exit from the footballers will elicit. It may be Walsh that pays the ultimate price, but responsibility is a two-way street, and the malaise is in the whole body, not just in the head.

As for Horan and Mayo, there is an irony to his greatest dilemma, which is that of selection and how best to blend the new with the old. From a remove, it still seems that many of the more senior members of the squad see “starting from the bench” as a demotion, and not a fundamental part of the team process.

In this context, Horan is Dr Frankenstein, as nine seasons ago he began creating these brilliant monsters, and in doing so jettisoned each one into the national sporting consciousness by enabling them, weaponizing both their talent and their seemingly unbreakable will to prove people wrong. Now they are his to tame.

For all their faults, recent history suggests Galway will continue their dominance over their neighbours. But, this is the first time in two decades the fixture has had no safety-net (the qualifiers) beneath the Mayo high-wire act.

Galway are the pretty contender that have perhaps been given some unearned title shots. Limerick could be their redemption. Mayo are the aged prizefighter that know their legs may be wobbling, but they’ve seen the dark angel, and defied it more than once. It’s death or glory, which is after all what the championship is all about.

It could get ugly.