Colin Sheridan: Two weeks of high hopes lie ahead, followed by inevitable Mayo heartbreak

CENTRE OF ATTENTION: Mayo’s Aidan O’Shea looks to burst past Conal Kennedy, Colin O’Riordan, and Kevin Fahey of Tipperary at Croke Park. Picture: Sam Barnes/Sportsfile

The late great Peter Alliss died on Saturday. Perhaps fitting, as maybe only he could find poetry in the back-to-back demolitions at Croke Park over the weekend. 

Closing my eyes (as I did for much of the football), I could hear him come whispering to my mind...”and here come Mayo...like angry gorillas in the mist...t’was Kerouac, the old fool, who might have said when the fog is over and the stars come out at night, it will at once be a beautiful sight. Jack was not from Clonmel, I fancy...”

Mayo. Seriously, thanks lads. As if the year hadn’t been going bad enough; Brexit, Covid-19, Maradona’s passing, the dirt on Emily Blunt’s face in the Wild Mountain Thyme trailer, and now, this; back in an All-Ireland final.

Two weeks of high hopes ahead, followed by inevitable heartbreak. Twelve months after the Shoe the Donkey debacle and the embarrassment of a very public breakup. Last Christmas, Mayo folk drank deep and were silent, not out of admiration for some Yank who just strolled into Johnny McHale’s pub in Castlebar, but out of a latent shame for the fools they looked for their off-field antics. Yep, even Rudy Giuliani — had he been allowed into the county board meetings – would’ve been tapping Mayo on the arm, embarrassed.

Fast forward 12 months and Mayo are in Croke Park picking off the Munster champions like Cortez the Killer. Even after Dublin’s facile dismissal of Cavan the previous evening, the RTÉ pundits made the case for Tipperary.

Over on Sky, Kieran Donaghy was spitting serious game, dressed like one of the boys from Goodfellas who overspent after the Lufthansa heist. Jimmy McGuiness’s bazzer was superb, as always. Sartorial elegance aside, the messaging was the same; Tipp good, Mayo better.

The game itself evolved like an absurd minor match; Tipp creating a plethora of goal chances before collapsing like a lad who had neglected to eat at a wedding. The deep, insidious fog which enveloped Croker was a mercy. 

If it was cricket, Mayo would’ve declared at half time, Cillian O’Connor raising his bat to take the acclaim from the pavilion. If it were cricket, the Tipperary batsmen would have been offered the light by the umpires, so bad was the visibility. If it were cricket, the same Tipp would have been wisest to bat on, as waiting for tomorrow would not have changed this result, but compounded it. Their only hope would’ve been rain.

Ger Canning kept reminding us Tipp “may be in trouble”. Twenty points down, their centre-back Kevin Fahey kicked a point, Ger enthusiastically remarked how pleased he must have been with himself (to reduce the deficit to 19).

Oisin McConville was more than earning his fee, working harder than the entire Tipp defence by filling long gaps of nothingness by drolly observing what James Horan had done differently with Mayo this year; “he’s freshened them up” he said, just as the camera panned to Mayo’s veteran goalkeeper David Clarke. It was that kind of night.

The poignancy of the Tipperary players laying a commemorative wreath on Hill 16 was the only saving grace of a chastening evening when they can only reflect they did not do themselves justice. Picture: Morgan Treacy/Inpho

The night before, just as Colm O’Rourke and co were approaching something distantly related to a meaningful argument regarding the present day dystopia of the game, chairwoman Joanne Cantwell shut them down like a parent whispering “bi curamach os comhair na paisit oige” at the dinner table. 

My mother still says this whenever my father broaches any remotely controversial subject. I’m 40. Mayo’s destruction of Tipperary may not be as problematic, but still points at a glaring dichotomy in the best (Dublin), the next best (Mayo, Kerry, Tyrone and Donegal) and the rest.

Forget the reintroduction of the Super 8s, or a Champions League style format, or straight knock-out, what the Gaelic football championship really needs is a ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ style opt-out, whereby, you can take the money (or extra funding, or a trip to Neven Maguire’s restaurant) and leave with dignity after any great performance. No back-doors. 

Under this new structure, Cork could have opted out after beating Kerry, happy with their lot, leaving the Kingdom to proceed laden down by a dirty asterixis.

Kerry may go on and win Munster, an All-Ireland, even, but would do so tarred by losing to the Rebels, and worse still, the same Rebels giving them a pardon by opting out. Similarly Tipp after beating Cork, Cavan after Donegal.

By opting to stay in and play, they risk all for an unlikely shot at ultimate glory. It was sad to see the fairytale stories of a historic championship disappear like the aforementioned gorillas in the mist.

The poignancy of the Tipperary players laying a commemorative wreath on Hill 16 was the only saving grace of a chastening evening when they can only reflect they did not do themselves justice.

“To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note”, Sir Peter might have said, “alas, their dreams lost in a fog of war, their time may come again”.