Tears in '89 to tears in '26: my lifetime waiting for Mayo's day
With 30 seconds to go when Kobe had the ball I broke down. Cried for 20 minutes straight. My 11 year old daughter was so worried. She could not understand what she was seeing. Pic: Stephen McCarthy/Sportsfile
It's taken 75 years to reach this moment. I've only had to suffer 45 of them.
The bug hit in 1985. Like most young fellas, no one was better than by father. The first GAA memory was being inside the Ballina Stephenites clubhouse where it seemed like hundreds of men, with combovers and dodgy flair grey suits, had congregated in one place to talk to my father. He had just published Green Above the Red, a history of Mayo football, with Ivan Neill.
Mayo had taken the mighty Dubs to a replay in '85 and the minors won the All-Ireland. The u21s won it in '83. Sam was on its way, or so everyone thought. But my abiding memory was of someone giving Dad a black and white TV for his work. For a four-year-old back then, a TV was a bigger prize than a car or house.
Mayo football and my father merged. There was no one better than my Dad or Mayo football. By 1989 those beliefs had grown. Manager of underage teams, secretary, chairman he did it all in the Stephenites. Editor of the Western People added something else to the mix. Back then local media were unofficial PROs. Players and press were friends and those bonds have stood the tests of time.
The final that year was the only time I will really admit Mayo lost the plot. I had a front row seat to it all. Secret training sessions had thousands in the stands. I was behind the goals getting the ball for Gabriel Irwin. Liam McHale, Kevin McStay and Jimmy Browne turned up in Scoil Padraig to meet the students. My poster was 'Mayo are magic, Cork are tragic'.
My buddy Niall Feerick turned up with the same poster. He's since married a Dub and moved to Washington working for the IMF. He sent me a picture of a Mayo for Sam poster in the White House in 2016. War won.
But at the time I knew all the players. They knew me. It was a life before Ballina's big basketball success. Before Sligo Rovers. Before Mary Robinson. Before Italia 90. I didn't understand it then but Mayo people felt inferior to the rest of Ireland. We had nothing to rally around. A team reaching the final was enough for us.
I sat on my mother's knees for the match. Somehow she got five kids in with two or three tickets. It was a time when if you were under 5 you got in without a ticket. Half of Mayo was under five that day. We spent the week rehearsing our date of births. I wonder now what would have happened if we were turned away.
I can't really remember the match but I'll never forget my mother meeting Jimmy Browne's mother outside the gates afterwards. They both broke down in tears. It was the first time I had ever seen an adult cry, never mind two of them. They weren't tears of despair or sadness, they were tears of pride.
Teenage years had arrived. Mayo matches meant two things: women and drink. Thousands of Fr Jacks left on trains to Dublin even though only were hundreds in Croke Park for the semi-final against Kerry in '96.
That year's final will remain the toughest loss for me. Coyle's Hail Mary bouncing over the bar, McEnaney, the fight, Liam sent off... sideshows. Those were the days two six-point leads were lost. The hype of '89 and the choke of '96. The Mayo reputation was growing.
The next year I had started to numb to it all. The only bit of emotion I showed was to the not so cute Kerry man on the Hill who turned after the final whistle and uttered: "You're not far off it." The pricks.
For some strange reason I brought a Liverpool flag for the game. Cork did that kind of thing. So did Dublin. I thought why not. The train trips home were lonely enough affairs.
The less said the better. By now the lads on the field contained a lot of boys I grew up with. Friends. For some reason that blinds you to a lot. At a stage in life when you think older people know absolutely nothing about 'modern life'. Whatever that is. Your friends can do it. Your generation is the best.
The 2004 Tyrone and 2006 Dublin games aside, there was no way those Mayo teams could beat that Kerry side. The interviews in the build up to 2006. God. Things like "We haven't watched the [2004] game since", "We are a new team". Jesus. Now we're stupid too. There's a reason Kerry don't really count those All-Irelands. By now I'm not wearing any green or red to the games. Partly because I was a journalist but mostly because I had unconsciously started to separate myself from it all. It hurt too much.
They were writing books about us now. Pain and Mayo. Where did all the hopes from '89 go?
: My wife is from Donegal. Our first son Finn was born that year. I come home from work in another of those awful build ups and he's wearing a Donegal jersey. I smile but inside I'm telling myself there is no way we can lose this one. This isn't Kerry, Meath or Cork. This is Donegal. How can my son think he is a Donegal man? What the hell is happening here? On the outside I'm cool though: "Sure it's great for the young lad, when will he ever be in a situation where he's guaranteed an All-Ireland for one of his sides?"
A few minutes in and Mayo are 2-2 to 0-1 down. Ah Christ. What have I done? I must be a terrible person. Everyone from Mayo has committed some sort of crime against humanity in a previous life. This is our punishment. I can't talk to the wife for weeks after the game. She's a gracious winner but I'm a terrible loser. Jimmy's winning matches? Jimmy can go f**k himself.
I don't know how she stuck it out.
: The minors win. After 20 visits All-Irelands between club, minor, u21 and senior I had only ever seen one team win in the flesh. That was the club back in 2005. The club final day, the immediate feeling? Regret. All the people who had died before it. By now the lesson that you deserve nothing was well sown into the psyche. But all those people who gave so much...
This year was different though. The minors won. The manager was over us when we won a county minor. I was blinded by the friend thing again.
1-4 to 0-1 up. Then Bernard Brogan scores the goal. They beat us with 13 men in the end. I didn't meet up with anyone after that game. Stuck with the press lads back in the Boars Head.
By now we're hearing about curses, hype, tactical naivety, the whole shebang. 2014 in Limerick. 2015 in Croker. We've come full circle now. I'm from Mayo and I'm inferior.
Death took over at that time. The week starts poorly. Willie Casey, an unused 17-year-old sub in 1951, was poorly. The Caseys were great friends of our family. It reminds me how much I hate that curse rubbish. People forget those men are loved by their families, friends and communities. They've carried a hocus pocus myth with them for 75 years as if all this is their fault. I end up sitting close to Patrick Golden. His brother Anthony was murdered that year in the line of duty as a garda. Jesus Christ, God be good to him. He needs it.
Two own goals. I met Tony Leen before the 2017 final and we talked about Chrissy Barrett. He backed him. I didn't. I was totally broken. Chrissy was brilliant that day but Diarmuid Connolly kicked a sweet pass to Dean Rock over his head. They scored from it. Broken.
We're a miserable, twisted bunch now. I hear stories about people going to hospital. The dread is affecting everyone. This has to end. For the Covid final it was three days before Christmas. I couldn't do it to the family so I didn't watch it. Went for a walk. Didn't get emotionally involved at all.
In 2021 my Donegal son's communion clashed with the final. The communion lost out. I've great respect for Tyrone. Love the club championship there and watch as much of it as I can get to. But that day they broke something in our spirit. That hurt more than any final.
: I'm totally disillusioned. The way the county treated Kevin McStay really hurt. Kevin is the epitome of honour. Only Andy could have filled the void. He has a likability factor like Klopp. Momentum comes. I tell everyone I know we won't win it. I cannot face hope. I didn't allow myself to believe. Very few did. Our language is hidden to the world now. A glance or nod to each other as if to say 'don't get excited.'
With 30 seconds to go when Kobe had the ball I broke down. Cried for 20 minutes straight. My 11 year old daughter was so worried. She could not understand what she was seeing. Kerry people were so good to us all. Emotional support when we needed it. God they aren't assholes at all. Maybe we were.
Writing now, I don't really believe it has ended. I'm expecting some sort of an objection. To wake up and find Pat McEnaney and Kieran Donaghy at the foot of the bed laughing with replays of Bernard Brogan smiling from some banquet.
In truth I never believed this would be ever seen by anyone. No matter what we said, this has hung over us as a county, it's shaped us. It wasn't necessarily a good thing. Maybe it will turn out to be in time. But for that to happen we'd have to win another... stop. We don't need to go there.
I've been one of the lucky ones. And after everything I can finally be content.
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