The most beautiful stadium in the world

THE poet Paul Durcan implored “Daddy, Daddy,” to “pass out the moon” on a journey to Mayo.

We were nowhere near as demanding as children. For us, a Connacht final in Castlebar was the very peak of glamour, and even if Daddy had this annoying habit of abandoning the car at the faintest suggestion of a traffic jam, we could forgive anything on this day of days.

The four of us arranged in random order in the back, arguing over who would hold the Mayo flag out the window, and making sweeping predictions about the day ahead. Invariably in these circumstances, we seek reassurance from our elders: “Daddy, who do YOU think will win?” but those were lean times for Mayo football, and he could never quite deceive his children with promises that might later be cruelly crushed.