Following this Mayo team is a privilege, not a chore

There were moments yesterday when I thought we had it. Barrett’s turnovers. Keegans goal. 50 minutes, and Diarmuid O’Connor appeared on the big screen. Wearing the weight of the world on his face all summer, he had appeared to be a man who had seen far too much for one so young. In that moment he looked fresher and less burdened, writes Colin Sheridan.

In the end, there was no act of expiation. The natural order restored. All concerns I may have had for a Mayo success signalling our decline as a people towards irreversible egomania were rendered obsolete by Dean Rock and his stones. Good name for a band, that.

As the game descended towards its inevitable entropy, you had a feeling you were watching a movie you had seen countless times before, all the while hoping it will climax differently. Except it doesn’t. They all die in the end.