Liam Horan: In Mayo, our mood swings would baffle the cleverest of psychotherapists
The strange times we live in hasn’t dampened Mayo’s enthusiasm ahead of another All-Ireland final against Dublin.
In 1995, when Clare hurlers won the All-Ireland for the first time in 81 years, I was one of a small group (as small as two, I’m pretty sure) of journalists who joined the team on their Monday flight from Dublin to Shannon, and the riotous celebrations that lay ahead on the streets of Ennis, a town that needs no second bidding when called to party.
Somewhere during that short hop across the country, my colleague and I were struck by the conversations all around us: instead of reliving the glories of the previous day, their talk was primarily of the inevitable torrent of club games that lay in wait for them over the coming weeks — and their enthusiasm was unmistakeable.
“How’s so-and-so going for ye?”
“What are ye like this year?
“Ye’ll find it hard to beat them.”
The newly minted immortals were already eyeing up new horizons. They were licking the lips at the prospect of new challenges.
Those upon whom we project our hopes are human with their own cares, concerns, fears, and aspirations.
They go from championship games to exams the next morning. They’re back in the barracks by nine. Getting shifts covered by colleagues requires ongoing vigilance.
In Mayo, our mood swings would baffle the cleverest of psychotherapists. In the course of a season, we can struggle past Division Three or Four opposition and draw the best, the very best, out of Dublin.
We have stayed at or near the top over the past 10 years despite these swings, particularly in the latter half of the decade which has featured, in no particular order, a surreal mix of availing and unavailing relegation battles, a league title, Connacht championship torpor, and a couple of tantalising brushes with outright glory.
I can’t think of any other top team in either hurling or football that goes through such wild fluctuations. We are past masters at jumping out of holes we’ve dug for ourselves.
This year has seen another own mood swing. The pre-Covid-19 league games were chilling: after the break, we found a rich vein of form. The Tipperary game was another micro-climate where we never looked in bother but still allowed our opponents almost unfettered access to our goalmouth at times.
You take a view, I take another, and we argue it out: far too often we defend our positions rather than seeking to learn from the other person’s view.
Two people whose opinions I respect made strong cases for Mayo in the last few days — both are well-known GAA media figures and will likely ventilate those views in the coming days.
With the way the odds are, we’ll take a word of encouragement wherever we can find it.
‘The odds’ is a metaphor here. I don’t know what the actual odds are, purely out of lack of interest.
I rarely bet, and, paradoxically, I find I only venture into that perilous arena when I am fully sure of my ground — a dangerous locale for any human, as I have discovered to my cost.
Not too long ago I placed a bet with an acknowledged expert on the very topic over which we argued — Galway and Corofin football. Did Corofin get to nominate Ray Silke as captain in 1998? Not likely, I said. He said a score would sort it; I pushed him to €50. Big when I’m out.
One WhatsApp later, I’m reaching for the skyrocket with a doleful, self-loathing, air.
I don’t think I ever wrote a more confident preview of a big game than for the Wexford v Tipperary All-Ireland semi-final in 1997.
Wexford lose it? Not in a million years.
Hmmm. At least no-one lured me into a bet.
Anyway, point being, anticipating events in the future might well rob the future of some of its magic. Let it unfold. We’ve a big hill to climb, but we’ve climbed big hills before. And we’ve fallen down big hills too.
We can all remember that day our club barely had a team, and definitely not one of any obvious merit. Yet, instead of crumbling, it dredged up something extraordinary to carve out a famous victory. No-one saw it coming.
That made it all the sweeter. Saturday would be one of those to the power of a thousand, not claimed in some rural hamlet but on the biggest stage of all.
Wouldn’t it be something?
Generally, your club team lost the next round. After Saturday, there is no next round.
In Mayo, we are hopeless romantics. All the best romantics are, of course, hopeless: when you cross the line, you can’t hedge your bets. It’s an all-or-nothing affair.
You dream big, you lose big — or you win big.
Maybe too much has been projected onto Dublin. Is the country seeing more than is actually there? They have a new manager, don’t forget. How will he and his backroom team cope?
We wonder about the inexperience of some of our great young players – perhaps we should have the same misgivings about theirs. While our full-back line has had its tricky moments these past two seasons, Dublin haven’t always been water-tight in front of their own goal either.
There are straws in the wind.
Hopefully we can whisk them up into a thunderous storm that finally propels us through.
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