A Day’s Sail

We’re talking and you want to impress something upon me with enough force for it to resonate. Do you use an anecdote? A hyperbole? How about a metaphor? You might reference the book on Shackleton that that I’ve been trying to finish for far too long. How in 1914 the great Anglo-Irish explorer and his intrepid troops stumbled into perilous weather conditions in Antarctica, forcing them to abandon ship and survive on unseemly ice shelves for eighteen months. You might mention how the men were forced to make a break for land through the Drake passage in lifeboats barely suitable for kayaking; how they had to consume the sled dogs they had forged such indelible bonds with; how they came close to imposing martial law to ensure order in the most challenging of circumstances. You might speculate that I will never experience such challenges, such crises, such questions of will that properly confront the perceived fickleness of man. You would be wrong. I watched the first half of Armagh and Kerry on Saturday; don’t question my fortitude.

About 20 minutes into the game, I furiously reached for my phone, desperate to document the horrors that were unfolding before my eyes. I actually felt relief when I couldn’t wrestle it out of my pocket: nobody should have such indecent imagery on a cloud connected device. The image in question concerned Kerry’s attacking formation or, more specifically, their lack thereof. As is customary, all 30 players had piled into one half of the pitch to perform the “feeling out” process that Eamon Fitzmaurice seems to love. His Majesty David Clifford was the deepest Kerry player. The furthest forward: Jason Foley. JASON FOLEY. One would imagine this type of tactic is sacrilegious in Kerry, where their perceived footballing purity is held in such high esteem. Luckily there were only about 300 Kerry fans there to witness it.

I often think that Kerry people would be serf like in a less democratic society. They see Kerry football as a celestial entity, deserving of all manner of concession and impunity, its eminence beyond reproach. Instead of fleeing France, King Louis XVI bravely faced the guillotine. One wonders how dutiful a regime he could have built had he refuted execution and walked down main Street Killarney holding a pig skin size 5 under his arm. “It has been pre-ordained that I shall lead this footballing people to footballing glory” he could have said. Disciples would have flocked to his worship, mosaics would have been painted in his likeness, blonde haired seductresses would have battled to bear his children. Football is important, but not above dignity (one would hope).

Armagh (once again) ridiculed this perceived superiority and forced an exhilarating contest. They came out in the second half and wrestled back control of the game with a superb demonstration of marksmanship, intensity and poise. Jarly Og Burns changed the tempo, Rian O Neill was rampant, Barry McCambridge brought the energy he always brings. Unlike Kerry, Armagh didn’t believe they had a divine entitlement to win, but they went out and won anyway.

On Sunday, Galway again proved their mettle in what will be a valuable rehearsal for All Ireland Final Day. Despite numerous injury concerns, they are unbeaten and have shown admirable composure in season defining moments. Paul Conroy’s goal was a turning point and gave Galway a platform on which to build. Some segments of the Donegal support seemed to think it was a fluke. Nonsense, Galway would never seek to gain an underhand advantage by such scornful means. I saw a veteran Galway footballer secure possession on the edge of the D and pick out an unruly mound of turf in front of goalkeeper Sean Patton. It was an elaborate finish built on artful execution, not a fluke.

Jim McGuinness appeared rueful at full time, lamenting Donegal’s poor conversion rate in the second half. He also seemed bemused by the fact that Galway had kept three attackers up at different stages, flying in the face of the defensive mastery he advocates. “We were on track and on task in the first half” he said. That’s like John documenting how he bet Peter in the foot race to Jesus’ tomb: it’s a nice detail but the more you think about it the less relevant it becomes. Galway’s composure was the difference in the end and they will deservedly battle it out with the old foe in two weeks’ time. More on that to come.

In any noble endeavour there exists a potentially dangerous distance between the starting point and the ultimate objective. Shackleton referred to this as the “day’s sail” in an effort to keep his men emboldened and ensure their indifference to the perils that lay ahead. It is difficult to envisage how a metaphor for meteorological uncertainty could instil such calmness, but for Galway and Armagh a similar message must now resonate. Seventy minutes is all that stands between them and sporting immortality: a day’s sail. McGeeney and Joyce are powerful leaders who will compel their men towards victory, but like Shackleton, they of all people will know that the weather determines everything when it comes to the final charge.