A Year 'til Sunday

Scrolling through social media on public transport is quickly becoming a wantonly perilous endeavour. Amid the targeted NSFW posts, the unnecessary politicism and the archetypal influencer propaganda (Annalivia aside), there exists an inherent danger of untold reputational damage. This is what Elon wants. I typically find myself huddled into the wall of the Dart, guarding my screen in much the same manner that a poor poker player would guard a bad hand.  Not very coyly and with a perceptible fear.  

That said, it was on GAA Twitter where Galway’s delightful player profiles were posted last week. In an interesting and ever so slightly “pick me” move, twelve of the panel voted ‘a Year ‘til Sunday’ as their favourite film, comfortably beating  ‘Cars 3’  in second place and ‘Sharkboy and Lavagirl’ in third. I remember the first time I watched the great documentary; it was a sultry Christmas evening in the early 2000s when my father beckoned us into the living room to commence our Gaelic football education. While the black and white opening did little to assuage any initial incertitude, the documentary quickly began to resonate. Aside from the unique insights and witty interviews, there is a humanity to the film that seems to have been lost in an era of increased professionalism. The opening montage details Galway’s final losses throughout the years: 1971, 1973, 1974 and 1983. There’s an unmistakable element of Mayo to the whole thing. Indeed, only they can properly relate to our current emotional predicament, the despondency after such expectancy. There remains hope that our current plight is merely stock footage for a similar montage: a quick infliction of pain with the promise of a more prosperous future. Only time will tell.

Before Galway’s classic Quarter Final encounter against Armagh in 2022, myself and a few friends bumped into Big Mick Fitzpatrick outside the Big Tree pub in Drumcondra. Big Mick, of Hardy Bucks notoriety, was up for the Kerry Mayo game - the one where Padraig O’Hora spent seventy minutes maiming David Clifford only to be ruthlessly and shamelessly emasculated in front of the masses. The pair do cute promotional videos for Supervalu now; was it Muhammad Ali who used to visit his defeated opponents in the hospital? Big Mick was flippant about Mayo’s chances that day, saying something about their forwards being an uncertain entity and their backs lacking the vigour of previous seasons. He said a lot, without really saying anything at all. And truth be told, that’s how I would like to review Sunday’s game. 

I could argue that Armagh regained Sam while Galway maintained honour, that this was an All Ireland final stolen from us in the most derisive manner. I could note how we stayed true to the established principles of sporting justice. How, when presented with kickable frees inside the scoring zone, our forwards refused to score by such scornful means, opting instead to drop their kicks short and let the game begin again in earnest. How we stuck gamely to the honourable, manly running lines (rigid laterals across the 45) rather than causing unjust difficulty for our direct opponents. Our honour  and dignity is maintained, it's only another year ‘til Sunday. 

I wish this was an accurate illustration but it’s not. Armagh deserved to win. Their supporters have brought a commendable colour and fervour to the championship all season and this must be applauded. Galway lacked composure in the critical moments, and will feel that this was an opportunity missed. I mentioned last week that an All Ireland final without either Dublin or Kerry is an opportunity unlikely to present itself again soon. One does feel that this was the moment for both of these teams.

As one post-match pint turned into several, the analysis became slightly less damning and the immediate horizons appeared less trepidatious. I was introduced to Eugene, an Armagh man who emigrated to Boston in 1995. A great friend of my fathers has lived with Eugene and his family for several years since his cancer diagnosis. While he was unable to travel himself, he did ensure that his friend got back to Croke Park for the first time since Armagh’s last All Ireland success in 2002. After the game, Eugene arrived into the pub with a perceptible but excusable smugness. On the table, he quietly set down a small plastic bag containing three items: an Armagh sweatshirt and two match programmes, one for him and one for his great friend back in Boston. Some things are more important than sport.