Twenty-First Century Mayo

Mayo 2-13
Roscommon 0-9


All along Main St, Castlebar, at Sunday midday the Roscommon faithful stood outside the pubs and bars, pinting and smoking in the summer sun, in eager anticipation of the Connacht Final. One of the sheepstealers, outside Tom-Tom Bryne’s, lost control of his inflatable sheep – it blew onto the road, where it met its end under the wheels of an 00 Mayo registered Ford Transit van. Little did the Ros faithful know, it was an omen of things to come.
 
Two and a half hours later, Roscommon came howling out of the dressing rooms from the under the scoreboard of McHale Park, to be met with howls of welcome from their adoring support. For the first ten or fifteen minutes, they loosed the hounds of war on Mayo, hitting the hosts with everything they had, and were particularly unlucky when John Tiernan scythed through the Mayo rearguard to push a shot of goal just wide of the far post.
 
The Cake wasn’t to be so lucky. After two frees from Conor Mortimor levelled the scores at two points each, Ciarán McDonald found James Nallen, who found Trevor Mortimor who found the back of the net. The Cake had been sliced, and Mayo weren’t to look back. For so many years of his time in the stewardship of Mayo, John Maughan’s critics damned him as too slow to make changes. Maughan hasn’t spent the past five years whittling on his porch – he has moved on. Gary Mullins, the find of last year, was hauled ashore when it was clear that he was getting skinned by Tiernan, and Peadar Gardiner was commissioned to put the chains on Tiernan.
 
The Mortimor goal, and the introduction of Gardiner, were twin blows from which Roscommon never were to recover. Frankie Dolan, who, along with the Cake and Francie Grehan, has been seen as the avatar of all that is Ros, had another bad day at the office, so bad that he was confined to barracks at half-time, and Ger Henaghan sent on in his stead. Roscommon were 1-7 to 0-2 down at the half, and, although they traded scores with Mayo in the third quarter, Mayo’s superiority was such that Roscommon were bailing water from the Titanic with a saucepan.
 
The Roscommon midfield superiority never materialised – Seamus O’Neill fetched impressively at the start and in patches through the rest of the game, but there was nothing he was capable of doing that would have stopped Mayo in their current incarnation. David Brady, only recently returned from Australia, gave his best ever performance for Mayo in many long years of service, through good days and bad. James Nallen, another warrior from 1996, remains his imperious self, and the Mortimor family are becoming what the Donnellans are in Galway.
 
But shining above them all was Ciarán McDonald. His return was not without its critics, some of whom are no doubt still balefully sharpening their claws and waiting for their chance. They will have to wait, for the Crossmolina man gave a display at centre-half forward that was unparalleled in its dominance. For so long Mayo teams played like men that had only just met in the dressing room and were only on nodding acquaintance with each other; on Sunday Ciarán McDonald claimed the sceptre and led his people. His ghostly presence terrorises defenders, who have visions of him slipping away and ripping points over from great distances – this threat is always real from McDonald, as his beating of four Roscommon backs to travel laterally, turn and shoot against his angle of movement for a despairing Shane Curran to desperately fist the ball over the bar exemplifies. But now, for the first time, McDonald has men around him who understand what he’s about, and he fed them the manna that all forwards crave, the perfectly flighted and delivered pass.
 
Roscommon never had a chance. Tom Carr mused after the game about whether or not John Tiernan’s goal would have made a difference. It would, in the sense that Roscommon would have lost by seven points and not by ten, but no other. Micheál Meehan’s goal didn’t save Galway - Mayo were not to be denied, as their talents came to fruition on a day when the sun shone through the clouds in Castlebar.
 
Roscommon did have one note of deliverance after what had been a desperately chastening day for them. Roscommon have drawn Dublin in the final round of the qualifiers, and this gives them a real shot at redemption. Dublin are a name with little to back them up – after getting bombed out of the Championship by Westmeath on their first day out Dublin have travelled the chicken and chips circuit of the GAA, far away from the bright lights and Evening Herald supplements, and tried to rebuild themselves by feasting on minnows such as London, Leitrim and Longford. But Roscommon will present a stiffer test, once they realise that apart from what they might read in the papers, there is little to this current Dublin outfit other than faded sky-blue glory.
 
As for the Connacht Champions, they have three weeks or so to grow and develop further. Mayo are now in the last eight, and fear no-one. The county is energised, and believes once more. Mayo will return to Croke Park for the first time since Cork humiliated them two years ago in the final kick of Pat Holmes’ reign as manager a different outfit – this is Twenty-First Century Mayo.

The Great Jimmy Breslin

Jimmy Breslin enlists a very famous name in his Newsday column to wire it up to George W. Bush and the Republican Party.

Most people think they can write vitriol, that they can give someone a verbal hiding when they want to, and all they end up doing is sounding hysterical. Breslin is meant to be a very cranky man and difficult to get on with but my God, can he do his job. And he's been doing it for over forty years.

Bible Translations

I read to my utter horror and abject despair in this morning's London Times that there is new translation of New Testament that's been given the blessing of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Dr Williams praises the transation as a work of “extraordinary power” that is “so close to the prose and poetry of ordinary life”. The poetry of ordinary life? The poetry that sees original Hebrew and Greek names modernised from Peter, Mary Magdelen, Andronicus and Barabbas to Rocky, Maggie, Andy and Barry, apparently.

Here's the scene in the Pilate's courtyard on Holy Thursday, when Peter - oh, I'm sorry, Rocky - denies Christ: "Meanwhile Rocky was still sitting in the courtyard. A woman came up to him and said: 'Haven’t I seen you with Jesus, the hero from Galilee?' Rocky shook his head and said: 'I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!'

Who in the name of God dreams up this shit?

Ag Feachaint ar na Sasanaigh i dTithe Ósta Éireannach

Bhí Des Cahill ag caint le Sasanach éigin ar a chlár raidio uafásach Sportscall De Luain seo caite, agus d'éiligh an Sasanach go mbíonn na hÉirinnigh ag ligedh gáir mholta ar gach aon foireann a n-imríonn i gcoinne foreann Shasanaigh ins an comórtas Euro 2004. Ní fhaigeann sé cothrom na féinne, dár leis an Sasanach, nuair a thagann sé chuig an teach ósta agus gach duine isteach i gcoinne David Beckham agus a ghaíscí. Cuireann an drochiompar seo imní agus eagla ar an Sasanach nuair atá cluiche Shasana ar siúl ar an teilifís ins an teach ósta.

"Éist liomsa a bhoc," arsa Des, "dá mbeadh imní agus eagla ort i dteach ósta deas inné agus tusa ag feachaint ar an gcluiche agus cúpla pionta istigh sa bholg agat, cad a mbeadh ort má bhí tú ar Crossley tender ar an mbóthar idir Maigh Cruaim agus Cil Mhicheál ar an 28ú lá Deireadh Fomhair 1920 agus Tom Barry agus Óglaigh na hÉireann ag fanacht ort?"

Ní duirt Des faic cosúil le sin, ar ndóigh. Bhí sé ag clucáil cosúil le cearc ar ghor, gurbh mhór an trua é nach dtaitníonn Wayne Rooney linn. Amadán.

Alone, All Alone

How appropriate it is that it's Tipperary, the Premier County and the location of Hayes Hotel, Thurles, birthplace of the GAA, that should provide us with what could very well be the most revolutionary happening in GAA officialdom since the introduction of the qualifier system.

The facts, insofar as they can be ascertained, are these: aware that his side were playing Fermanagh in an elimination game this Saturday, Andy Shorthall, manager of the Tipp football team, asked the County Board, or, more accurately, the Mid Division Board, whatever in the Christ that is, to postpone a Mid-Tipperary senior hurling championship match between Loughmore and Thurles Sarsfields that was to have been played last night. The reason for Shorthall's concern was that he had two players on his panel, whom he needed for Saturday's game against doughty Fermanagh, playing for the hurling clubs, and he did not care to have them split and shattered hurling outside Nenagh in the gloaming of a late summer's evening so the fixture list of the Mid Division Board looks neat and tidy.

So Andy Shorthall asked that the fixture be postponed, allowing the Premier County to have its best players to wear its colours and uphold its honour against Fermanagh. And the Mid Division Board said no, we're not moving nothing, so there.

A depressingly common occurance. Lots of counties appoint lots of managers all over Ireland but, when it comes to streamlining the system and getting everyone in the county behind the manager, they just leave the poor dumb hoor twisting slowly in the wind. Then, when whatever county it is comes tumbling out of the Championship, the Knights of the High Stool remark to one and other that they always knew that fella was only a bollocks, or, in our Celtic Tiger times, go posting abuse like billy-oh on the Internet.

But Shorthall obviously doesn't fancy being a martyr, and how the Tipp board must bitterly regret appointing him now. For Shorthall is the sacrificial lamb that bit back - instead of throwing his hands in the air, Shorthall called the Board's bluff. He told the Board that if he couldn't have all his players, he'd quit, and that's exactly what he did.

Him, all his selectors, and, as of last night, all his players. There is nobody left to play football for Tipp, and, in consequence, Tipperary have offered Fermanagh a walkover in Saturday's fixture.

I heard on the radio where some buck from the Tipp County Board said that the players would come to regret this awful day (implying, of course, that the players were bad, bad men for turning their backs on Tiobráid Árainn). As far as I'm concerned, those Tipp men are heroes, and the first winners of this year's Championship.

For God knows how many evenings those footballers have dragged themselves away from warm firesides or the promise of cold porter to go running up hills and down valleys for the honour of the Premier County, all the while with an assortment of goons and rogues slapping them on the back and telling them what great men they were. But, when the backslappers were asked to cut these men a break, and give them some chance of flying Tipp colours in triumph after the game against Fermanagh, they all disappeared into the night to a man.

All that support for the minority game of football disappeared into the night. It was all so much hot air. Tokenism at its best.

So the players were right to stand by Shorthall, who was only standing by them in the first place. They'll probably suffer for it down the line - see what being the chief mutineer in Mayo in 1992 did for Peter Ford's chances of managing the Mayo football team since? - but it takes men to stand up and be counted, to say that that they're not there to be patronised or pushed around any more. Well done Tipp, the Premier County.

Mallacht na Cispheile ar ár bPeil Féin

Ins an alt riatla a scríobhann sé ar leathanach deirneach na Irish Times gach Sáthairn, deireann Keith Duggan go mbeith tionchar mór ag an chispheil ar an pheil Gaelach dá dtabhartaí an seans do. Is mór an meas atá agamsa ar Duggan - ceann de na iriseoirí is fearr in Éirinn faoi lathar, dár liomsa - ach b'fhéidir gur chaith sé an-iomarca uair i Meiricéa. Mar 'sé fírinne an scéal ná go bhfuil tionchar mór ag an Chispheil inniu, ach is drochthionchar é, drochthionchar a chuirfidh brón ar an contae a úsáideann é sula mbeidh an Craobh críochnaite.

'Sé an luas an rud is tabhactach sa bpeil - luas smaoinigh, luas gluaiseachta. Ach, in ionad luas, éiríonn an imirt go mall faoi tionchar na cispheile. Nuair atá imreoir ag imirt peile, is gá dó an liathróid a úsáid go tapaidh. Go glic, gan dabht, ach go tapaidh - má fhágann sé leis an liathróid, beidh sé buailte briste nuair a schroicheann na cúlaí. Gluaiseann an liathróid i bhfad níos luaithe leis an cic ná leis an dorn - ba cheart do gach peiledeoir beir ar an liathróid, feachaint suas, agus cic mór a thabairt don liathróid comh fada agus comh cruinn mar is féidir. Dá gcaithfí an iomarca uair an liathróid a chur faoi gluaiseacht níl faic déanta ach seans thugtaí den cúlaí a bhailigh le cheile, agus luíochán a ullmhú don fear bocht faoi deireadh leis an liathróid.

Tá brón agus buartha ar an Spailpín go bhfuil galar na cispheile ar larr ina chontae féin. Rachaidh Maigh Eo i gcoinne Gaillimh ar an 27ú Meitheamh, coicís ón Domhnach seo chugainn, agus leigh mé ar an Hogan Stand gur úsáid Muigh Eo an seachad gairid chun an liathróid a thabhairt amach óna gcúl féin i gcluiche i gcoinne an Mhí tráthnóna inné. Sin galar na cispheile, agus má dheannann Muigh Eo iarracht an seafóid cheanna a úsáíd i gcoinne Gaillimh, titfidh an Seoigheach orthu cosúil leis an iolar ón sliabh ins an dán cáiliúl le Alfred, Tiarna Tennyson.

Gearr síos na líonta, agus dean cliabh don ásal dóibh. Níl maith eile leo.

The Big Fellow Rises from the Grave

While An Spailpín was out for an evening's constitutional just now, he was struck by a most remarkable sight - a swarthy young man was approaching him wearing a Michael Collins t-shirt. It was that picture of Collins in his Free State General's uniform, the one with his hands clasped and his head looking off to his left. The slogan on the t-shirt read "You've read the book, you've seen the film - now join the party."

"Those crazy Shinners," I thought, "whatever will they think of next?" Imagine then, my surprise when the chappie passed me, and I espied the Young Fine Gael logo on the sleeve.

Do you suppose the Tories would have a better chance of winning the next election if they put a picture of the Duke of Wellington on their t-shirts? No; neither do I.