Sligo end their famine in style
Kevin McStayTHE country was spoiled for choice when it came to choosing where you might go to see a championship match last weekend; so much to view, so little time to view it. I settled for three clashes in the end and if the Qualifiers provided the backdrop for the majority of games, well, there was only one story to emerge.
I like to be around when Sligo win the Connacht championship. Back in 1975 myself and about ten others were bundled into the back of my teacher’s Cortina and we headed off to Sligo for the final.
It was my first encounter with the biggest football day in the province and I should have known it was the start of a glorious and painful relationship with this championship.
In fact I was at two finals that year; the replay was held in Castlebar back in the days when there was a Bacon Factory End and the terrace pillars were painted Green and Red. Somebody decided Turlough would be a great place to park the car but national school children don’t tend to appreciate power walking. The pain had begun.
We expected to win this replay pulling up, sure our own clubman, Ivan Heffernan, was in the goals, Mickey Kearins would have to major in minors. Mick Higgins from Westport landed a ‘90’ but Kearins, the fecker, got a peno’ and stuck it. Sligo had done the unimaginable and the Cup was handed over to Barnes Murphy.
I was back again last Sunday in the Hyde, working on the Sunday Game Live and who do you think was there beside me? Ocean FM togged off Barnes for the commentary! He appears to have wintered better than me and when we chatted about the game, I gave Sligo a great chance. Look, you don’t take chances with men like Barnes Murphy.
Never mind the quality (us pundits sometimes OD on this issue), sometimes you just enjoy it for what it is. Great passion, great excitement and a historical context. Sligo don’t win this gong too often and are perhaps the only argument left for the old system of provincial football structures. When Fermanagh and Carlow do the needful one of these fine days, we can begin to talk of the open draw.
And it was good to see old warriors have their day in the sunshine. Noel McGuire has always impressed me as a player and a man and it was very fitting he got his hands on the Nestor Cup; he is a fine proud Sligo man.
Eamon O’Hara is the other old soldier and to see him in full flight is indeed a sight to behold. He brings power, pace and raw athleticism to the game and his goal will not be forgotten.
There is some debate, again about the quality, but for me, there can be no argument. I played a lot of football as a forward but never got a goal like that. I remember Joe Lindsay getting a screamer once in an auld League game but analysts must remember this about the O’Hara goal: he is a midfielder, he is naturally right-footed and he had to run 30 metres to get the pass and carry it another 25 metres before he pulled the trigger.
He used his left foot to score it, and kept two defenders away from the block by doing so. And finally, he does not go one-on-one every game he plays. He was in a strange land but he executed like he was a native.
It is a day Galway will want to forget because they simply did not contribute to this final by showing a carefree and somewhat careless attitude to proceedings. We know they did not set out to do this but that is the reality. Time for both study and surgery by Peter Ford, otherwise this year will peter out.
A glorious day then down Sligo way. Roscommon was slow to empty and dusk had fallen when a friend spotted a few good humoured Sligonians down to their jocks as they replayed the O’Hara goal in a lay-by on the edge of town.
Phoenix from the ashes...
