Diary of a Home Bird
AS I write this, ahead of last weekend, the hunt for All-Ireland Final tickets is still in full swing. The county is full of Charlies searching for the ‘Golden ticket’.
To those of you reading this, I hope you all got ‘sorted’ and I really hope the strains of the Green and Red of Mayo echoed around Croke Park at the full time whistle.
All-Ireland finals for me, like most of the county, always bring memories flooding back. Because we have experienced the golden age of Mayo GAA, where we’re more used to being in the last four of the championship than not, each trip up to Croke Park is stored in the memory bank, only to be accessed on the cold winter nights or opened again on the next outing to share stories on the walk up Jones Rd.
The day before the 2012 All-Ireland saw a ‘Snapper’ type moment as the Galvin clan piled into Galway University Hospital to get a sneak peek of our new niece Saoirse, draped in a Mayo jersey and all. The following day, we clinked glasses to the new arrival and to what the next few hours could bring. Sadly, there was no Sam, but we were content enough with the most important arrival to Mayo that weekend.
The last week has been tense in the Galvin household, talk of tickets has consumed every waking hour. Even poor Madre fell victim to the hysteria, being left out in the cold during all the madness, literally.
Minding the ranch on All-Ireland final day while The Fam head east, she didn’t have to worry about where she’d be sitting at 3.30pm on Sunday. On Wednesday last though, she was very aware of where she was sitting: the step outside the house, as she had forgotten her key.
I had a missed call from the marooned Madre while I was in the cinema, but she soon texted to assure me my brother would be arriving shortly to let her in.
Arriving home an hour later, she was safely inside preparing dinner.
“Oh ye’re all home now,” she said pointedly, when I entered the kitchen.
The bro had forgotten about her. After waiting awhile she had decided to take refuge in the neighbour’s house until Padre got home.
Some time later, the bro rang—not to apologise for forgetting his poor mother and to find out whether she had managed to get into the house, but to enquire about the tickets situation.
After the phone call, myself and the male roomie broke it to her: It’s All-Ireland week, some people would sell their mother for a ticket, never mind leaving them out in the cold.
> In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.