Mayo Sports Moment of the Year: Waiting a lifetime for one sweet day

The car sees much more of me than my wife does. Sunday nights and Mondays are eaten up by the seemingly-endless challenge of filling pages, the lap-top is never out of reach and the phone is a constant companion – but I'm utterly blessed!

I get to see hundreds of games every year, talk to the finest of people, experience joy up close and sit in the best seat in the house at some of the biggest of sporting occasions. I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am.

However, because of the stream of events I experience, choosing a favourite sporting moment is almost an impossibility. Do I choose something from the ups and down of various Mayo football teams?

Of course, one cannot overlook the outstanding achievements of Castlebar Celtic, St Colman's, Rice College, St Muredach's, Balla Secondary School, the athletic brilliance of Freya Renton, the boxing stardom of Carlagh Peake, Eoghan Lavin, Shannon Sweeney, Natalia Fasciszewska and so many more.

Maybe the best moment of the year was a quiet minute with Jordan Flynn under the stand in Croke Park on a wet, windy evening after Crossmolina won the All-Ireland title.

However, the highlight of my sporting year occurred a long way from the big crowds and the silver cups – in a world far removed from after-match interviews, cameras and journalistic deadlines.

My sporting moment meant the absolute world to me, and I didn't even get to see it.

BACK IN THE DAY

Let's set the scene. It's just before dawn on a dreary October morning in 1987. A friend from Burrishoole had gone out of his way to drop me at the end of our road in Ballycroy and I faced into the cutting breeze whipping down from the mountains.

I was drunk. A group of us had ended our long night of drinking in a house in Castlebar throwing tequila down our gullets. Earlier that day we had played our hearts out in the county junior semi-final in MacHale Park. Glencorrib had beaten us by a point in a game we should have won.

Afterwards, the team had spent some time together before we split up into little groups as we looked to ease the savage disappointment. The club had played in one previous county semi-final – back in 1970 - when Garrymore were victorious, so we knew these chances were few and far between.

On that dreary October morning as I wandered in our boreen I was 18-years-old with four seasons of adult football behind me at that stage.

Junior football in the 1980s was an almost indescribable experience – utterly removed from today's sporting world. If you were mad enough, you were old enough – simple as that.

My friends and I were devastated by that defeat. We knew it might be a while before Ballycroy would be back at the business end of the championship again, but not one of us could have predicted we'd be middle-aged before it would occur. Not one of us could have foreseen it would take 38 long years.

FULL OF HOPE

When the 2025 season began, there was mixed news coming from the camp at home. One of our lads was heading for America for the summer, at least one more was in Australia and one or two were injured, but the rest were moving well.

The new surface on the pitch was nearly ready after years of hard work and there was a sense of excitement in the air.

We were drawn in a tough championship group. Bonniconlon had come within a kick of a ball of winning the title the year before, Ardagh were fancied by many to win the whole thing while there is never more than a kick of a ball between Killala, Ballycastle and ourselves.

Bonniconlon came to Ballycroy in the first round and won. In truth, they were a far more seasoned team than us and we didn't play well on the day. Then, the wheel began to turn.

Our mighty young men went to Killala one glorious summer evening and narrowly beat the home side. The delight was felt in many Ballycroy households across the world in the following hours. Ardagh arrived in the third round and left with a win, after a bit of a battle.

That left everything resting on the final group game in Ballycastle. Win and Ballycroy would be back in the knock-out phase of the county championship for the first time since '87 – lose and it would be another 'nearly' story.

DAY OF DESTINY

When the morning of September 21 dawned across the land I was preparing to travel to three championship games around the county, while the team, management and supporters were readying themselves for a pivotal trip to Tom Langan Park where the mighty men of Ballycastle awaited.

It was almost too hard to think about it. I didn't mention it to anyone because the rest of the world wouldn't be able to grasp how much that game meant to us.

The day took on a life of its own. I was working away as usual, but for once my mind wasn't fully on the job. Every so often thoughs would drift towards the edge of the Atlantic where our lads were giving it everything.

Dad, who has lived and breathed Ballycroy GAA for a lifetime couldn't go to the game, but was being kept informed of every morsel of news by my sister.

Friends at the game were texting me the ever-changing scoreline and there was little or nothing between the teams going into the last few minutes.

Then, the texts dried up. I was afraid to ask what was wrong. Were they reluctant to send bad news, had their batteries died, had a coverage blackspot been placed over North Mayo or were they immersed in celebrations?

Then, after an age, I felt the phone buzz. I was afraid to look, but I had to. “We feckin did it” was the wonderful phrase on the screen and I could have danced a jig of joy.

A ball of pure emotion lodged in my throat and for a split second I recalled that morning just before the dawn 38 years earlier when I wandered home after losing by a point in Castlebar.

Beating Ballycastle in the final group game of the 2025 Mayo Junior Championship meant absolutely nothing to the rest of the sporting world but to us, it was by far the greatest moment of the entire year.

Thirty eight years is a long time. It takes humans from teenagers to the edge of old-age; it takes many people from us and sometimes 38 years is the length of time it takes fate to hear the voices of a club that refused to die.