COLUMN: Can Mayo finally fly? The hope before the All-Ireland final

The days stretch interminably. We pounce on every whisper, every morsel of news, every silly text related to the final.

Work gets done, dinners get cooked, the house gets cleaned, but where are our minds really?

Somewhere in the Cusack stand, with every nerve ending tingling, every sense overloaded with the sound, the smoke and the beat of the pre-match parade.

Washing the dishes: How will we get hands on enough ball to give ourselves a chance? Out for a walk: How can we disrupt the extraordinary force of this Kerry forward line?

Typing an email: What will our kick-outs look like? Chatting to the neighbours: What’s our ceiling in Mayo, and is it even high enough to reach Kerry’s floor?

Multiple times a day: What if every tiny dream we’ve allowed ourselves in this unexpected gift of a week only leaves us feeling foolish for daring to hope? But what if we actually pull it off?

The WhatsApps arrive daily: daft TikToks, a roadside poster of Jack and Andy in dresses. Jack, the bride, looks happy. White looks more his colour than ours.

Before, that stuff would have stung. But, to borrow a phrase off a fellow fan, so genius I wish I’d thought of it myself, in Mayo we are now half (wo)men, half armadillos.

Andy gave us permission after the semi-final to enjoy it all, to go a bit nuts, and for the first time in a long time, Mayo fans felt seen.

This year does feel lighter. Yes, I’m enjoying the build-up, but with caution and like a seasoned elder, watching with trepidation a new generation embracing the innocence of it all. If we lose, will their hearts shatter too?

If we win, will they appreciate it as much as those whose hearts are already mostly scar tissue? Does it matter?

WITCHCRAFT OR HUMANITY

I watch the hurling final but can’t really concentrate. After 20 minutes, the game is over as a contest and my thoughts have already drifted to next weekend.

What pattern will be on the lawn? Will our game also be over by half time? Will it turn out to be the classic the neutral would love it to be? Or will it be attritional, one side grinding out a win, leaving the other empty?

Cian Lynch climbs the Hogan Stand steps looking born to lift trophies. You can tell this title means as much to Limerick as the previous five.

The loudest cheer is for sports psychologist Caroline Currid. I wonder what’s happening inside our own players’ heads. No Limerick player, though they revere her, can really describe what she actually does, save making them “feel heard.” It sounds so simple. Is it witchcraft, or just humanity?

LOVED ONES

I think of the Mayo captains of my lifetime, preparing victory speeches never to be delivered. Thirteen orations written in hope, to be crumpled and tossed.

I wonder who in our squad is buzzing, who is nervous, who feels the weight of history, and who is simply focused on winning the next game.

I think of my sister, who was home from Australia to coincide with the semi-final but had to go back last week. What if they win and she isn’t here to hug, to cry, to holler with joy to the heavens?

I think of those we’ve lost since the last final and the ones before. They scouted alongside us for tickets, joined glorious sweaty raucous pre-match gatherings in packed pubs and lived the ecstasy and agony of those finals too, and now they’re not here anymore.

It feels unfair that we still get to have the days they would have cherished. Wrong that they are not with us. I think of their families, of my own.

Our Mayo mad cousin, his anniversary mass on final day. I hope he puts in a word. Who will I run to meet behind the Davin at half time this year now he’s not here? I resolve to shout all the louder for them, to hold their dreams with mine.

IS IT DIFFERENT?

I think too much. The chatter continues. Such-and-such is looking for a ticket. What time will we leave? Will we go up the night before, or stay Sunday night? Have you seen this meme? Will we go to the banquet?

Who’ll drive? The car isn’t in the best of health. I wait nearly a week to get it into the mechanic. As long as it gets us to Dublin, we’ll figure out the rest. I think of the journey up and the laughs we’ll have. Of Delia on the bridge with her flags. Our little crew and the thousands of miles we’ve travelled together.

This year feels different. Then I catch myself. Give myself a shake. Hasn’t every year felt different, for god’s sake? Isn’t every final different, for the love of god? But it persists. They say hope is the thing with feathers.

And tiny little signs too small and insignificant to mention, insist on floating, fluttering across my path daily. No logic. Just hope. I might feel stupid afterwards. But this week, in blissful ignorance, I’ll dream.

What if we fall? We’ve fallen before, plenty of times. We’ll survive. But what if we fly?

We wait. I can’t shake it off, this silly little hope of mine.

Of ours.