Further Mayo reflections on that game of games
by Martin Carney
THINGS have calmed for the moment. Now that the adrenalin has ceased coursing and one’s capacity to distil reason from emotion has, hopefully, resumed, it’s timely to reflect on some of the personal highlights of that never-to-be-forgotten Saturday night.
Rarely have I attended a sports event where nearly every emotional extreme available to man got an outing. I felt at times angry and sad, despondent and jubilant, while all the time hoping for the miraculous to happen.
That it did was in no small way a result of the collective courage and self-belief of the team and the contributions of all the participants. Without further ado, here are some of my memories.
123 seconds of madness!
This game was special. Mayo, above all others, appropriately, given the chance to end the reign of the six-in-a-row All-Ireland champions.
How fitting it was that a chance for deliverance or downfall should ride on the last kick. That equalising score by Robbie Hennelly will enter the annals of the all-time great equalising scores in the game’s history.
From the moment the Mayo relentless forward press forced the 45' in the dying embers of the game the weight of a county’s hopes and dreams rested on his broad shoulders. It was all or nothing: score – extra-time; miss – exit.
Between the concession of the 45' and Hennelly’s first attempt 47 seconds elapsed. The introduction of substitutes from either side, Darren Coen and Philly McMahon, didn’t help; they simply added to the distraction.
A sliced effort was a poor return from a player whose kicking length and accuracy had been phenomenal all day. Aside from his earlier points from similar distances, a 92% restart accuracy rating was top class.
By then distraction had morphed into turmoil as all around him referee, linesmen and departing subs added to the confusion. That he remained calm through this was a credit to his character.
Rinsing the earlier miss from the system was one thing but summoning the courage, composure and belief to nail the second attempt was phenomenal. You know the result.
Between the concession of the 45' and executing the final effort, two minutes and three seconds elapsed – 123 seconds in all!
The substitutions
Arguably a common thread across past failures to land Sam was Mayo’s lack of squad depth that carried the potential to improve matters whenever called on. A dearth of extra vitality on the bench was touted as a regular impediment.
Saturday’s epic read from a different page as, to a man, every one summoned answered the clarion call. Enda Hession was positivity personified.
Dublin simply couldn’t cope with his link play and feverish movement. Bryan Walsh and James Carr entered before the water break, bringing with them a demonic fever that never allowed a Dublin player time on the ball.
Hounding, harassing and pressing up on their opponents, the Dubs found it impossible to settle. Stripped of composure, the reigning champions visibly began to wilt. Carr’s misses aside, both were excellent.
When Kevin McLoughlin was replaced I had my reservations but in truth I needn’t have worried as on the night his replacement, Jordan Flynn, choose the moment to give his best-yet display in the green and red.
Greedy for action, never flinching the physical and using his intelligence, he crowned a fine display with an excellent point. This was a performance to build on.
Conor O’Shea and Darren Coen both made significant plays. Without O’Shea’s persistence the game would never have gone to extra time and we’d be wondering, not for the first time, where did it all go wrong.
His dogged determination forced the Dublin defender over the line for that fateful 45' at a time when the Sky Blues were out on their feet.
Coen, as always, has a facility to stroke a ball over the bar and, here again, he didn’t disappoint. Coming on at the very death is never easy but both Brendan Harrison and James Durcan caught the wind by embracing the mood that thundered around them. Along with the others they shared the workload.
James Horan’s judgement
Buried deep in thought, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings yet digesting every micro-event, James Horan sometimes conveys the aura of a contemplative monk pondering the mysteries unfolding before him.
Communication with Ciaran McDonald and Alan Sweeney is regular. Trying to gain and maintain the edge is an unending collective quest.
Down six points at half-time, the interval team huddle assumed huge importance. Mayo had played poorly; on none of the known matrices had they gained advantage.
Managing to restore calm at the midway point was one thing but convincing his team that they had the necessary tools to win the game was another matter altogether.
Whatever he did or said, the team responded in style.
Transformed from conservative to freewheeling, Mayo went to war with the result that the Dubs flinched in the face of the new high-pressing, aggressive and super-confident approach. Reputations soared; what was seemingly impossible got turned on its head and the final outcome gave Mayo football one of its finest ever days. In orchestrating it, Horan deserves great credit.
The roar
I have had the privilege of attending every Mayo game in the company of Michael D. McAndrew on behalf of Midwest Radio since the pandemic outbreak.
Multiple sporting theatres hosting top class games to atmospheres more in tune with a Saturday night confessional became the norm. Twelve games in total, soulless occasions where managerial directions fought a losing battle against the squawks of seagulls and starlings.
By relaxing regulations for the Connacht final, stakeholders got a glimpse of what we missed: numbers and noise. Sounds from the starved and throaty decorated the occasion and players responded in kind.
The Dublin game raised decibel levels to a new pitch altogether. Players inspired the crowd; they in turn drew inspiration from the roars created by the seething, rabid Mayo following.
That swoosh of Mayo noise and unrestrained emotion acted as a 16th man. I have asked myself repeatedly since: Had the game taken place in an empty stadium would we have enjoyed a similar outcome?
Harrison’s return
It’s after 9.15 p.m. I’m still in situ on the upper deck of the Hogan. Waiting for the family. Sheets of lazy rain drift across the dimming floodlights.
Something catches my eye. Under the Cusack, still clad in green and red, 'inheriting the last light’, Brendan Harrison enjoys a carefree frolic in the company of his children.
Two years of absent torture rinsed in that moment’s beauty. Oblivious to everything, the little one scores the winning goal.