The world has changed a lot in the last quarter of a century. Back in 1987 and 1988, we did not know what we did not know. I remember those summers as times when I was likely to meet a neighbour as we waited at 5am in the lines outside the cafe in Cricklewood where we gathered in those hours before dawn, trying to look desperate enough to be given ‘the start.’
It was the era when Paddy was heading for Holyhead and where bus-bound, we left the west of Ireland and were awoken by the bright lights of the transport cafe at Knutsford on the road to London. While Stephen Roche was the toast of France, we were part of Europe but we felt uniquely Irish in a bleak situation...the unparalleled loneliness of an emigrant’s British Sunday making us all feel even more isolated, the one day when the other-ness was accentuated.
And in those drab bedsits in the heart of KIlburn, we lifted the transistor radio high into the air to try to get a better reception on the medium wave band where the voice of Micheal O’Hehir painted pictures in our minds and for a few hours at least, made us forget where we were and what we’d have to do once we rejoined that line the following morning.
And it was into that era that the great Galway teams brought a sense of colour and energy, their breathtaking skills driven by a freshness unseen in other counties for some time. A refreshing change from the norm of the Leinster and Munster counties. And when they collected titles back to back, it seemed that the power base of the ancient game was switching at last to the west and that the tally of four titles would surely rise into double figures in the next decade.
When you left behind the trauma of Keadygate in ‘89 and looked at the massed talent that Galway represented, you would have been given unbelievable odds on Galway not winning again in the next 24 years. Even the cruellest of cycles would have surely brought success around again, eventually, but it was not to be, and even when there were days in the sun, they were seen as freakish, unexpected, and followed as quickly by defeats which brought us all down to earth, and made us wonder why we got excited or optimistic in the first place.
But there is something different about this year. Our path to the final has not been because of a once-off result against napping Cats or resting Rebels.
It has been a consistent path of progress that brings us to a whirlwind climax next Sunday. Galway, although outsiders with the bookies, travel with great hope having already hammered the opposition — a result that can be seen as both a blessing and a sin.
I do not wish to place added pressure on the broad shoulders of the young men who will carry Galway’s hopes next Sunday, but I only hope that they do not leave the day behind them, that they do not let the game go by in a haze, that they engage with it from the off so that they give themselves a chance of being able to dine out on this for the rest of their lives. Most of them were not even born when those heroics of Galway hurling were played out. And indeed many of the younger fans were not around for those glory days. Win on Sunday and you will become greater heroes. Heroes for a new generation. Win on Sunday and you will lift the hearts of every Galwayman and Galwaywoman and in return they will find forever a place for you in their hearts. Best of luck, lads.
