For the past year, Advertiser editor Declan Varley was penning a new book charting the personal journey of a lifetime of following his native Mayo. Through disappointments, joy, illness and tragedy, his seminal work is a must-read not just for Mayo fans, but all readers. The following is an extract from the book, outlining how he took upon himself to chart a century of being embroiled in one of the last great sporting odysseys — the hunt to bring Sam back to Mayo.
Outlasting a reign
NO SOONER HAD Queen Elizabeth II passed away at Balmoral but the memes commenced. With the world marking the longevity of her reign, the manner in which her empire had changed, and the world over which she governed had transformed, the slagging started on social media.
‘Imagine being the longest reigning monarch ever, and never seeing Mayo win an All-Ireland,’ the cynics jibed. While they may have been strictly correct that she never saw Mayo win an All-Ireland title, on the day when she became Queen, the team from the west were already All-Ireland champions, enjoying the second of their successive victories at the start of a barren period that has stretched past seven decades. When she ascended to the throne in February 1952, only six months had passed since that Mayo team had reigned supreme in Croke Park. On that day, with a world of possibilities in front of her, there was no way she could have foreseen the longevity of her reign and the momentous changes that would follow suit.
On that day too, there was little to suggest that an all-conquering Mayo team, who would soon be embarking on an historic quest for three in-a-row, would not taste success again, not just for that decade, but for at least six more after it, stretching well into the next century. To put it into context, imagine if you were told tomorrow that the Dublin team that won the All-Ireland final in 2023 would not win another until 2094. You would never believe it, but that is the span of barren-ness that Mayo fans have had to endure, so far.
There is no potential victory for any county that fascinates as much as a Mayo victory. An elite footballing superpower, the annual quest for glory is one that excites neutrals, and gives the fanatical fanbase a full summer. The affection for them, for the beauty of their play, has often stretched into sympathy, and perhaps there is nothing more irking to a Mayo fan than receiving the sympathy of a supporter from a county that never reaches the business end of the championship.
Much has been made of the famed curse, which is a complete nonsense as I show later in this book. But what is without doubt is the fact that Mayo’s quest for multiple All-Ireland wins has foundered on poor fortune, poor decision making, the issue of facing some of the greatest sides of their respective eras, and then on some occasions, when the only luck that they had was bad luck. What is also fascinating is that many of the issues that impacted on the great Mayo teams of the current era are the same that bothered them at many times over the last eventful century of competitive action. What would the fanatical Mayo fans be like if success had come along more frequently in that epoch? If the odd title was picked up one in every two decades even?
Right from when they faced off against a wonderful Wexford side in the aftermath of The Rising. In the 60s, when they reputedly went toe to toe with one of the greatest sides of all team, their old neighbours, Galway, who managed to achieve that elusive hat-trick of successive titles. In the 70s and 80s, there was hope, but also great tragedy that held them back, but if truth be told, that era belonged to the great Dublin and Kerry sides who swept all before them. The 80s brought some hope right at the end, when a victory was in sight, but as was Mayo’s wont on more than one occasion, they managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
So, what has prompted me to pen this document of a journey? To paraphrase Linda Martin, why me? Why is there a need to remind myself of this century of misfortune? Surely, there are less frustrating aspects of life with which I could surround myself. But, no, it sort of found me.
There were a few symmetries that linked me to this – I had gone to the same school as the first man to lift Sam Maguire in a Mayo shirt; and those same shirts were stitched and weaved about four streets away from my own house in Ballinrobe.
But that’s not enough.
Fast forward to the pandemic winter of 2020, to a time when everything changed. When nothing was immune to being moved around. A country that was in real fear. A death toll that was shocking. The news routine of a newspaper journalist mounted to little more than documenting the trauma of a world in shock. For the first time in my career, the whole world’s media were covering the exact same story, every hour, every day. The news agenda focused around the search for immunity but in reality, the whole world was immune from being in control of its destiny. Nothing was too sacred to be cancelled or amended or reshaped unrecognisably. We lived in a state of flux, deprived of the routine of normal life as we had known it.
And such was the case with that year’s All-Ireland series. The dry sod of summer pitches eschewed in favour of seeing out some sort of competition that winter. The national psyche needed the distraction, a cause to chase. Something to keep people indoors, something to watch while a little watermark at the top right of the screen said Stay Abhaile – Stay home.
It was a time too when we were acutely conscious of the trauma Ireland had suffered a century before, and there was poignancy in the stunning coincidence that the last four teams in 2020 matched the quartet who fought out the 1920 semi-finals. The semi-finals held a century after Bloody Sunday saw Mayo defeat Tipperary in a foggy misty and silent Croke Park. The final, played in front of a record-small crowd in a stadium where every call reverberated across the vast empty stands, where every score was marked not by cacophonous crowds, but by the sharp blast of a whistle and the congratulatory remarks of teammates.
Mayo set records that evening too, conceding the earliest goal in an All-Ireland final... when Dublin scored direct from the opening throw-in. Mayo had form with early capitulation, but to be fair, they rallied in this game and with 20 minutes left were on equal terms; however, they failed to find the goals they needed to stop Dublin from registering a sixth All-Ireland on the trot.
Perhaps of all the finals, that was one of the most depressing; not just for the match and the result, but for the ambient atmosphere in which it was played. A foggy dark night, with every play-call and instruction audible throughout the vast emptiness of Croke Park. The place never felt more empty. The official attendance was zero, and apart from the players and backroom team (and three lads hidden in a Mayo kit van ) there were fewer than 50 media in the ground.
Afterwards, shepherded from the stadium by dutiful stewards, I walked with Tommy Devane of Galway Bay fm and Colm Parkinson to the car park behind the Canal End, and the realisation hit me that I had become a member of an elite club who had seen every All-Ireland final that Mayo had played in, and drawn or lost, since that day in 1951.
The surreal Saturday night drive through the empty streets of the city, which looked to have been cleared for some apocalyptic movie scene did nothing to change the mood. With every kilometre driven, there was a sense that this was a very new way of living and that life may never go back to how it was.
And yet, in the depth of such thoughts, one thought surfaced: would there be a chance now for a Mayo team to win Sam?
Although I was only born in the 1960s, I had been to every decider that Mayo had drawn or lost since, an honour shared by many diehard green and red supporters, but the 2020 final put me in an elite club. With just a handful of media allowed into the ground that evening because of Covid restrictions, I was one of maybe four or five Mayo people who had been granted the privilege.
Whatever joys and torments we Mayo fans had encountered seeing our team in person in those finals, one extra notch was added to mine. It was as if I was the carrier of a flame of hope. A member of a unique club who had the misfortune to witness at first hand each of Mayo’s final disappointments. It felt almost obligatory for me to come forth and retell the feelings of that depressingly awful night.
So, in this book, I want to bring you on a journey through the story of a county that just wants its day in the sun. I want all Mayo fans to know why it is that we are the way we are. Where did this pride and passion come from, and what would life be like if we had to exist without it? Are we defined by it?
There is no need to feel sorry for us, because what matters to us is that we matter when it comes to the big days of summer and more often than not, we matter. And now, as I reach an age where it is a distinct possibility that I may never see that day of glory, I want to understand why it matters so much to so many like myself.
