A long road home, paved with questions and what-ifs

Cavanman's Diary

Virginia, at noon on Saturday. There wasn’t a puff of wind to flutter the bunting - but a buzz hung in the warm air.

Waiting for my travelling companion, it was clear something was brewing.

At 12.20pm, he informed me he was passing Lisgrey House. Now, this man is not known for his timekeeping but I was beginning to wonder had he called in for a shandy when he still hadn’t hit the town by 12.55. But no, he swore, the backlog was that bad – and after corroborating evidence was later produced in the form of impartial witnesses, I believed him.

Killing time, I took a stroll to sample the atmosphere. There were Cavan jerseys everywhere, mainly young people, the day and night spread out before them in a way that only the morning of a match, or maybe a festival, offers.

The town resembles something of a building site at the moment, with construction work ongoing on the footpaths and various partitions and mechanical equipment in place. It left space at a premium and emphasised the size of the crowd; the place was thronged.

Maybe, I silently pondered, I was wrong about this Tailteann Cup after all.

A couple of dozen Kingspan-clad supporters waited at the bus stop. The first bus that stopped, a double-decker, couldn’t fit them all in, prompting one fan to rap the door of a private coach, stationary in traffic outside Eddie Reilly’s shop.

“Have you any room?!” he shouted, his tone a combination of hope and desperation, but the driver solemnly shook his head. The clock was ticking down and wary of the gridlock in the capital, I was glad to see my colleague arriving on the scene at last.

On, eventually, to Croker. The arteries leading in were clogged but we eventually made it for about quarter past two. On Jones’s Road, in the heart of the city, blue was the principal colour, the girls looking a million dollars and the lads, where possible, making sure they had a number on their back in order to let them know that they had made a minor panel at one time or another. Those little edges are important.

The craic was good but there was no time for dilly-dallying. Level 7, Dublin 3, is normally the coldest place in Ireland but for the first occasion I can recall, we could sit comfortably up there in short sleeves.

The first person I met was Cian Mackey (how Cavan could have done with his guile). What did he think? Cian was concerned. Wouldn’t be easy, he reckoned. I concurred.

After all that the country has been put through in the last couple of years, even a cynic like me had to admit that it was good for the soul to be there, to see the place filling up. Someone threw a blue flare from Hill 16 on to the pitch just before the off. The carnival crackled.

And it was even better when Cavan claimed the throw-in, Killian Clarke won a free, Ray Galligan took it quickly and Gerry Smith sent over a point.

Soon, Paddy Lynch had kicked another and Cavan were moving nicely, the supporters in full voice.

Killian Brady was sticking like glue to Westmeath’s danger man, John Heslin (“In fairness to Heslin, he’s keeping the Gunner quiet”, deadpanned the fella beside me). Blue jerseys won a couple of collisions. The sun was shining and the sap was rising, the cameras were clicking and Cavan were in Croker kicking points.

On its little podium, the cup gleamed. If only the day could have been paused there and then.

As the half wore on, it became clear that something was amiss. Ronan O’Toole was popping up everywhere for Westmeath, who weren’t one bit cowed. Eventually, they found the net and at half-time, they led by two.

By now, Cavan were looking jaded, like a fighter in the final rounds, heavy-legged but still slugging it out on heart and muscle memory. Westmeath pulled ahead but then Martin Reilly loitered, as he does, at the back post and caused panic and Padraig Faulkner bundled in a goal from nowhere.

Cavan were energised and came off the ropes with a flurry of blows – a big play from Faulkner, scores from Smith and Lynch - and it looked like they would get the win on points. But their hopes walked off with Thomas Galligan; he was dismissed 12 minutes from time and Westmeath scored 1-3 unanswered, the goal either a moment of sheer power, skill and bravery or a complete shambles, depending on what colours you wore.

That was that. The blue and white balloon had been pricked with a pin.

Under the stand, Mickey Graham was clearly hurting. When he spoke about what a privilege it had been to play for and manage Cavan, it sounded like a man considering his position, in public.

Supporters we encountered outside were quite sombre, too. A text arrived from a friend in Galway: “Jeez, Cavan would break your heart.”

I had been fairly dismissive of the Tailteann Cup from the start but the scenes leading up to the final – the size of the Cavan crowd, the fervour, the colour all around the county all week - surprised me. This clearly meant a lot to people and the pictures from Mullingar and surrounding towns later on would really hammer home a lonely old feeling. This was a huge party and we had been left off the guest list, Breffni No Mates turned away at the door.

Westmeath county board will now receive a reported €60,000 contribution from the GAA towards a team holiday. Missing out on that is unfortunate, too, for the Cavan players, who have worked tremendously hard but what can you do? It brings to mind Pat Spillane’s line about Kerry’s proposed holiday to Bali in 1982. Seamus Darby intervened, of course, and Bali was replaced by “Bali f**kin’ bunion”.

Turning for home, it was bumper to bumper. We got swallowed up in traffic and half-lost in the warren of back streets around Croker. The Sat Nav was no use and a debate began in the car as we headed down Grenville Street about which road we should take, about how we ended up where we were, about where we had gone wrong and whose fault it was.

Questions that will linger, now, over the autumn and into the long, chilly winter nights.