August 27, Croke Park

On a dark Dublin morning on a bus enveloped in my gloom - and silent but for one chap telling someone on the phone that he is too depressed to go to work and is heading instead for the 'early house' - the words of another Dub are apt.

In 'Worstward Ho' Samuel Beckett dispensed advice invaluable to anyone involved with football or hurling in Dublin, or I suppose any sport in any place. "Ever tried. Ever failed. No Matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

Dublin do failure well. Spectacularly well even. Not for us the dull grinding slog or even the one-sided rout. Oh God no. That would be too easy. Every defeat is a Greek tragedy. A Cecil B DeMille epic.

Someone said to me on the Monday morning, as I emanated depression like the sun does its golden rays, that I should "cheer up." That it was only a game. I tried to smile and I had no words.

It may be "only a game" but to me and many others it is as important as almost any other thing. And more so than most things. To Dublin and Mayo people who were there our despair and their joy is as real as anything else in this life. Serious minded people will argue that work or politics or 'art' are more important than sport. But as Johan Huizanga said: "All are rooted in the primeval soil of play."

For us, our attachment to our counties is also primeval. Some historians have argued that the GAA is based on English administrative creations but in most cases they conform to earlier units and in any case they evoke a powerful sense of place. And despite what some Leinster Council seat warmer said the week before the Mayo match, that is as true for the Cabra Dub as it is for the Castlebar Mayo person.

Castlebar will be the happier this week. A team that had its integrity and appetite for the big day questioned responded in style. When Dublin went seven points ahead during a blistering start to the second half, few would have given Mayo any hope of avoiding humiliation never mind defeat. The script cast Mayo to drop their heads and give up. They tore up the script.

Dublin did not surrender but they did panic. It is a phenomenon that many of us are well used to but which we thought may have been banished from the current set-up. But even with that, the game was still there to be won, never mind saved, right down to the last. Panic and stress generated the wrong options, hands and posts intervened, and Mayo held on.

The whole day seemed to start off badly. The week before had been a huge high. All the mad scramble to get tickets, and not knowing until nearly the day how we were fixed. The Thursday in Isles was mad. We had been training and for a while I thought we must have been putting on quite an exhibition of intricate hurling skills because there were about 50 people watching from near the entrance to the clubhouse. Of course they were all there to collect their tickets.

The bar was jammed and conspiracy theorists were convinced that this was all a ploy to boost takings. Rumours were rife about how many tickets the club was actually going to receive. I asked the Treasurer and he said 200. I looked around. There was way more than that anxiously sipping pints or, for the dedicated trainer, some class of sports mineral. Not to mention that everyone had applied for at least two. But the crack was good even as the hours passed until nearly eleven when the secretive committee emerged with a box of brown envelopes.

We took our place in the queue straining to see what those at the front were getting and to try and read the facial expressions. Some chaps were opening envelopes and smiling. Others were clearly disappointed. But there were people getting two and three each so that was good. In a spirit of optimism I had applied for four but would be overjoyed with two and happy enough with one. The priority was myself, Ciara and Gerard. We already had two so another two and I would be able to give one to my father.

I reached the top of the queue and my heart momentarily sank as I read the list upside down and opposite my name was nothing. Zero, nada, zilch. Fuck. I gave my name anyway and watched anxiously as the remaining envelopes were thumbed through. There I was! "80 Euro." Two upper Hogan.

As I got to the bar to buy a celebratory pint my father rang. "You're going to see the Dubs" I shouted over the din of happy voices celebrating the fact that Isles seemed to have performed a loaves and fishes miracle with the "200 tickets". And that was the high point unfortunately.

I felt curiously uneasy the morning of the match. Not helped by the fact that the first thing to impinge upon my dull early morning consciousness was my friend the magpie tapping with his beak on the window. Like an eijit I jumped up to see if he had company but he didn't. Then another bad omen.

Ciara was with her mother at a wedding in Wicklow and I was to meet them in town with Ciara's jersey that was covered in the names of the girls who had won the Junior camogie All Ireland in 2005. Just as I was ironing it and listening to the Dubliners' Finnegan Wakes to get myself in the mood the phone rang. Would I be upset if Ciara didn't go? She was having fun with her cousins.

So when did fun have anything to do with following the Dubs? "If that's what she wants" I said. "She'll go if you really want her to but she's having a ball here." "No problem." Now I had a spare ticket. In fact five minutes later another phone call told me I had another one. Still, that would be the least of my worries. There would be no problem getting rid of tickets.

There was still the ritual to be followed, even if Ciara was not part of it as usual. Indeed that was the first thing that everyone noticed that day. "Where's Ciara?" People who never even met her know her when she's with me because of the column. Annoys her a bit when strangers to her ask her by name how she is! "How do they know my name Dad?" I tell her she's famous! She is not impressed.

Anyway, the Clonliffe House and a few pints in the early afternoon drizzle. Not as packed as usual which we attribute to a number of factors. Mainly the fact that those who would normally turn up hoping to get a ticket at the last minute are mostly not bothered in the belief that any 'spares' are long gone. Noticeable too is that Ciara is not the only regular child missing. Hardly any kids in fact. A shame considering that Parnell is probably one third children during the league and that most playing members are juveniles.

But maybe Ciara was being prescient. Maybe the magpie knew. It certainly seemed as though the fates had decided to make this the day of reckoning, and right from the start. I'm not sure how much Mayo deciding to warm up at the Hill really meant but it made me feel uneasy so I guess it must have had some impact on the team, even just on the simple level of disrupting the routine.

And not just the whole paying homage to the Hill business, which to be honest I can take or leave. The main thing was that Dublin did not go through their normal pre-match drills and most importantly the nominated free takers did not get to practise their kicking. Not even the humblest Junior side would allow its place kicker out cold these days.

In reflection they might have made their point by doing that walk into the Hill routine and then heading down to the Canal for a proper session. Anyway, that's water under the bridge. As for the match itself I recall few of the specific details. It has all become one awful melange with the best parts edited out and I have not been able to bring myself to watch the whole thing over again.

What I do recall is the start made by Mayo and the quick realisation that in vital areas they looked sharper and were getting to the ball first. Not alone that but they were taking their early chances while Dublin were not. Almost unbelievably 17 minutes had passed before Dublin had a point on the board to match Mayo's four. They added another before Dublin had a bit of a purple patch during which Keaney got a goal to level things at 1 - 2 to 0 - 5. And Keaney really ought to have another goal during the same period.

In a sobering preview of what was to happen later on, Dublin did not press their dominance at that stage but allowed Mayo to come back at them. Having scored another three points to go ahead, they surrendered what looked like a half time lead - which would have been a massive boost after such a poor start - and two late points instead put Mayo back in front at the break, 0 - 9 to 1 - 5.

The jovial Mayo man two seats up, and separated from me by one of those annoying Dublin chaps who seemed about as emotionally involved with what was going on as if it were an exhibition of equine dressage, passed me by on his way out and told me that he had Mayo backed to score first, lead at half time and win. And at fancy prices. "Well, you're two thirds of the way there." I said.

Dublin emerged like lunatics. We thought they would come out fired up and attempt to do what we had expected them to do from the throw in. Wave upon wave of blue descended on the Mayo goal at the Canal end. Consummated in a superb move that began with Whelan transferring the ball into the corner. Brogan and Bonner exchanged passes. Bonner drew the backs on himself before feeding an unmarked Jason who only had to palm the ball into the net. Within minutes, and with only 11 minutes of the half gone, Keaney scored another to put Dublin seven points up at 2 -11 to 0 - 10. There would only be one more point in the last 26 hellish minutes.

I am old enough to remember all of the worst turnarounds in Dublin football history of the past 30 years. Without hesitation this was the worst. More than Meath in 1991. More than Kildare in 2000. And even Kerry in '78.

Looking back it is possible perhaps to spot where it all began to go wrong. One attack soon after Keaney's last point broke up almost casually. What should have been a score ended with the ball being almost handed to a Mayo player who initiated an attack that led to the first point of Mayo's comeback. But even so, we told ourselves, all Dublin had to do was stop them scoring a goal and tack on the odd point to maintain a comfortable margin. Besides, there was only about 20 minutes left. It all sounded so easy.

Then came the goal. Ironically it came from Andy Moran who had been introduced in place of John Nallen at the height of the Dublin onslaught. Like the earlier switch of Kevin O'Neill for Michael Conroy just before half time it had proven to be decisive. Dublin's substitutions and positional changes, on the other hand, only seemed to lead to further confusion.

Moran's goal came when he was at the receiving end of a move involving Ciaran McDonald. From where I was sitting his shot seemed harmless enough but Shane Ryan and Stephen Cluxton were both fooled and the ball was in the net. Dublin were still ahead but that did not last long and soon Mayo had out their noses in front.

Dublin did muster enough fight to draw level and we would have been happy enough with that and they might even had gone ahead in the dying minutes before McDonald scored the winning point. Dublin pressed and pressed and won a free and a '45'. Mossy had been taken off and replaced by Mark Vaughan and it was he who took the place kicks. One of them was close and he also hit the post with an effort from a tight angle but it was not to be. I mustered the grace to shake hands with the Mayo man, who hardly noticed in his delirium, and left. For once you could walk up to the bar in the Clonliffe and get a pint without being crushed for ten minutes. Small consolation.

It is impossible to be objective when emotionally involved in something like that but I am reliably informed that it was one of the best games of football ever seen in Croke Park. That is as may be. When I bring myself to look at it again - maybe around Christmas - I will form an opinion. Perhaps it will become one of those classics like the 1977 semi-final or the 1991 series against Meath that are better remembered for their quality than for who won.

Small consolation to Dublin. And Mayo will have to beat Kerry if their win over Dublin is to mean anything more than it did on the day.