27 August 1997
Jonathan Mullin looks at the Mayo team training from a different angle.
The man who does the Aerial Photos' was just back from holidays. He wasn't in the best of form either. Down in Tramore for the week, himself, the wife and the three kids were washed out the door of their hired caravan. There is nothing like rain-tinged holiday-blues to humour you.
His boss in Dublin had sent him to Mayo for the week with the aeroplane and his limited knowledge of the beautiful county or its social peculiarities left him unprepared for what he saw.
Down below, as the pregnant clouds rushed off to inundate Galway or Roscommon with their unwanted gifts, a stunning panoramic fusion of mountains, lakes and rivers were illuminated by the sun.
'The man who does the Aerial Photos' began to rue his holiday location and, pushing the two seater into auto pilot momentarily, scribbled the letters M-A-Y-O on his left paw, for fear he would forget.
He trundled along peacefully, avoiding the giant Telecom mast in Ballinrobe, skipping over the Partry Mountains, sloppily blessing himself at the sight of the steeple pointing out of Ballintubber Abbey, and after marvelling at the town's push for the Infortmation Age competition, he came gracefully to a rest at the Castlebar Airport on the Claremorris Road, where he stopped for a bit to 'ate'.
The man who does the Aerial Photos' reflected on his few hours in the air, working of Ordnance Survey maps, pressing the trigger in a carefree fashion, hoping to throw the best light possible on the houses underneath and, of course, waving back to all the little children straining their necks and eyes to welcome him.
But for all his serenity and visible admiration for the county of Mayo, there was something a little strange about the place, a phenomenon that 'the man who does the Aerial Photos' had not seen before.
Being an avid G.A.A. fan (and the caretaker and holder of the dressing-room keys, and also the only man in his parish who knew how to work the showers), he had shown a great interest in the playing fields of the county, as he flew at altitude.
There was something strange going on in the footballing circles of county Mayo. From his elevation, on every football pitch he could see one large dark dot and one small white dot. These black and white dots were spread all over the fields, about twenty in each.
At first the black and white dots would be close together. Then the black dot would back off a little before touching the white dot again, and as if running away from the darker and larger counterpart, the small white dot would dart away.
This would happen again and again and again. On each occasion the dark large dot would catch up with the white dot and both would return to a position similar to the one they started in before the white dot ran away.
Completely bemused, 'the man who does the Aerial Photos' returned to the colourful plate of lunch and quickly became engrossed in an issue of the Connaught Telegraph, where he read the up-to-date news on David Brady's return, Maughan's decisions and Maurice Sheridan's hamstring . . . . .
On one of those football pitches, it could have been any club, from Shrule/Glencorrib to Ballycastle, from Burrishoole to Ballaghadereen. It didn't really matter because the behavioural patterns were the exact same.
The O'Neill's packed tightly under the armpit, retrieved from the Spruce trees behind the goal. The confident swagger, head cocked like a prairie dog. Bypassing the fourteen yard line, having a go from the 'twenty-one', eyeing the 'forty' with a vigorous look of determination.
The clubs might be different, south, north, east and west, but the scenario remains the same. Players of different ages, heights, weights and waistlines, all securing a leather football to prove their worth - at taking the 'frees'.
Everybody was at it. In the club in question the County chairman and the County Board delegate, with connections you see, were even having a go and that with one hundred odd years on the clock between them.
Fingers were licked like 'Charlie', running 'around the corner' at the poor ball of leather and then, ultimately, another disastrous effort dented the advertising boardings a full ten yards to the left and right of the goal.
But still it was great for the club that they had such a number out training, even if all of them stymied attempts to start a game. One arrogant pup after another when asked to do a lap or two replied "Oh sorry, I'd love to, but John Maughan told me to practise the frees".
At a branch of the First National Building Society in Dublin, the original of the species, and still the greatest, rubbed the pleated trouser cloth and grabbed his hamstring.
He winced at the sharp insert of pain but took solace in the fact that the previous Monday he had to grit his teeth. Progress was being made, slowly - but surely.
And still they tread the well-worn path to the '21', yearning for success.
'The man who does the Aerial Photos' left the Airport Restaurant, the Connaught Telegraph jammed in his back pocket - and his musing forgotten.
