This weekend my home county of Roscommon will play against Galway in their first Connacht championship final since 2011.
Striding into work the Monday after we secured our place in the competition, I had expected to be showered with words of congratulation and adoration; back slaps and maybe even some hoots and hollers. This, however, was not the case.
My colleagues seemed more concerned about some oval-balled game against South Africa, which would have to be repeated three times (three times? Seriously? Isn’t once enough?).
Not letting it dampen my spirits, I went on to explain to anyone who would listen the significance of the occasion and what I thought of our chances of securing the title.
I had wrongly assumed, like many in the media, that we would be playing Mayo, until Galway delivered the “shock of the championship” and knocked Mayo into the qualifiers in Castlebar.
For a Roscommon supporter living in Ballaghaderreen, the prospect of a Roscommon versus Mayo Connacht final is fraught with bitter rivalry and resentment.
Ballaghaderreen moved from Co Mayo to Co Roscommon in 1898, but the town’s GAA club refused to move.
To this day, any footballer playing for the Ballaghaderreen GAA club will play all of their club and county games in Mayo and with Mayo teams.
It has created a divide in the town between those who follow their club and support Mayo, and those who follow their address and support the county they live in.
I’ve seen the Mayo-Roscommon rivalry described in one newspaper article as “good fun”, “exciting” and “a bit of banter”, but for a Roscommon fan it is anything but.
We watch with gritted teeth as Mayo romp home year after year, as neighbours shout and roar about their victories while we lick our wounds in the back door.
During the summer months we take note of which houses raise the green and red flag instead of the primrose and blue, and mutter dismissals under our breath as we pass by (“sure what would he know about football? And the wife’s brother-in-law a Roscommon player, hah? They have a different flag up every year”).
We lament the players whom we feel were robbed from us, Ballaghaderreen men who went on to win matches for Mayo. We defend our choice to follow our address and not our club and we become irate when someone tries to tell us Ballaghaderreen is “a border town”.
County allegiances are generally passed down through generations; you do not choose a side but are simply on one.
Spoiling me rotten
It was my Uncle Sean who first introduced me to the scene, bringing me to matches and talking about statistics, moulding me into a real fundamentalist Rossie.
He spoke about Roscommon footballers as if they were warriors fighting for our pride; he dismissed with vigour any association with Mayo and he recalled previous wins as if they were battlefield victories.
He and his wife Mary – who must be the most tolerant Mayo woman to walk the earth – drove me to matches up and down the country, packing lunches and buying Coke and generally spoiling me rotten.
Their fondness for their lucky niece stands in sharp contrast to the contempt Uncle Sean holds for my mother, whom he genuinely believes brings a curse on any game she attends.
He has long refused to bring his sister to matches unless he is very confident of our chances of winning. Last month, when we were losing at half-time to Sligo, he wouldn’t speak to her only to tell her she had brought “the pox” on the game.
He was probably reminded of the same game in Sligo last year – which she had also attended against his will – where we were unexpectedly beaten by the home side.
The heartache was palpable that day, but for Uncle Sean it had slowly turned into rage at allowing his sister to attend. He was so convinced of her guilt that he threatened to leave her in Sligo and let her make her own way home.
She called him a “prickly bollocks” and they sat like rowing teenagers in the car with steam coming out of their ears, making it a rather awkward encounter for my uncle-in-law Enda, who was a neutral fan just looking for a nice day out.
By the time they got to Ballymote the argument had fizzled out into laughter as they both realised their own hot-headedness and shared a pint just inside the Sligo border.
In true Towey fashion, they made up spectacularly by continuing to drink into the wee hours, not knowing when to go home.
This weekend’s game against Galway will be fraught with the same nervousness, tension and optimism, although thankfully without the stress of a Mayo-Roscommon Ballaghaderreen derby.
So as your weekend stretches out before you, please spare a thought for us lone-ranger Rossies waiting with bated breath for a Connacht title – and for my mother, who really needs a lift home from Salthill.
- Hilary Fannin is on leave