More than a week on, I'm still hurting. Someone forgot to read the script for the All-Ireland semi-final replay between Armagh and Kerry. Armagh were supposed to win. Kerry were supposed to lose. It was the Little Man against Corporate Ireland. It was David versus Goliath. It was supposed to be like the movie Mr Smith Goes to Washington. I have no doubt that Jimmy Stewart had an Armagh baseball cap tucked away in his briefcase.
I know I had one for the big occasion and only took it off at 6 p.m. when Armagh's challenge to lift the Sam Maguire Cup was buried for the second year in a row. It's not appropriate to wear headgear in the presence of the dead. And dead we were. Dead disappointed. It shouldn't matter. I'm a blowin, not the genuine article. Why, then, the pain and heartache? Why do I care?
No comfort
But care I and 30,000 other supporters did and do. It's not easy watching a game that gradually slips away despite the best efforts of your team. And there was no comfort from the patronising Kerry folk with their: "Well played, boys." Stuff that; we wanted to dance all over youse. I'm certain I heard Kerry's supporters cheering afterwards but what I remember most is the silence of rows and rows of Armagh's supporters, hushed in bitter defeat.
The journey home on the train from Connolly station was subdued to say the least. It was like a wake with no corpse. When someone has been lost at sea and the body is not recovered, Donegal fishermen say, "Cailleadh e." He was lost. The implication is that he is dead but there is nothing to mourn over.
You can see what I'm getting at. Cailleadh e. Still, black humour does raise its head on occasions like this. By Drogheda a laugh was heard when someone said that Sam was not coming home. "Would Sam even recognise he was in Armagh if you dropped him in Crossmaglen square?" asked one wit. No, Sam would not know how to make it down Mullaghbawn's one street. He will not be touring Camlough and Lurgan this year and the orange-and-white bunting which still hangs over streets and homes is black in the mind's eye. Sam has left the building and will not be spotted Elvis-like on the top of Slieve Gullion.
On the positive side, I'm beginning to understand why so many Armagh supporters drink themselves silly before and after games. I watched one father, young son in tow, walking down the road at 10 o'clock on Saturday morning, swigging away at his can of beer. Supporters on the train were tearing into beer and sandwiches by 11 a.m.
Simple plan
A bit early for me or you, a bit immature, but, I now realise, a necessary precaution. Drink on the way down to dull expectation; drink on the way back to drown your sorrows. It's a simple plan and one which I might adopt in future years. "Armagh football drove me to drink" - that will be my excuse when I check into rehab.
Oh yes, there will be other years. After all, the National League is just around the corner and some of us - even the blow-ins - will find ourselves at a loose end some Sunday afternoon. And, sure, Armagh's home turf, the Athletic Grounds, are only down the road and, sure, you'd be a wee bit curious to see who's still there and who's not and what else would you do with yourself on a cold, damp Sunday? Watch rugby or Eyetalian football? And, sure, you need to go to the odd National League game just to show that you still care. And then it'll be summer once more and who knows. . .
I'm beginning to understand the supporter's life. It's a bit like malaria. Once you're infected you just can't get rid of it. I used to marvel at the supporters of Celtic. Year after year Rangers walk over them in the Scottish League and year after year they go back in the hope that this will be their year. They are like pilgrims to Lough Derg. My attitude is always that I am glad people go to Lough Derg, but don't ask me to share their suffering.
However, I bring good news in times of darkness. While returning to Portadown train station, the Armagh supporters were mooned at by a loyalist. We had expected to be stoned. Better by far in my book a loyalist's backside than a halfbrick. By Northern standards a bare arse fulfils the Christian exhortation of turning the other cheek.
Salt in wounds
But they couldn't stop there. Oh no. They had to go and spoil the moment and to rub salt in the wounds. Hung on a nearby railing was a handpainted sign, fresh in its impudence: "Super Kerry. No Sam for Armagh." How appropriate that supporters of the Crown would chose the Kingdom as their team. Especially appropriate, perhaps, in the light of Kerry's shut-out of Armagh's attackers. Did Paidi and the boys receive advice from the men on Drumcree's hill: "No surrender; not an inch; what we have we hold"? The comparisons do not stop there: Kerry supporters feel that Croke Park is their traditional marching route.
Still, we should be happy that Portadown's loyalists did actually know the match was on. Chalk one up for the development of the GAA in the county. Every cloud has its orange lining.
Summer's over. Come on, Galway.