There’s a saying that does the rounds nowadays to sum up a moment so sweet, a feat so indisputable that it requires nothing further.
There’s no need to follow it up, no chance for a comeback. Your performance has been so resounding, there’s nothing left to be said. Drop the mic. Walk away.
Any talking you’ve needed to do, you’ve just done it.
It comes from a rap battle culture. Two rappers going at it, taking turns to the beat, slating one another until the crowd decides on who wowed them most. Who ‘owned’ who the most.
Sometimes though, you don’t need the decision of the crowd. You don’t need the decision of anybody and you sure as hell don’t have to wait for a comeback either because what you’ve just said or done has left nothing to doubt.
Drop the mic. Leave. You don’t need this shit anymore. You’re above it.
73 and a half minutes were on the clock on Sunday and what was about to unfold for the next 180 seconds was a downright disaster.
2-9 to 0-14 the scoreboard read. Dublin were in the driving seat, they were in possession and they were on their way up the Hogan Stand steps it seemed.
Ciaran Kilkenny broke through two limp Mayo tackles and Lee Keegan could only watch him glide by – he was busy enough all bloody day. The westerners looked dead on their feet and the champions looked as if they were strolling forward to double their lead and condemn Mayo to what would’ve been their most miserable of misfortunes yet.
Kilkenny took it too far though and he had to toss it to Dean Rock in a hurry. Rock – Dublin’s Mr Reliable up until Sunday – wanted nothing to do with it and he threw it to Eoghan O’Gara even quicker. This was on the 21′. This was with a man over. This was with the game there to be finished off. In the end, the substitute rolled it wide of the post. It literally rolled wide.
Dublin’s attack was made to look human on Sunday. It was made to look less than human actually and the mystique and fear that usually surrounds those six sky blue forwards – whoever they are – peeled away in the Croke Park rain as they made bad decisions, hacked at shots and panicked.
They just looked like men. They looked like men who sweated and breathed hard. They looked like men affected by pressure and normal men who could shit themselves on the big stage.
With two minutes left, Aidan O’Shea came forward. The game was crying out for someone to step up to the plate but the Breaffy man did so prematurely with his left-footed effort from beyond the 45′.
That should’ve been Mayo’s last chance. It wasn’t. Not against this Dublin team, not against these mere mortals.
You looked at them long enough, watched them pass the buck frantically enough and you could see behind their two eyes that they weren’t any different to the rest of them. Mayo demystified Dublin.
So the capital come back down the pitch, Ciaran Kilkenny leads the way again. This time, they’re not even thinking about the posts – they leave that sort of audacity at this sort of time to Diarmuid Connolly and Diarmuid Connolly alone. Kilkenny links with Paddy Andrews and Eoghan O’Gara but the three, between them, are mucking around in the left corner and they make a right pig’s dinner of it as it goes out over the end line.
Then it took one final piece of collective stupidity. The one time you don’t want Diarmuid Connolly shooting is from a sideline with a point in it with less than a minute left in the All-Ireland final. But he’s allowed to and, with one wide effort, he hands possession gift-wrapped back to David Clarke with 30 seconds on the clock.
Cometh the last minute, cometh the last chance, cometh the man. Cometh Cillian O’Connor.
What the Mayo captain was about to produce will forever be remembered in the county’s folklore if they get over the line the next day.
How many games like this could this team and these group of players lose and still keep coming back for? How many more chances would they get? Cillian O’Connor only got one chance. He only needed one.
Tom Parsons carries the ball forward. He looks up and who’s there? Cillian O’Connor.
The Ballintubber man takes possession and pops it off to big Aidan O’Shea to see if the battering ram fancies one last barge. O’Shea declines – his body has been through enough – he throws it back to O’Connor.
So the captain is a good 50/55 metres from goals, he’s got a sea of sky blue in front of him, he’s got seconds, sparing seconds to rescue his county and he’s got one chance. He has a crowd of the most rapturous Gaels in the country sitting nervously watching his every inch as if it was the only important thing happening in the world right now. It’s shoot or bust. It’s on O’Connor. If he misses, that’s it. Season over, Dublin celebrate, Mayo head back down the road and 65 years become 66.
He knows he’s the one that has to do something but he’s ready for it. He’s been watching in the full forward line throughout injury time probably seething. Aimless balls have been sent in, O’Shea’s effort was no good and he looked on helpless from the other side as Dublin fumbled around and ballsed up two opportunities to win the game.
They won’t get another chance – not to score a point, maybe not to win an All-Ireland, who knows. He stays on the inside of Connolly and bursts away quickly enough. He lines up Darren Daly, the poor lad looks terrified as O’Connor bears down on him and the legendary number 15 steps around him like he’s not even there. He’s still 40 metres from the target but it’s enough, it’s all he needs.
He drops it to his right foot.
Daly recovers and tries to pull O’Connor off balance – the sort of foul that referees refuse to take an interest in. It doesn’t matter, he’s managed to let fly and it’s in the hands of the Dublin air now.
Croke Park falls silent. The quiet anticipation is almost greater than any roar this stadium has ever felt. 83,000 Gaels shut up for a second and the flight of the ball is all that matters. Lee Keegan, Tom Parsons, Donal Vauaghan all stop for once. Connolly, Cooper, Cluxton watch the O’Neill’s ball leave O’Connor’s boot and climb high towards the canal.
The TV camera is at a difficult angle. Homes around the country are on their feet waiting for some indication as to the fate of Mayo’s last roll of the dice. The ball travels closer to the stand. It’s got the legs, everyone knows that. Does it have the accuracy.
Suddenly, a few screams are heard. They’re manic. Excited. They’re followed by more boisterous yelps but we’re all still none the wiser until this army of green and red bounces up from behind the goals and shakes Croker on its hinges. They roar the ball all the way towards them and over the bar. The relief is palpable. The noise is deafening.
O’Connor reels away and his celebrations are aggressive. About f**king time, it almost looks like. Justice more than anything.
Mayo get their second bite, seven-point O’Connor gets his second chance.
The whistle goes, he walks down the tunnel as action-ready as ever. The gloves come off, the wrist-tape is unwinded, the teeth are still being bitten. The job is not done.
He didn’t come to Croke Park for a glorious performance or an admirable draw. He came to win. He’ll just have to do that the next day.
For now, he’s done everything he could. He’s said everything he needed to.
He drops the mic. He storms off. You’ll see him again.
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