AND then there was Mayo.
Sport is often an unlovely thing. The summer has offered strong proof of that. The FIFA World Cup was a pretty distasteful event even for those of us, like me, brought up in football and football culture.
Standing on the terraces in the rain and a wind blowing into your face and your club struggling yet again and at the same time the realisation. I love this.
I was at the last game before they ripped up that old terracing and managed to get a lump of concrete that had, supposedly, come from rubble from war bombings.
I cherished it. I still do.
The simple joy of being a fan and an identity that offered, at least the hope, of belonging.
From those inner-city streets, from the heart of football, to a red card being overturned to suit the hosts, the game being split into quarters for hydration breaks in air-conditioned stadiums, to a half-time show that would have challenged the goodwill of a saint..
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