When Kevin Cahill was nine, he spent his summer pitching baseballs. Life was the stuff of The Wonder Years. Wheaties cereal. Chopper bikes. Days spent making mischief on his local suburban street, warm evenings watching the Phillies lose on TV as fireflies cracked against the door-screen. In more serious moments, he would contemplate the vagaries of life in fifth grade, which awaited him in the Fall.

Then his parents, both from Sligo, decided to return to Ireland. All Kevin Cahill knew was that Ballaghaderren, the intended destination, at least sounded as big as Philadelphia. Still, at his age, he was aware that there'd be one or two minor lifestyle adjustments.

"What I remember most was the first day at school and sliding into these tiny wooden desks. They still had inkwells in them, which I couldn't get over. And we were sitting in this prefab. I was just thinking, jeez, what the hell is going on here."

If you were 10 and living in Ballaghaderren in 1982, the arrival of a real live American of your own age at least made Monday morning worth getting up for. Initially, Cahill didn't disappoint and revelled in the attention. "Sure everything was "wow" and "gee whizz" with me. I was going around on this American-style bike. I suppose I must have been a curiosity to youngsters that eventually became my friends."

He is recalling his carnival-like arrival in Ballaghaderren from an office desk in the middle of town. It is a balmy, sleepy Wednesday afternoon and Cahill is tidying up the last of his accounts before he spins across to Castlebar for training.

America's influence has long since seeped from him. He looks at you through glasses, a solemn-faced, utterly Irish professional. He was young enough to lose the accent naturally and unselfconscious enough to make firm friends quickly. Life in Phillie was consigned to the past.

Still, sometimes, in idle moments, he glances out the window and is half surprised to see Ballaghaderren outside. Football was the thing.

"After I finished studying accountancy in Sligo, I was lucky enough to get a job here in town. My mind was made up for me. I suppose of the lads I went to school with, half would have moved on, half would still be around. In terms of the club, it's one of the difficulties. The tourist industry is fairly non-existent here and there isn't a lot of industry. If players get jobs in Letterkenny or Cork, it's hard to get them to come back and play football."

Ballaghaderren is typical of many Connacht market towns - sedate in mid-summer, with an inherent sense of history and dignity manifest in some of the older buildings. St Nathy's college, once the British Army barracks, looms at the top of one of the streets. John O'Mahony, the Galway manager and a teacher at the college, lives in an old stone-cut agent's house built by the Dillons a century and a half ago.

James Dillon's family home is now a heritage centre, the focal point of the town. With a population of around 1,500 people, Ballaghaderren is otherwise unremarkable, except for its curious quirks which decrees that although the place is geographically of Roscommon, its GAA affiliations lie rooted in Mayo.

"It's a bit strange alright," laughs Cahill. "Even at club training, you'd have half the lads who would be Roscommon supporters and the others who would be firmly with Mayo. But players from the club have traditionally played with Mayo.

"I would say that I live in Roscommon, but that my sporting loyalties are with Mayo. You do get a slagging. There is an edge whenever we play Roscommon teams and even some of my friends would rib me. If Mayo lose, you'd be as well putting the head down for a week."

At the close of the 19th century, Ballaghaderren was officially part of Mayo, but changes in the alignment of the border saw the town annexed by Roscommon. However, the recently-established GAA boundaries had already been established and Ballaghaderren remained under the auspices of Mayo.

There is a story that the local team entered the Roscommon championship earlier this century, swept the board and were promptly advised to return to Mayo. The tradition is so well established now that not even Dana could influence it.

The place has seen varied days. A teenage John O'Mahony played on the only town side to reach a Connacht club final in 1972. Eight years later, an ineffable sadness gripped the area when two of Mayo's favourite footballing sons, John Morley and Henry Byrne, were shot on Garda duty during a botched bank raid in the town. John's son Gordon - another Nathy's graduate - lines out alongside Cahill tomorrow.

Cahill reckons that Nathy's had a seminal influence on his Gaelic career.

"When I came to town first, we lived above a pub and the first sport I'd watched was hurling. But Gaelic was the game here, it was that or nothing. So I played. John O'Mahony was a big influence in the early days, definitely."

O'Mahony, who taught him geography and history, remembers the young Cahill setting himself apart through natural athleticism.

"Fine player, no surprise to see him a constant presence with Mayo. He has all the attributes of the complete full back."

Like Noel Durcan before him, Cahill was propelled on to the senior team without playing minor football for Mayo. He made his championship debut in 1993, when the senior team were annihilated by Cork in the All-Ireland semi-final.

"I remember Noel (Durcan) standing beside me in the tunnel and shouting at me that this was the place to play football. After we were beaten, he was gutted. I didn't understand the significance then. The game didn't mean that much to me, it was all new. But I realise now that we collapsed. There was an inferiority complex there. Even when I'd explain the championship to American friends, I'd tell them we'd won Connacht, but would explain that it was the weakest province. That says something."

Cahill has been in the team since, quietly irreplaceable. Reckons if they won in 1996 the hunger would have left him. The winters he hates.

"Freezing wet, cold, driving to Castlebar, killing yourself, getting a pint of milk from the county board and driving home again. Too stiff to lift you arms the next morning. I don't know if I'd have kept doing it."

He readily admits that football doesn't consume him. "I don't wake up thinking about it. On Tuesday last, we'd didn't train and I just lounged in front of the TV. Forgot about the game. There is a life beyond the game, as my girlfriend often tells me," he smiles.

Still, something incessant drives him. Jealousy, envy, surged forth when he watched Galway wash the barren years away.

"Nice to see Sam (Maguire) cross the Shannon, but it was a Connacht thing, not a Mayo thing," he murmurs.

If Kevin Cahill had a wish, Mayo would win the championship this year and they'd scalp Meath in the final.

"Yeah, they'd be the team I'd pick to play. Yes. Revenge or whatever. We feel we left a championship on the field that day (1995). Some nights in the winter, driving across, I said to myself, jaysus, if we'd won, would I bother doing this still?"

But the evenings are airy now and the bar talk spins around the business in Tuam tomorrow. Galway and Mayo in July. In this part of the world, it has long been the source of childish dreams. For most kids.