Whatever the weather it rains on Connacht final day

Keith Duggan Sideline Cut: Athlone, as many people have undoubtedly discovered over the years, is the point of no return. Until we reached there, the train journey west had been almost pleasant.

True, a number of passengers had begun sobbing quietly after an hour of a soft and torturous hissing sound that emanated from every single speaker in every single carriage. The astute locked themselves in the lavish and sumptuous latrines that Iarnród Éireann are globally renowned for, the desperate simply hurled themselves from the speeding carriages. (They weren't hurt and simply walked into the west. They got soaked but lost very little time.)

When we pulled into A those of us venturing towards the glories of the Connacht final in Castlebar were invited to leave the cosy if acoustically-maddening Galway train and to shuffle across the platform to the altogether more Victorian and scary looking Mayo-bound engine.

It was disheartening to note that very few people were making the transition and the vast majority of our former companions were regarding us, as we dragged ourselves through the rain, with a mix of compassion and fear.

The carriage we chose in the new train was empty and had a refreshingly glacial quality to it. For a long time we saw no conductor or sullen youth careering through the carriages with one of those mobile coffee/sandwich contraptions that are the copyright of Irish Rail. We became convinced we were travelling on a ghost train.

Those fears deepened when we stopped at Manulla, a bare- looking platform with no sign of ever having been disturbed by life. It was like a phantom station and it was raining terribly and it was at that point that we got a sinking feeling about the Connacht final.

A friend tried to cheer both of us up with tales of the World Cup finals and I, having missed it all, brilliantly disguised a natural disposition towards bitterness and envy and laughed heartily. We realised the grand final, the showdown between Brazil and Germany, was due to be played at any moment and tried to pick up a signal on a portable radio. As we passed through Manulla - and out of the Philippines altogether - the signal more or less disappeared. Then, just as we were reduced to speculating about the final, Gabriel Egan's radio commentary was broadcast throughout the carriage. It sounded as if Gabriel was delivering his tour de force from the engine room - "And Roberto Carlos cuts down the wing but his pass - move to the front of the train for the next stop please - is cut out by Hamann". It was one of the high points of the day.

The other followed shortly afterwards. It was raining in Castlebar and looked as if it would never ever stop. We were blessed to meet someone who had the foresight to book a taxi and the generosity to share. We quickly came to regard the driver as something of a guardian angel.

She dodged the maze of detours and close-offs made to accommodate the Connacht final masses while at the same time talking cheerfully about Neil Diamond's performance on the Graham Norton show a night earlier. She dropped us right outside the ground.

We were surprised and delighted to learn that the foreign game was being broadcast in the hallowed grounds. To be precise, it was being shown in the very centre of the Castlebar Aces basketball court. The floor had been covered and seats put down.

Everyone was damp and sombre and getting stuck into pints. The friend observed that when he had been in Yokohama a few weeks ago, he couldn't have imagined he would be watching the actual final in the Aces' gym. He seemed a bit dispirited by the turn of events.

It was decided to try to grab some food before the parade of the teams began. The closest hot food outlet was in the adjacent bowling alley. It was there we saw Brazil's two goals, but it was distracting because several of Connacht's most expert 10-pin bowlers had obviously descended on Castlebar for the day. They bowled with great aplomb and, thankfully, didn't go in for any showboating, even when they scored strikes.

Eventually we took our places for the Connacht final. The press box in Castlebar was built a very long time ago and obviously designed around the idea that only one hack should cover a game there at any one time. So it was cosy for the other 84 of us that showed up. Intimate. Fellows got to know things about one another. The door, a hefty affair, kept blowing open and almost beheaded at least two long-standing and venerable GAA correspondents.

But it was luxury in comparison to the poor suckers on the terraces, who shelled out money to sit under umbrellas in the rain. The words "European", "human", "rights", and "court" kept presenting themselves for some reason.

As games go, it wasn't the worst. The players should all have received the GAA's equivalent of the Purple Heart for simply surviving the weather. News of a hurling classic down south, in dry weather, reached Castlebar but nobody believed it. We were certain the rain was permanent.

The crowds left the west quickly. It was about eight when we evacuated, older and less sturdy.

Anyway, those are my Connacht final memories. Tomorrow is Ulster and Clones, the stomping ground of Francie Brady. And, come 2.40 tomorrow afternoon, of Francie Bellew.

The forecast is for wetness there too. So be it. The Bursted Sofa and the other pubs along the main street will be packed. These provincial final days are too hard and too well established to be upset by the weather. They are what they are and offer no apologies. By midday tomorrow, Clones will be teeming and excited and noisy. By dusk, it will be empty again, with the take-away food vans packing up and always a straggler or two hitching out of town in jeans and a football jersey. They will sweep the streets and that will be it for another year.