Flattering to deceive a cruel existence fated to hurling Tribe
I had the privilege of spending the weekend in Galway, but was met with a bizarre scene when arriving on Shop Street on Saturday evening. The city, usually thronged on weekends when the sun begins to drop, was depopulated.
And then I remembered: the hurling. At around 10.30 or 11.0, many of them arrived back in maroon and white, like foot soldiers returning home from a war they knew they couldn't win.
Such is the cruel existence of the Galway hurling fan. It's not just the losing – though there has been a lot of that since 1988 – it's the beautiful hope that resurfaces year after year before the losing happens.