After a couple of creamy pints of Guinness I occasionally suffer from what can only be described as post-pint Dunning–Kruger syndrome, convincing myself I could give Joe Brolly and Pat Spillane a run for their money. Like many of my articles, my mind has a habit of wandering through history, folklore, politics, music and family before eventually finding its way back to some kind of ending.
Some sporting occasions are remembered for the score. Others for a last-minute point or save. Then there are the rare days that become much bigger than the game itself. Mayo's 2026 All-Ireland victory
was one of those days.
The Sam Maguire Cup is named after Sam Maguire, an Irish republican from Dunmanway, County
Cork, whose life was cut short by tuberculosis while still young. Coincidentally, my own great
grandfather also died from tuberculosis at a similar age. Thankfully, within a generation, Ireland had
begun to overcome one of its deadliest diseases, thanks in no small part to Dr Noel Browne and
mass tuberculosis treatment. His autobiography, Against the Tide, remains one of my favourite
political memoirs. As I noted in a recent piece for The Pensive Quill on the play We Have Him Back,
Noel Browne spent his early life in Hollymount—the very same parish Frank Stagg came from. My
mind has a habit of wandering down these little side roads, and somehow the links nearly always
find each other in the end.
We're also a nation of storytellers.
Every parish has its legends. Every family has stories. Sometimes fact and folklore sit comfortably
side by side.
Which brings us to the Mayo curse.
According to legend, after Mayo won the All-Ireland in 1951, a priest cursed the county after the team
allegedly disturbed a funeral near Foxford, declaring they would not win another title until every
member of that team had passed away.
Whether it actually happened or not is almost beside the point. Every heartbreaking defeat—eleven
lost finals, two drawn finals and countless near-miss semi-finals—just seemed to breathe new life
into the story. Eventually every member of that 1951 team had passed away. May they rest in eternal
peace.
Whether there ever was a curse is for every reader to decide. There was certainly a story, and it
followed Mayo back into Croke Park once again, seventy-five years in the making.
I happened to be at Forest Fest and wandered into Ryan's Bar in Portlaoise with a friend to watch the
final. A creamy pint of Guinness sat in front of me as the teams came out. For a brief moment I
fancied myself as Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh—not because he analysed football better than anyone
else, but because he could weave history, folklore, geography and humour into a game without ever
losing sight of the match.
The mood before throw-in was interesting. A few Laois locals had backed Kerry months earlier when
the odds were more generous. Most of the pub, though, were quietly hoping Mayo would finally end
the apparent poxy curse.
If I'm honest, I would have been happy enough if Mayo just avoided a hiding. Instead, they were
brilliant.
Some sporting occasions are remembered for the score. Others for a last-minute point or save. Then there are the rare days that become much bigger than the game itself. Mayo's 2026 All-Ireland victory
was one of those days.
The Sam Maguire Cup is named after Sam Maguire, an Irish republican from Dunmanway, County
Cork, whose life was cut short by tuberculosis while still young. Coincidentally, my own great
grandfather also died from tuberculosis at a similar age. Thankfully, within a generation, Ireland had
begun to overcome one of its deadliest diseases, thanks in no small part to Dr Noel Browne and
mass tuberculosis treatment. His autobiography, Against the Tide, remains one of my favourite
political memoirs. As I noted in a recent piece for The Pensive Quill on the play We Have Him Back,
Noel Browne spent his early life in Hollymount—the very same parish Frank Stagg came from. My
mind has a habit of wandering down these little side roads, and somehow the links nearly always
find each other in the end.
We're also a nation of storytellers.
Every parish has its legends. Every family has stories. Sometimes fact and folklore sit comfortably
side by side.
Which brings us to the Mayo curse.
According to legend, after Mayo won the All-Ireland in 1951, a priest cursed the county after the team
allegedly disturbed a funeral near Foxford, declaring they would not win another title until every
member of that team had passed away.
Whether it actually happened or not is almost beside the point. Every heartbreaking defeat—eleven
lost finals, two drawn finals and countless near-miss semi-finals—just seemed to breathe new life
into the story. Eventually every member of that 1951 team had passed away. May they rest in eternal
peace.
Whether there ever was a curse is for every reader to decide. There was certainly a story, and it
followed Mayo back into Croke Park once again, seventy-five years in the making.
I happened to be at Forest Fest and wandered into Ryan's Bar in Portlaoise with a friend to watch the
final. A creamy pint of Guinness sat in front of me as the teams came out. For a brief moment I
fancied myself as Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh—not because he analysed football better than anyone
else, but because he could weave history, folklore, geography and humour into a game without ever
losing sight of the match.
The mood before throw-in was interesting. A few Laois locals had backed Kerry months earlier when
the odds were more generous. Most of the pub, though, were quietly hoping Mayo would finally end
the apparent poxy curse.
If I'm honest, I would have been happy enough if Mayo just avoided a hiding. Instead, they were
brilliant.
From the throw-in they played with belief, weathered Kerry's purple patches and never looked overawed. By half-time only a point separated the sides (Kerry 1-08, Mayo 0-10), but there was already a feeling around the pub that this Mayo team actually believed.
Players like Ryan O'Donoghue and Kobe McDonald led from the front. Belmullet always has a way of
creeping into these moments. Growing up around family steeped in Belmullet GAA, with family links
to Crossmolina Deel Rovers as well, football was never just seventy minutes on a Sunday. Watching
Ryan O'Donoghue become one of the faces of Mayo's greatest day carried that extra bit of meaning.
There was another lovely twist too. Seeing Kobe McDonald lift Sam Maguire when his father, Ciarán,
is remembered as one of Mayo's greatest footballers never to win an All-Ireland felt like football
quietly finishing a story another generation had started.
When the final whistle went, I was delighted. Mayo had won 1-20 to Kerry 1-17. The final minutes
were absolutely thrilling for anyone lucky enough to witness them.
Within minutes I was on the phone to my mother, who was outside O'D's in Belmullet. She was close
to tears. Videos started coming through of my youngish nephews and cousins celebrating like buck
eejits. My Facebook filled up with delighted family and friends and, in a lovely touch, plenty of
congratulations from Kerry supporters as well.
If you ever want to understand what football means beyond trophies, track down the Mid West Radio
commentary after the final whistle—it's easy enough to find. You're hearing generations of hope,
heartbreak and relief all at once.
The soundtrack almost wrote itself. The Green and Red of Mayo was everywhere. Long ago it
stopped being merely a song.
I've always smiled at the irony that one of the greatest songs about Mayo came from a Galway band.
But it's another Saw Doctors song that always sticks with me: To Win Just Once. It never even mentions the county, but it captures that stubborn hope that someday your turn will come.
Later that evening at Forest Fest, Qween played Queen's We Are the Champions, dedicating it to
Mayo. Whether they planned it or not, it felt spot on.
Maybe that's why this victory felt different.
It wasn't just another All-Ireland.
It was history meeting folklore.
It was music meeting memory.
It was family meeting football.
Long after I am gone, the team of '26 will live on.
History should always be precise. It deserves that respect.
Storytelling gives history permission to breathe.
And on one remarkable Sunday in July 2026, Mayo finally added a full circle to a remarkable story.
⏩Daithi Hopkins is a republican socialist activist.
