THE word from Donegal since the start of the year was that Jimmy was preparing solely for Kerry. Somebody should have told them there are other teams in the championship. It might be an idea to start broadening out the training.

As for Roscommon, they don’t seem to have trained at all since they won Connacht.

Gerry Fitzmaurice, from the last Roscommon team to win a match in Croke Park (August 1980 against Armagh) coached the Michael Glavey’s Juniors to the 2017 Roscommon championship. He takes up the story. “It was great at the start of the year because we only had the bare 15, so everybody was happy.

“But as the word spread and the fun got better, we had 16, then 17, and eventually a squad of 20, so now I had a conundrum: How was I going to pick the team? Eventually, I suggested we should organise a bit of training and that we should put it to a vote. The boys got into a huddle and had a quick chat. The motion was defeated 20-0.”

They turned up to play the game in Clones but that was about the height of it. Culture and tradition are the profound, mysterious heart of our games. For Roscommon, their zenith is Connacht.

Monaghan could not believe their luck. They are a wild and unbridled group. They came from 10 behind to beat Derry after extra time, nine behind against Armagh in the Ulster final to force extra-time, then eleven behind against Mayo the last day only to miss eight good goal chances and lose by a point.

In that game, their ace card was Bobby McCaul at full forward. Wonderful in the air, his problems began when he landed, where he looked like a kangaroo on an ice rink. In the course of a typically wild Monaghan ride, he scored 1-1, missed five goals and drove the crowd into a frenzy of excitement. He was injured for this game, but they did not need him.

They played with the wind in the first half and got pitched in from the throw-in, playing with that self-sabotage and abandon that is their trademark. By half time, they were five up, had kicked nine wides, four to the keeper’s hands and
been blocked down four times when in on goal.

They monopolised possession, helped by Rory Beggan’s kickouts. No matter how often you see it, it is still astonishing, like the passing of a great quarterback, getting the ball to that foot of space where a teammate’s hands are going to be in three seconds’ time. Here, with Roscommon not making any shape, he was free to relax and enjoy his own brilliance, untroubled by thoughts of interceptions.

By the start of the second half, Monaghan had cottoned on to Roscommon’s indifference. They then did what they liked without a hand being laid on them. Roscommon succumbed to agitation and things became ever more embarrassing. They ran the bench but it made no difference. Took off both midfielders. Brought on a young fellow for his debut. Nothing matters when you have no interest.

Monaghan, against a strong gale in the second half, held possession easily, drew them out, then attacked at speed and took their scores, more or less without resistance.

Conor McCarthy showed his elite ability. Jack McCarron, who is brilliantly skilled but can’t run, looked like a speedster. Dessie Ward came forward and shot points at will. So, the scoreline ticked up, from four, to six, to seven, eight, and eventually nine, Ryan McAnespie scoring from 20 yards out with not a defender in sight in the 69th minute.

Our games are strongly grounded in culture and tradition, that mysterious gift passed from grandfather to father, from father to son. In Roscommon, their heart’s desire is to win Connaught, to shock Galway and Mayo. They achieved that this year, with two brilliant thrilling performances.

As my late father used to say, “All-Irelands are for Kerry and Dublin.”