Seamus Clarke, of Land o Lakes, Fla., remembers the autumn of 1951 in Mayo very well. A couple of years back, he recounted what happened and compared Mayo’s plight since to that of the mythical Sisyphus, who repeatedly pushed the boulder up the hill only for it to roll back down just before it reached the top. We reprint that here, with a postscript in light of the events of the summer of 2026, and some notes by the author about his life in Florida.
Sisyphus must have spent some time in Mayo as part of his training. He must have climbed the Reek at night so he wouldn't be discouraged by the task at hand in the morning of a wet Mayo day.
Since then, many others have tried the same tactic, including St. Patrick who was so enthralled with the views that he stayed overnight. Legend has it that he stayed forty nights, but believe me, only a fool would stay there forty nights, and St. Patrick was no fool. Locals exaggerated his story to lure tourists to spend a few days in the vicinity.
I grew up in Killala, a small Mayo town, where we were considered so backward that the railway service was discontinued and the tracks taken up. But Killala is where a love of football filled the void in our lives. A local physician, Dr. Joe "Joko" Gilvarry, a native of our town, was a forward on the Mayo team that won the All-Ireland and the “Sam Maguire” in 1950 and 1951.
In 1951, when I was eleven, the Sam was sent around to local clubs for veneration. My father was an official in the Killala ball club, and so he and other club members were allowed to display the cup in their homes overnight. My excitement deflated when I saw the bruised, beaten, small trophy. “Is that’s what it's all about, a battered piece of crockery?” I asked.
Nowadays, I am a Mayo Sisyphus, pushing the O’Neill’s football up the Dublin Croker in hopes of achieving a repeat of 1951. To paraphrase Albert Einstein, “Repeating the same tactics expecting a different result meant you were from Mayo.”
Anaway, as they say on the Mayo/Galway border, I'm an 86-year-old Mayo man living in Florida but shouting ‘Up Mayo!’ with those at home and far away. It's a long time coming.
Let’s help push the Mayo Sisyphus to the mountain top with players from the influx of immigrants who choose to live in our great county. Let them take over from where we left off in 1951. It's not too late. Maybe next year or the year after, or some bloody year before I die…
By God, I half-believe it. Mayo abu!
Postscript: Wager on Kerry
I'd seen the first Sam cup. I'd been to the well eleven times, and as a veteran of many street turf skirmishes, this past summer I decided to cut my losses and put my money on the other side. Yes, this Mayoman bet on Kerry.
I should have kept my mouth shut when I told people who I mistakenly believed were my amigos, of my wager. These amigos, from the hinterlands and rural pastures of hidden Ireland, bathed in the mantra of Up Mayo! since childhood and have never seen the Croker in their lives. They ask me, even demand, that I issue an apology for trying to get back some of my hard-earned bog turf money.
Anyway, I have good friends in Kerry, and I like the place. I even took my mother there on a vacation and she loved it. If you would care to help this permanent emigrant lick his wounds, a brown envelope with a few twenties would help. Go raibh maith agat.
Down-home country life
People ask me, “Seamus, How are you doing?” and I tell them I’m fine. I walk without a cane or a seeing-eye dog. Joan is still hanging with me; she kisses me good morning, makes the coffee, and asks if I took my pills.
I’m 86 years old, I wear other people’s clothes bought at the Hospice Boutique, drive yesterday's Chevy truck, spend tomorrow's money, and don't go out at night. Just living down-home country life with Joan and friends.
I was a professional, salaried Catholic, dispensing weekly magic but, after eleven years, I lost the gift and then spent the next 21 years as a professional, salaried dispenser of commercial justice through insurance arbitration. I then returned to my first job, which I qualified for many years ago rearing calves for pennies a day on my grandmother's farm in Co. Mayo. Now, I do the same, on my own farm in Florida, while reciting poetry to the calves as therapy for us both.
Funny how life turns you around.
