Michael Moynihan

“WELCOME TO the City of the Tribes,” said the man driving our car on Sunday afternoon. “Or as I like to call it, the City of the Roundabouts. Did you know that ‘Gaillimh’ translates into English as ‘yield to traffic heading for the Oranmore exit?’”
John, old friend, you weren’t wrong. We had the traditional wrong turn on the way to Pearse Stadium for the Galway-Cork NHL clash - any readers in the western capital disturbed by the C-reg vehicle circling the Currys car park, that was us - and once we got to Salthill we had to stop a random pedestrian to find the hidden gem.
Who was actually going to act as a steward at the game, which was a lucky break for us.
That’s the odd thing about Pearse Stadium: it nestles, almost perfectly hidden, in a residential area up behind the promenade, and unless you’re utterly focused on getting there, it’s easy to be distracted.
There’s the sparkle of the sun on the waves, the ice cream vendors along the sea front, and the happy people lolling and strolling along, laughing in a seductive, carefree way.
It’s a kind of Bermuda Triangle for GAA correspondents. Some members of the breed, despatched years ago to cover routine league games in the West, never made it back at all, and can still be seen, frowning down at their ‘99’s and wondering if they’ll have time for a quick paddle before going back to the stadium to rattle out five hundred words on Joe Connolly’s tussle with Pat Fitzelle.
The game we covered in Salthill was Galway-Cork, a match to put the dead in dead rubber. Although both sides fielded fringe players who were presumably keen to make an impact, there was a distinct lack of steel to the exchanges.
That was hardly surprising, given they hook up on the first Sunday in May in the league decider proper, so the element of bluff, double-bluff and triple-bluff was much in evidence. Factor in Cork’s date with Tipperary at the end of May in the Munster championship, and you’re in the realm of quadruple-bluffing when it comes to team line-ups and potential starters.
Denis Walsh, for instance, spoke about the need to balance big men and smaller men on the Cork team; however, having Michael Cussen and Aisake O hAilpin stride past to warm down brought it home forcibly that Walsh is trying to balance giant men and ordinary, regulation-sized men.
There was more of those on show at the Sportsground, where we fetched up after the hurling game.
Munster beat Connacht, and the fact that the southern province rested many of its front-line players and still got the win was a source of delight for many of the travelling supporters.
We were happy enough to secure a lift back to Cork from the western outpost - the lift up was a one-way deal - and the route the new driver took out of Galway avoided most of the roundabouts on offer.
As we left, though, we did see a couple of Connacht squad members, natty in their grey pullovers, trudge disconsolately through waste ground to where they’d parked their car (rather haphazardly) across from the G Hotel. Bit harsh on the pair of them that they couldn’t lock hard into a space a little nearer the dressing-rooms, but sympathy was in short supply from my fellow travellers, unashamedly red in their allegiance.
Before consigning the trip to Galway to the memory bank, though, allow your correspondent to pay tribute to the man who got us from Pearse Stadium to the Sportsground, one of the nicest cabbies we’ve ever met.
The only downside to the short trip across the city was the chap’s relentless commentary on the various hostelries and restaurants, a monologue provoked by our casual suggestion that we might be pitching up in Galway for a night or two in the near future.
What made the driver’s delivery particularly mesmerising was the use of your correspondent’s first name at the end of each sentence.
“That’s a lovely bar, it’s usually full of students, Michael . . .
 “They serve beautiful Mexican food in that little place, Michael  . . .
“That’s one of the oldest bars in Galway and very respectable, Michael . . .
 “Shop Street goes up that way and comes out at the famous Eyre Square, Michael . . .”
 By the time we reached the Sportsground we were thinking of heading back the way we came to frown down at a ‘99’ and wonder if we had time for a quick paddle before going back to the stadium to rattle out five hundred words on Peter Stringer’s tussle with Frank Murphy.
That’s Galway for you. City of the Roundabout Way of Thinking.