If there are life lessons in sport, we learned a lot in that final

Mayo of the great heart, you went so close to winning. Dublin, you made a town out of your city. You can feel the lift all around Dublin this morning. The rest of us, though, bled for Mayo. It was as if our own county had been beaten. And when all the drama gives way to a calm appraisal, the All-Ireland football final of 2016 will go down in history as one of the greatest games ever played.

I was out looking for him in the wood of the tall trees. I took in the air and brought down the heart rate from runaway train speed. The pace of the game dismantled our brakes.

There he was out walking his dog. Or it was more of a case of the dog walking him. The man's walk was a drawl. It was as if he was following a hearse.

"We lost," he said. "I know by your face."

I promised him we would meet up here on our favourite woodland trail, the Cows Lawn. My Mayo friend couldn't bear to watch. He is full of stents and statins. The little dog went off searching for a rabbit with a sense of humour who might let him chase for laughs.

"Give it to me straight," said the gaunt Mayo man, as if he was in a doctor's rooms expecting bad news.

"They were heroic. Mayo won over all of our hearts." I was almost going to offer a handshake with a "sorry for your troubles".

No one died, but a dream died. Mayo hadn't won an All-Ireland final for 65 years.

Why do we care so much? Why do we weep and why do we cheer?

It's a game after all, not life or death. But this isn't gaming on a console. Our Gaelic games are played on fields that are real and pulsating with the rhythms and cadences of the place we come from.

For Dublin, it was joy unconfined. Dublin played with a go forward that would drive a freight train up Croagh Patrick. And yes, Dublin deserved to win, but only just. This was the story I told my Mayo friend.

"Next year," I said by way of goodbye. The crows on their way home to Parsons Wood cawed a stark elegy.

"Next year," he said, repeating my mantra.

These were the words that stuck in my mind as I was writing this piece: "Next year." Two words of hope. Two words of never giving up no matter what. We take comfort in words of hope. I have to keep reminding myself that this is sport. "No one died" is what us sports people always say when we lose.

I was in Dublin yesterday morning. One of the artists on Merrion Square told us the Taoiseach had walked by on his way to work. Enda's words were, "I'm hurting this morning."

In Booterstown, a rugby area, there were kids playing football in Dublin jerseys on a patch of grass that looked as if it had been trampled on by a herd of wildebeest. Dublin have the kids out kicking ball in their thousands.

Dublin brought so much joy to a city that needs to forage for a unity of identity and purpose. Dublin, you have made a million into one.

I was dying for a kick, but such is the world we live in today I didn't ask. A dad came out to watch and the ball ricocheted to my feet off an old oak tree as wide as the belly of a man who drank porter seven nights a week. I kicked it back to a small kid, who said thanks.

I got chatting with the Dub dad. Nice fella. A good winner, who felt for Mayo. We got to talking about the last chance Mayo had to draw the game. Mayo's Cillian O'Connor sent a tricky free just wide. He was exhausted. That was the reason he missed. He gave his all and the heart was willing but the kicking leg was as hard as an Ogham stone after such a huge effort.

Cillian scored the equalising point in the first game. No blame to him, then. None. The dad called his son for lunch. The boy asked for extra time. It was granted. I asked the boy who was his favourite player. I only had to look at his jersey. It read Brogan. Bernard Brogan is a neighbour's child and I used to see him play football outside our back gate when he came home from Dublin on holidays.

Bernard lost his place for the final. But then when his chance came, he took it and scored a fine point. And a point was the difference in the end. There was no ego. He was committed to the cause. The team came first. So maybe, then, sport is more than sport. There are life lessons everywhere. Team sports teach us how to win and how to lose. Friendships are made that endure and we learn how to work in a team environment. There's a template, then, for most forms of endeavour from the personal to the public.

But the All-Ireland final was enthralling and entertaining all on its own. Men gave their all. There is no shame in losing if you give your all. And that applies to life too. Wouldn't it make a nice epitaph for a hard-working, committed person: He gave his all or she gave her all.

Dublin and Mayo, we owe you. The nation is in your debt.

You showed us what it is to care and to fight for the jersey. Thank you for two of the greatest games ever played. Thank you for giving your all.