This is dumb. This can be scientifically proven as A Bad Idea. I live in Melbourne. On all available evidence, the team I am travelling 34,486km to support in an All-Ireland final will lose. This is what they do.

And this isn’t the happy “coincidence” of a planned trip home. That excuse was used for the first final a fortnight ago.

I was grateful for Cillian O’Connor’s cameo of course, but a darker part of me would have preferred the cold blade of an accurate Diarmuid Connolly sideline ball. After all, who wants to leave at half-time?

Not I, it turns out. So here we are, 44 hours in a flying metal tube to spend a day and a half in Dublin witnessing a likely defeat. A mad dash. I am 37 years old. I’ve got grown-up stuff that needs doing.

Tried to understand

My Australian wife has tried to understand while evaluating her life choices.

My work colleagues have regretted asking what I had planned for the weekend, eyeing the nearest exit as they politely humour my non-existent reasoning.

What could persuade a relatively stable individual to think this weekend commute is worth the effort?

If your county begins with K and ends in Y, well done you, but stop scoffing for a second and consider what you’re missing out on. I’m sure all those trophy-twirling September Sundays were great, but can you imagine what we imagine?

The Western Bulldogs might have had something to do with this industrial-strength idiocy. Last weekend they qualified for their first AFL Grand Final in 55 years amid a torrent of emotion and neutral goodwill.

They’re due to play the Sydney Swans, and if they’re champions for the first time in 62 years (pfft, luxury!) we’re all set for the ultimate underdog’s day.

Cosmic misfortune

Hell of an omen, you see. Throw enough seemingly cosmic misfortune at people and they’ll start seeing portents in every corner. Or toilet.

While down home in Kilmovee a few days before the drawn final, a tiny frog made an appearance in our spare bathroom. However he had gotten there, like Pheidippides as he reached Athens from Marathon, the effort proved too much for the little guy. “Oh, good omen for Mayo,” my father cheerily declared as our hero’s epic tale ended with a flush.

Now, imagine that supreme sacrifice was not in vain and Cillian does somehow hop up those steps tomorrow.

The delirium, the relief after all those gut-punches and breathless days would make the hassle, the exhaustion, the frankly appalling carbon footprint worthwhile. Wouldn’t it?

Perhaps. But whatever happens at Croke Park tomorrow, sorry Mayo, but I can’t do this again. This is officially an unhealthy relationship.

It’s going to have to stop

I’ll never stop loving you from afar, but these frantic reschedulings every time you promise things are going to be different have to stop.

As occasionally invigorating as this sadomasochism thing we’ve had going down the years has been, it’s high time I used the safeword (it’s Bohola, by the way).

We’ve still got tomorrow evening though. Let’s end this on a high, shall we?

* Patrick Horan has worked as journalist in Dublin and Melbourne and is now employed by Cricket Australia