We've had words, of course. Well, I had words: Cluxton didn't really say anything, just glared back at me

HE'S COUNTY:A warts and all diary from inside the camp

ITS TIME people understood Stephen Cluxton. If you don’t understand people, you can’t understand sport. Sometimes, you just want to leave your performance as your legacy, your monument. With a barbed wire fence around it, and a pair of security guards, so no one can damage your precious creation.

You just want to say “hey, what I’ve just done there is perfection, and no amount of talking will improve it, so, you know what, let’s all just leave it there as a standalone icon, and let’s all go party or write a novel or kill a hen or something.”

I have felt that way so often, it’s not funny. I can see where Stephen is coming from: I just wish I had his cojones to see it through.

Instead, I have always found myself trying to please other people. If others want a piece of me, I can’t say no. Garage openings, supermarkets, festivals, Take Me Out, endorsements – Rod has the name of a man who won’t let you down.

“A word, Rod,” the journalists ask. Those journalists may know as much about the ball game as I do about whatever, but they’re just trying to do a job, and, anyway, chances are I’ll meet them on an All Stars tour or an M Donnelly gig, so best to keep it real.

Before you know it, you’re there talking about what you’ve done – “cut inside . . . knew he was weak on his left . . . dragged it back . . . knew I had a goal in me . . . not all about me . . . knew we needed a goal . . . all about the team . . . just a cog . . .”

Stephen, he turned his back on that whole circus Sunday. Much respect, I say. He’s getting bigger by the hour; he’ll soon pass out Maurice Fitz and Mick O’Connell.

I tried that approach once. Two second-half goals, both against the run of play, a match-winning pair. Slipped away afterwards. On the radio they were saying, “just can’t get hold of the hero of the hour, Rod, but, knowing him, he’ll be along soon enough – always very willing to accommodate the media.”

Twenty minutes later, texts dropped. “Well, boy,” read one, from a journalist whose number I have saved, “we might be forced to bring up the little issue in the Royal Selangor.”

I knew he was joking. But, still, I felt jumpy. Not because of Kuala Lumpur – no winners if that Pandora’s Box is opened.

No, it’s like as if talking about what I have done is part of processing the whole sequence of events. Like as if the day isn’t over until I explain myself – do I almost feel guilt for winning the game that way? I don’t know. I studied plastics or something, not psychology.

I walked back. They were all there. “Well, Rod,” they said, “was it your best yet?”

It’s a vicious circle. Fair play to Cluxton for having the independence. This will surprise you, but I don’t know him very well.

Who does?

He always looks at me kind of funny, as if he respects me, but is wary of me. We’ve had words, of course.

Well, I had words: Cluxton didn’t really say anything, just glared back at me.

I went to hit him. He never reacted, as if he knew I wouldn’t. I didn’t. Bugged me that for a while afterwards.

Sunday was mayhem. I bumped into four journalists in the tunnel afterwards.

Three asked the exact same question: “Where’s Cluxton, Rod?”

The other was a real maverick. “Any sign of McManamon, Rod?”

It just shows you how fickle sport is. A microphone stuck in your mouth is just half an inch from a ram down your throat.

I just looked straight through them and kept walking. I owe nothing to anybody. I shoved on the earphones, got the Ke$ha track I’d lined up all week in, and sang along.

Coming out your mouth with your blah blah blah,

Zip your lips like a padlock,

And meet me at the back with the jack and the jukebox,

I don’t really care where you live at,

Just turn around boy and let me hit that.

So that’s the way it’s going to be, is it? The whole year 2011, filed under two names: K McM and SC?

A bit too simplistic, don’t you think?

Sport is a complex business.

Simple and yet complex.

Here’s a shout for The Others. I won’t call them The Small Guys. Because I was no small guy this year. I know what I did, and I’m apologising to nobody.

I retched over fences. I created road-kill rushing to training. I ducked out of club games to be right. I stayed in weekends. I let girls down.

Are the Rods – and the hundreds of other Rods – to be simply forgotten about now? Don’t get me wrong. I’ve nothing against Kevin McManamon and Stephen Cluxton, and I’m delighted for them that things worked out so well.

But it takes more than one hand to clap. And it takes more than two men to create a round of applause.

But I’ll be back. Wheels turns, it’s what they do. I’m proud of my season. I’ll be keeping the tuxedo dry-cleaned.

McManamon and Cluxton – Ive had it up to here.

I’ll be back, with the jack and the jukebox.

Back for more blah blah blah.