OUTSIDE the Dublin dressingroom door the world walks on tiptoe and speaks in whispers. From inside not a sound issues.

It's another of those afternoons which Dublin have experienced so often. Eyes meet reddened eyes and roll towards heaven. Heads shake. Murmured condolences are passed along like good intentions.

The team file out and nobody has the courage to stand between them and a quick exit.

"Got to get a word from Paul Bealin," somebody says, but Bealin's face is so clouded by troubles that he is allowed to float by without being molested.

Paul Curran, a father of the team now, stops briefly.

"Nothing to say lads," says Paul shaking his head. His body language is already suggesting that he wants to walk on. "It's soul destroying. It was what, 95 per cent, maybe 97 per cent possession for us in the second half. It's just a disaster. It was there for the taking, we just didn't take it."

It's not a new or novel way for Dublin to lose a big game. That's where the heartbreak lies. If they had medals for every big game they left behind them, they'd be the most decorated team of the decade.

"If we'd have got it level we'd have gone on," says Curran, who knows the critical steps in this death waltz. "But we never got it level. We had loads of chances. We have only ourselves to blame. We lost it. They didn't win it. We lost it."

He pauses. Dips his shoulder for the door. He might have more to add but chances are it's all been said before right here on this crook of the corridor.

Keith Barr squeezes past. Keith is usually equable enough in defeat, but this year he has poured his heart into the business of being team captain. Meath have just trodden most unsoftly on his dreams.

"Once again on the losing end," he says. "Again, it wasn't from the lack of trying." He disappears.

Brian Stynes doesn't take defeat well. His eyes are dark with anxiety. His words come tumbling out.

"I thought we dominated for long periods. We gave them a great start, but then we dominated and we had enough of the ball to win two games. It just didn't happen on the day."

His thoughts are galloping on. A long summer of goddamn golf ahead.

"I think the whole system in this country is a disaster. There was 60,000 people there and they saw one of the best games of the year, and that's it for 12 months. One of the best teams in the country gone for 12 months. It's a joke. They should get their heads out of their sand."

Except, of course, he doesn't say sand.

The door from the empty room opens. Out walks Mickey Whelan. If only that goal had gone in Mickey Whelan would walk among us looking like Lazarus with a suntan. Nine points down? No bother.

Instead he wants some peace and quiet. He shakes his head as he speaks.

"I'm happy with a lot of aspects. I thought we were unlucky. With any element of luck we would have won the game. The team played with great heart and great pride today."

If there really is a need to bring Mickey Whelan back over the details of the game, perhaps his last in charge of Dublin, now isn't the time or place. He is reminded of the 1-9 which Meath ran in while Dublin scored just one point during a 20 minute spell in the first half.

"We put up the same in the second half though, we hauled them right back. We gave some silly scores away early on, and in the end we didn't get the scores we earned and worked for. If we had got level that would have been decisive. When your luck is not in that's hard to come by.

"Could you ask for any more from the team?" he said. "Honestly, could you have asked any more?"

Eventually the question is out. Startling, like a flick knife opened in a saloon bar. Will Mickey be asking anything more of them, or is this goodbye?

"Today is not the time," he says quietly. "I'll talk to the team and my fellow mentors. I'm going away now a little bit disappointed, but I feel great pride at the comeback. Nine points down against the All Ireland champions and with little luck we would have won the game.

He heads to the doorway, his selectors gathered in behind him. He shouts something back at a journalist, but it's lost in the hub-bub outside.

Cudda been a contender. Cudda been a contender.