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

SOME DAYS are diamonds. First ball, I had a feeling it was going to be a Black Eyed Peas night.

Out quickly from the corner. Two steps ahead of The Goon. Come on, baby, come on, come to Papa. Slam on the brakes. The Goon doesn’t do reflex action and duly, dutifully, predictably, he flies clean off the pier.

Quick turn, two solos to make the angle, slow down for maximum languidness, and, swoosh, over the black spot for the opening score.

A point in the bag, two minutes gone, and the fear of Rod in The Goon. I hope that sloshing sound is just water in his boots.

"Bai, what's that you do be mouthing to yourself after scoring? You were hot tonight, Rod, respect" – a Twitter trend after The Sunday Gamepicked up on my routine.

With a “thank you, sir” to Mr Harwell, and a “welcome aboard” to my fellow mantra man Johnny Doyle, those words were from Smashmouth’s finest piece of lyrical work: “Hey, now, you’re an All Star, get your game on, go.”

I've copped grief for wearing the iPod in the warm-up, but good ball-playing is like good music: it's about the rhythm and the attitude. Till I Collapse, by Eminem, that's my favourite tune prior to the throw-in.

So when you see my head nodding in the huddle, don’t presume I’m buying into whatever forgettable nonsense Mr Grand Token Gesture, aka our manager, is pumping. I’m not listening, I’m rocking.

I’m afraid I’ll get carried away and interrupt his stream of steam by roaring “yo left, yo left, yo left, right left” – you know how loud you can get with volume maxxed.

Anyway, he’d probably think I was suggesting a few moves and say something incomprehensible like “Rod’s right, we need plenty of crossing over and back inside in the inside.”

Four from play, and it could have been five. They put The Goon out of his misery before half-time. He kicked no water-bottles on the way off. Of course, they’ll try him again the next day, and next year, and still they’ll wonder why.

When Gary got injured, I wasn’t even angry they gave Grinkers the next free. I’ve told you before about Grinkers and rope, and, sure enough, he squirted it wide.

Next one, I shimmied over and took control. Five frees is good kicking in any man’s language. I’ve always liked the look of 0-9 (4f) after my name. It’s just about the optimum score: 0-10 (5f) is too much, suggests the whole thing was a bit of a joke.

I grew and grew. That spat with Grinkers looked unsightly on the box, but, championship is championship: it’s not all about playing the ball to the man in the best position. The fact of the matter is wherever the best man is, that’s the best position.

Grinkers doesn’t get it: in his world, if it doesn’t involve blood, sweat, and pain, it’s worthless.

Afterwards, I was buzzing. Standing up there on the fence, pumping the fist to the crowd, feeling the surge of energy coming back off them, that’s what it’s all about. We’re all in this together.

Town was heaving. I love the ones who let on not to be interested. When they’re introduced, they ask you to say your name a second time, as if they haven’t heard it before. I play along, heard it all before.

Two Fat Frogs later, both purchased by her, just saying, and she’s “oh my God, I can’t believe how dead sound you are – I could never understand why my father is so set against you.”

Gas thing is, she’ll probably told her friends Monday she played hard to get, including the friend on whose plaster of Paris I scribbled my number the night before.

Monday morning was different too. The man from Under Armour seems to have rediscovered his texting finger. He had three on my phone by midday.

“Gotta talk, Rod,” was the last one, “a few gigs coming up and, as you often said before, you don’t send boys on men’s errands when it’s the business end of the championship.”

Lucozade Sport and Azzurri have invited me to be their friends on Facebook – requests I will most certainly respond to in the affirmative, but only when they do the needful. And we’re not talking about a crate or a jersey.

Tuesday night, he called us all into yet another huddle. Someone wrapped an arm around the fellow beside him, and so we all had to follow suit.

“Lads,” he said, “we’ve a right good chance. We’re where we wanted to be all along, at the business end of the championship.”

The usual suspects endorsed him with a few yeahs and that’s rights.

I saw my first painted sheep yesterday. The artist was no Leonardo. The local paper match intro – bizarrely overlooking my contribution as an obvious opener – talked about “things really opening up now as we enter the business end of the championship.”

I hear Damian Lawlor has been enquiring too. That'd be me on Take Me Outand Take Your Pointin the same year. How bad?

Anyway, sounds like we’re entering the business end of the championship. Bring it on. I gotta feeling . . .