He's County

GAELIC GAMES:A warts and all diary from inside the camp

WOULD I try that manoeuvre again? Lay down your bottom dollar. What distinguishes the great players is not routinely doing the right thing, but the capacity to occasionally attempt the remarkable. It’s the bravura that counts – not the accomplishment.

You can’t coach daring.

My sixth sense allows me to see unfolding events on a pitch as if they have been slowed down just for me. When the ball came across, I knew I would try the overhead kick.

I claimed good body position, arched my back perfectly, thrust forward my midriff, and took off at just the right time. Perfect.

But “that” surface. That marble, ice-rink surface. Where I should have got purchase, I got slippage. Where I should have got airborne, I got toilet flush. And where I should have got bouquets, I got derision.

There was a dull thud as I landed on my back. Every puff of air left my body. I’m sure I saw a long, bright tunnel with my granny giving me the curly finger.

Even our Dochtúir – no Bolt – was out to me by the time I regained my senses, pursuant to a full bucket of water poured on my head. “Rod,” the referee said, “I’ve seen you try a fair few stunts in my time, but that really took the biscuit.” He winked. He was in San Francisco on the All-Star trip too.

The surface really is a joke. As Anthony Masterson said, I train five or six nights a week, put my life on hold, and then go into Croke Park and the ground can’t even hold me up. And if they want an apology, I’m sorry, but there will be no sorry.

Mr Temple Know Nothing must have worn the video out on The Sunday Game.It's daggers drawn usually among all those boys, and then they unite like the Chuckle Brothers in their mutual enjoyment of a top player's discomfort. All they want to do in this country is cut down the tall poppies.

The closing credits were clearly thrown together by a pimply internship student they’ve let him loose in the sweet shop. They fast-forwarded me. They slow-moed me. They reversed me. They even bounced me up and down like a tennis ball.

And then the smug piece-to-camera: "If we have discovered one thing this week," Spillane again, "it's that Isaac Newton knew his stuff." And, then, the final boom, me hitting the ground, a Sesame Streetmoment, and the ball trickling over the end-line.

The tabloids had a field day. The photo of the grinning umpire, as I lay in pain, was everywhere. Begrudgingly I give credit to the headline writer who came up with: “Oh, what a Messi.”

Of course, every cloud has a silver lining. A certain sportswear company were happy with the exposure. “A little something is gone in the post to you, Rod,” texted the rep, “you might have let yourself down with a bang, but not us.”

At least we won. We’re into the semi-finals for the first time since players used to eat their own body weight in red meat and eggs.

I managed to score 0-2 (0-1 free), but I wasn’t myself after tumbling from the high wire, and they whipped me off with 20 minutes to go.

I had the beating of that corner-back, recently down from the trees. Of course, I pumped up the limp and called for ice. You’d think the cameras would pick up on that? But, yes, we won. I had to rush away afterwards because of that Flake Me Out gig I was telling you about in Galway – 30 young ladies. Some the tide wouldn’t take out, some I might call Allianz NFL material, and a few real championship contenders.

I was the first guy into the fray. Ten lights went off straightaway. Not as good as Robert Hennelly on the TV version – God, he had the place lit up like Blackpool Pier – but not bad either. When I told them “I’m sporty, I’m fit, I’m all man – but I can reach your tender side”, 10 more couldn’t stand the heat.

My dance routine lost another seven. Two of the three left were alright though.

When the local Ray Foley asked them why they were still in the race, one said she’d “always wanted to date a rugby player”, another said she thought I was “probably alright behind it all,” and the third one – well, I know don’t know what she said. She wasn’t getting onto the first team even if we had to give a walkover.

Eventually, I went for “probably alright behind it all”. We were sent to a pub near Leisureland for an hour for the “date”.

I asked her if she’d seen the game on television. She hadn’t. But she’d heard her father laughing uproariously at some stage. She wasn’t much of a laugh herself, as it turned out, and I was back home by 2am.

It’s been a long week on the Cúl Camp circuit, as you can imagine. Funny how many seven-year-old comedians this county is producing. At this stage of the year, even the yummy mummies watch the matches on the television. I’ve a lot of catching up to do the next day.