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

YEP, YOU’VE guessed it, we’re deep into Tony D’Amato territory now. He Who Must Be Humoured thinks his every word will be chiselled forthwith onto a tablet of stone, and preserved for future generations to coo over as if they harbour wisdom beyond belief.

“In life, either you control your choices, or your impulses will control you. It’s simple really, but only when you’ve got the appropriate mental fortitude.”

Hey, Descartes, all I said was, “Would you mind passing the salt, please?” I’ve opened a book with a few of the usual suspects about whether we will get to hear the Inches speech before the final.

The five of us say yes, as it happens.

The first tie-breaker is when: I believe it will be on the bus to Croke Park, timed to have it ringing in our ears when we pull in under the stand.

The second tie-breaker is how: merely play the video, or deliver it himself, word stumble by inappropriate pause? It’s in pondering such deep questions that we pass All-Ireland final build-ups. Do I enjoy it? I do. And I don’t.

It’s where every player wants to be. Certain merchandisers have re-discovered the ability to use the phone, which is no bad thing, times that are in it.

Walking down the street, people make this conscious effort not to bother you: which suits me just grand. I feed off attention. I like spotting people subtly nudging each other.

It’s as if walking down the street has become this movie, with me as the sole star, me in colour and the others in BW, and if you can’t get off on that, you shouldn’t be playing team sport at this level.

But you must maintain your aloofness at all times. Mystique. Elusiveness.

Let them join the dots. “Look at the shoulders on him. Look at the way he seems to float, barely touches the ground.” They’ll write the script if you stay detached. Get in too close, allow them to put talk on you, and you are just one more mortal. To know me is to chip away at my essence (hey, where are those stone-chisellers when you need them?).

My whole being is built around my being an outsider. This is no time for messing with constructs.

I got cornered by one fan last week. “Well?” he asked. I looked him in the eye, knowing full well he was mentally recording this moment for future roll-out.

“Very well,” I replied, “very well entirely,” and kept moving. I expect to hear this encounter back Monday week. “He said he met you,” they’ll say, “and he said he never saw you more focused.”

So, yes, this is where you want to be: one eye on the big hootenanny, one eye on the All Star nominations, and the other eye on our new Australian physio who has just manifested herself in the last few weeks. She’s aloof. Mysterious. Beyond the pale. So far.

So, yes, this state of affairs is preferable to being out in July or August, doing my best to make something of a club team full of players who aren’t fit to lace my boots, primarily because they can’t bend down that far.

But there’s other stuff I don’t like. As you’ve gathered, I hate all the meaningful team talks. Prepare to fail, fail to prepare, or whatever way that worn-out nursery rhyme runs.

Tuesday night, he told us the final is just one more game, and we weren’t to think about it at all. Thursday, he read out a letter from (yes, you’ve guessed it again) “an old man from this county who is terminally ill abroad in America, just letting you know what it would mean to him if we could win this one.” So much for treating it like ‘just one more game.’ I wonder if there is a business opening in all of this. Tear-jerker Letters Inc: Dispatches to put your troops right on the edge.

It could all be done by multiple choice. Click here if you want ‘sick old man’ or ‘ex-player wishes to no longer be the only surviving link’ or ‘county native on death row in southern state for shooting up a sleeping non-event of a town that probably asked for it.’ Must SWOT that idea after this rumble is over.

Anyway, he’s giving all these talks. That’s dangerous stuff to be doing with backs. And Grinkers. These people lead simple lives. Mess with their heads like that, and the consequences could be serious. Lads like Grinkers could short-circuit themselves at any moment. Bang! Not even a Cyril Farrell Biff! Just Bang! And they’re mush.

Worth nothing. Head fried. Someone please sweep up the debris. They’re finding it hard enough to cope with the fact that some people would paint sheep on their account. No point pushing it too far now.

So I stay aloof. Mysterious. Right sounds at the right time. Pacino, not this time, pal. This time, I’ll do it my way.