A distinguished commentator in a Sunday newspaper recently declared: "We are, as a race, a bunch of lawless savages". This cri-de-coeur was sparked by reports from a minor hurling league game in Co Wicklow. Her outrage was prompted, not caused by the discovery that such a barbarous game is played in the Garden of Ireland, but by details of an "incident" at the game.
A most unfortunate fracas took place during which a man was "set upon by hurley-wielding men". But isn't that the whole point, for heavens sake? Not quite. This "incident" happened off the pitch and no member of either team was involved.
Both the Garda and the Wicklow County Board of the GAA were called to investigate.
Separately, the notorious "Turloughmore case" involved "a selector with one of Galway's leading clubs who split open a player's head by repeatedly striking him with a hurley during a match". You can certainly rely on a Galwayman to do a job properly - if his heart is in it.
Seasoned GAA observers point out that such incidents are relatively uncommon and behaviour like this is certainly deplorable. However, in a country which has witnessed some pretty lurid acts of dreadful evil, south and north of the border, the use of the term "savages" seems unwarranted.
At the Wicklow "incident", children apparently "looked on in terror". Maybe. If so, they must be leading unusually sheltered lives. A few belts of a hurley are unlikely to cause much fear in a society which allows seven-year-olds routinely to watch scenes of incest, domestic rape, gangland beatings and brutal murders on soap-operas at tea-time.
Now a hurley has unconventional uses. These include scaring off election canvassers, disciplining curs and flattening nettles - but when used as intended it becomes a bow worthy of a Stradivarius.
The term "noble savages" might be more appropriate when discussing hurlers.
In a country increasingly Europeanised by directives, Americanised by popular culture and sanitised by a molly-coddling nanny State, hurling remains one of Ireland's most glorious and unique activities - despite the occasional lapse in etiquette.
Like most amateur activities it thrives best when left to its own devices. But as with other aspects of Irish life it is increasingly coming under the microscope of busybodies who feel obliged to regulate and outlaw all potential danger and risk. A number of doctors have called for helmets to be made compulsory. Why not wrap those dangerous hurleys in foam padding and make the lads wear chain-metal jerseys? Yes, the odd eye will be gouged out in Thurles, a head slashed in Enniscorthy or fingers broken in Ennis. Of course it is savage, but it is rendered noble also by the grace, speed, intelligence, sophistication and unequalled skill with which it is played at the highest level. Hurling exemplifies Ireland's heritage at its richest and most exuberant. Curtailing its raw passion would diminish us all. It really is an essential part of what we are.
Inter-county rivalry can stimulate strong emotions. A British TV interviewer seeking reaction from England fans on the via dolorosa out of Lisbon's Stadium of Light last month reportedly stumbled upon a man who was not "gutted". He just happened to be from Tipperary and explained to the unfortunate reporter that he couldn't support England, even when Ireland were not competing, because of "800 years of oppression". Asked if he could ever envisage doing so he replied: "If they were playing Kilkenny".
If you are a father with a young son, ask him this evening what he would like to be when he grows up. You may have difficulty getting him to focus as he manoeuvres through the labyrinth of Gameboy while simultaneously watching hammy wrestlers pretend to beat the lard out of each other on satellite television.
Persist. You may be thrilled to learn that he wants to "make loads of money" so that he can "look after you and Mammy when you're old". He may therefore suggest: Tribunal barrister, property developer or Eircom director. Of course you may need to accept that he does not aspire to Celtic Tigerhood at all and opts for civil servant, Fine Gael TD or priest (now wouldn't that be a shock to you?) If, though, you are a very lucky father indeed, your little boy will look you in the eye and say "Da, I want to be a hurler".
As you fight back tears, now flowing like the Lee by its lovely banks, shake his hand firmly and say: "Why then, you'll be a man my son!"
While these days he may not have to cycle 15 miles in the rain to Thomastown on a Sunday after Mass, play for the senior team, smoke three Major while getting stitched at half-time to stem the blood from a gash above the left eye ("no bother at all" and no anaesthetic either), score a goal and six points, cycle back home, milk 20 cows, help three others to calve, fix the tractor and still be in time for the Rosary, it will still be a tough life.
He won't get to wear a sarong, have his chest waxed or his back tattooed, marry a "celebrity", buy Versace shirts, sport diamond earrings, cry when he misses a penalty or have every new haircut featured on the front pages. And he may not make enough money to fund you in the nursing home of your choice.
But by God he'll make you proud.