GAA: HE'S COUNTY:'SHOT SELECTION". I don't have to listen to Kevin McStay – or anyone – spouting on about my shot selection.

That’s what’s wrong with this country. Dare to be different, dare to try something audacious, and people glory in your occasional failures.

Man didn’t get on the moon by adding a few rungs on to his attic stairs. To produce big, you’ve got to aim big.

Would I go back to take that free again? Chalk it down I would. Would I have tried those two shots coming in along the end-line? Put your mother’s life on it.

Show me a man who never made a mistake, and I’ll show me a man who never made anything. Grinkers, he never made a mistake. Lamps, he never made a mistake. Shall I rest my case, m’Lord?

Joe Canning. Donie Shine. MJ Tierney. Lar Outside. Me. After that – what have you got in the GAA? Automatons. And when Kevin McStay calls for “better shot selection”, and “working the ball through hands”, and “primary possession”, he reveals himself as just one more begrudging old man trying to engineer spontaneity out of the games.

Some games, I score big. You know the stats. Some games, I don’t. That’s the way it goes when you take risks for your team.

Last weekend, I didn’t. Big swing. One from six would discourage another player, but not me, and, Kevin McStay vendetta or no Kevin McStay vendetta, I’ll be sticking to my shot selection policy right to the end.

When the curly finger came, I couldn’t believe it. I had consistently got on the ball throughout the game. I had the beating of him every time. It was only a matter of time.

Taking me off gave them an unbelievable lift. “We have them rattled now,” I heard one of them roar. “It’s a man’s game out here, girls,” was another comment. With 10 minutes to go, the last thing you do is motivate the other crowd.

I was furious.

The manager, as is his wont, happened to be down the other end of the field as I came off. I was flat out busy attending to Something Else Terribly Important, Something that just Couldn’t Wait like telling a corner back to stand goal-side of his man, as he always is when he makes an “inspired” substitution.

I looked down towards him and shook my head. One of his go-fors handed me a bottle of water. I slapped it out on to the field, water spraying everywhere. The man on the camera nearly got sea-sick, he sped around so fast on his swivel.

I kicked another bottle on the way to the tunnel. Of course, our shiny new stadium looks great, but no player was ever consulted about the key things, such as the surface of the tunnel, and that explains why I fell A over T on the way in.

And that’s the bit The Sunday Game showed as Kevin McStay finished off his shot selection soliloquy.

“Bad day all around for him,” concluded McStay, as I rubbed my sore head, “he has a bit of thinking to do before the next day too, Des.”

Sarcasm. The lowest form of wit.

“I know you’re annoyed,” the manager said to me in the dressingroom afterwards, “and I know you tried hard. You showed well for ball.”

There’s always a but. And the but is always a cliché. I braced myself. It came: “We just needed to freshen things up,” he said, and, boom, boom, “we need to work on your shot selection.”

The only consolation is that we won, which means I will have a chance to set the record straight the next day.

I’m still in an unusual position, though. It’s like I’m living a lie. To get on the team, I have to grunt and groan with the rest of them, moving the ball through hands, picking out a better-placed colleague, even if said colleague is an odds-on shot to drop the rock, or kick it wide.

But that’s a charade I must pursue just to get on that team. When I get out there, I won’t – can’t – conform.

So, Tuesday night, grunting and groaning. I took a ribbing from the lads – three of them linked me out. “Easy now, granddad, you’re not as sprightly as you used to be – awful at your age to get a bad toss.”

They put a new nickname on me for the night. Bambi. I hope it doesn’t stick. I much prefer my long-time handle, Rod.

Anyway, I’ve made the team again this weekend. That’ll sicken Kevin McStay. More in your line, Kevin, to advise Tony Davis on suit selection. And maybe tidy up his cuff-links while you’re at it. Now that’d be real public service broadcasting.

Watch closely, folks, because this Rod is not for bending.