Tom Humphries/LockerRoom: Mixed day on Saturday, thanks for asking. Brought a carload of camogistas towards Kilkenny for the hurling, but decided to scare them a little along the way by taking a detour to Kilcullen and trooping them into The Hideout to see Dan Donnelly's arm sitting in that old glass case.

Ah yes. The 10 miles before Kilcullen were spent whipping up the excitement. Donnelly's Hollow, out of which he carried the sagging body of George Cooper . . . The only man who could button his knee britches without bending down . . . Died after drinking 47 tumblers of whiskey one after the other . . . And look, there's his arm.

But of course the damn thing is gone. "In America," the girl said, "gone for years." It all sounded most mysterious, as if the arm had met a wealthy sleeve and eloped and now nobody wanted to talk about it.

Ah well. Another instalment of Dublin and Laois beckoned. A large tribe of us picnicked gracefully in the grounds of Kilkenny Castle, until we were evicted. The city was filled with Cat Laughs people. They seemed as apprehensive about the weather as we were.

Nowlan Park is a pleasant spot to watch a game in. For the humble hack, there is a surpassing welcome and lashings of reviving tea and sandwiches at half-time. There's handy parking and mod cons like sockets. And downstairs afterwards there's no fugitive Nazi guarding the dressing-room area with Aryan zeal.

For the punter, there's a digital clock and good sightlines. And, for the administrator, there's the satisfaction of knowing that the ground is tele-compatible. News that Thurles (another very welcoming GAA ground, it has to be said) was to undergo a hurling blackout yesterday was a distressing blow to the game. Limerick and Waterford was being drummed up as one of the showpieces of the summer and, goodness knows, hurling has few enough of those.

In Nowlan Park, the hurling was bland enough. Dublin and Laois were minding their Ps and Qs despite being supervised by the relatively tolerant Dickie Murphy. Much of the game resembled a puc fada contest played down the central corridor, and it was only when the teams discovered angles and low trajectory that they resembled the big boys.

For most of us blithely enjoying a pleasant bank holiday Saturday, the wonder of the afternoon was Tomás McGrane. If you've watched Mossy play over the years you fear for him sometimes, the way people used to fret about the young DJ Carey. They share a slightness of frame which DJ has shed.

They also share a youth spent growing up with a hurl as an extension of the arm. They take frees as if the skill and geometry involved was negligible, and they dart through full-back lines with the pace of greyhounds. Mossy isn't DJ, of course, but you wonder sometimes if DJ's gable end was in Dublin and Mossy's house was in Kilkenny and either had to live off the supply lines of the other how great the gap between their reputations would be.

That's all fluff right now of course.

It's hard to imagine the pressure pounding in Mossy's young head right now. As you will in all likelihood know, his three-year-old daughter, Aoife, is suffering from a brain tumour. In Ireland the tumour is considered inoperable. In America there may be hope.

Right now Mossy McGrane's head is filled with terms he never thought he'd know. He can describe the site of the tumour, the type of the tumour, the various options which are unfolding for treatment of the tumour. He can name off the hospitals which might operate, the alternative treatments which might work. When he takes his helmet off his heads swims once again with those terms and how they swirl around his sick daughter.

On Saturday evening he scored 2-3 from inadequate supply and went back immediately to the real world: worrying, hoping and gathering knowledge. The routine of a parent fending off despair.

Seventy minutes of hurling is a brief respite, an alternative to giving up, the symbol of a determination to keep the world spinning, to keep things moving. It's a small piece of normality. Having carried Dublin forward lines through so many games in the last five years, he went flat last summer and opted to take the winter off, maybe a little longer. A couple of calls came for him to go back, but he knew what sort of break he needed so he resisted.

One of those little heartbreaks of sport meant that after all his toil he was sitting in the stand when Dublin beat Kilkenny in the Walsh Cup final in Parnell Park. The first medals which Dublin senior hurlers have won in generations and Mossy McGrane wasn't there.

Dublin still needed him, however, and the phone didn't stop ringing. He came back. Delighted to do so. Then perspective hit him a hard slap in the head. Aoife got sick.

Through spring and early summer, while other minds pored over the hurling menu, that illness has been all that occupies Mossy McGrane's thoughts.

He has the community of family and the community of his club there. On Saturday in Nowlan Park the community of hurling was never more evident than in the glimpses behind the Dublin dressing-room door.

Páidí Butler walking in armed with congratulations. Nicky Brennan, without fanfare, slipping in to offer Mossy a cheque from the Leinster Council.

For 70 minutes on Saturday evening life was marginally less complicated for Mossy McGrane. Between those white lines he moves like a fish in water, instinct and talent keeping him necessary to the cause even when the frees aren't working for him.

Dublin won, but it wasn't an evening of celebration. Not with Aoife lying exhausted from a few weeks of radiation therapy, not with the decisions which loom. He stood and obligingly signed a few autographs, but his face carried lines that a lad shouldn't have.

That's what we came home with. A car full of tired kids and thoughts of Mossy. A young fella and a young hurler hit suddenly and viciously by fate. We drove in the gathering darkness counting our blessings. Meanwhile, Mossy and his family were still quietly doing what's best with a serene and appropriate dignity, trying to gather the knowledge and the finance to exercise Aoife's options without turning the matter into a circus.

It's a dark, sober time for somebody who has given us so much, a horrific confusion for his little girl. The story is one of those which you always mean to do something about, one of those causes you always mean to give something to. Well, don't let the sun go down today without making the effort.

The Aoife King McGrane Fund, TSB Bank, Lr Abbey St, Dublin. A/C no. 84959387, bank sorting code 990601.