HE'S COUNTY A WARTS AND ALL DIARY FROM INSIDE THE CAMP:YOU ALL know the details, so I won't labour the point. We played. We won. We scored 2-13.

Grinkers obviously woke up Sunday morning believing he was Brian McGuigan. He ploughed into everything and somehow arrived on the end of four moves to finish the day with 1-2, plus the one he was fouled for.

The manager took him off early so he’d get a round of applause. Do you ever know? I only got the call to warm up with 10 minutes left – in the company of three other subs.

We were six points up. We needed none of the rescue remedy I might provide.

One supporter roared, “Don’t go on, a mhac, you might get your hair tossed.” I’m used to that. But what I’m not used to is the laugh it generated. Even the linesman smirked.

Painful. I feigned indifference, of course. If there’s one thing I have perfected over the years, it’s a look of indifference.

Three of the four subs returned to the dug-out. I was one of that three. And I stayed there until the end. We won by nine.

Afterwards in Shakey Stephenson’s, a man leaned over me going to the bar, did a double-take to recognise me: “When you learn it’s not all about you, you’ll be some good to us,” he said, “and throw us out that pint there.”

I deployed my standard reply: “Does it take you long to polish your medals, boss?” He smiled and went off. A minute later, one of his company handed me a piece of paper with a name written on it.

“Google that there on the phone stuck to your paw, like a good lad,” he said. In the jacks later, I did. Turns out my accuser has six county senior medals, two as captain; three provincial medals; an All-Star replacement; and he played for the Rest of Ireland against Kerry a few hundred years ago.

I couldn’t get into the craic Sunday night. The lads were buzzing, of course. It’s always the same after championship wins. All in-house jokes.

Which is fine when you’re “in da house”, but when you’re a sub, you’re a dispensable member of the club. Oh, you play along alright, but you’re on two different wavelengths. They can’t share the buzz with you. It’s like ’Nam. You weren’t there, you don’t really understand.

I left town early. My brother – he’s not on the squad anymore – can read my mind. We went out for a quiet pint locally, and chatted things through.

“I agree he’s threatened by you,” he said, “and I know you’re twice the player of Grinkers and the rest of them. But the manager owns the ball. It’s his way or the highway.”

He said I had two choices. Go the way I’m going, confronting the manager at every turn, and maintaining my media profile – while condemning myself to a year on the bench.

Or, if I want to bring back the best feeling of all, the feeling of being The Man, put the head down. Be compliant. Limp in front of the lame to make them feel better.

Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir.

I don’t fully agree with him. Can a man not retain his individuality in the intercounty game any more? But, equally, it’s clear something needs to change if I’m not going to pass the season warming the bench, small-talking and sniggering with the wash-outs either side of me.

Maybe I’ll keep the head down a while. Monday, I didn’t tweet until the afternoon, and that was a safe enough one along the lines of, “We’ve a great chance this year, #gaaglory can be ours.” I cancelled a few upcoming engagements; though it goes without saying I didn’t scratch my guest appearance at a gig called Flake Me Out, as they’re calling it, in Galway in July.

(Flake Me Out stays in because a) the cash is good, and b) do the maths – 30 women, all gagging for a date with one man, that one man being me: am I making myself clear here? I’ll do anything for the county but I won’t not do that.)

The local paper didn’t run a picture of me looking disgruntled last Sunday. It’s a far cry from this time last year when my brutally honest – and not universally popular in the dressingroom – comment ran across two pages: “Create space? The terracotta warriors would do more off-the-ball running than some of our lads.”

When you’re forgotten, you’re forgotten, as a wise man once said.

My brother says my philosophy should be simple: to truly gain the limelight, I must first be prepared to lose it.

I’m rolling with it for now. Tuesday night, I was one of the first on the field. Won two sprints. Waited on to practice some frees. Even asked the manager for a bag of balls for the week.

“Grinkers wants them for a day or two – will you arrange to pick them up off him Thursday evening?” was his reply.

I said yes. Inside, I seethed. It’s going to be a long road back. I’ll keep you posted – on The Long Road Back and Flake Me Out. Surely there’s room for both?