Robbie Smyth had to make the cut - he kicked 0-11 of Longford's 0-16. So if it's any consolation to McKeon, his catch and shot might not have made the cut if it hadn't been disallowed. Then Laois promptly go down the field and bang the ball in the back of the net. But, says Des Curran in his match report, 'further consultation between a number of officials saw the decision stand'. McKeon and a team-mate remonstrate furiously with the umpire. So Longford's Barry McKeon makes a great catch against Laois on Sunday and drives the ball over the bar, only to see the umpire wave it wide. If these indignities aren't bad enough, there's always the prospect, if you're a minnow, of being screwed by the officials. No one will notice your valiant heroics, bar your mortified self. If you're a corner-back, you might make it, only to see yourself falling arse over head into the back of the net as you desperately try to keep out a ball that has already crossed the line. But if you've clipped it when you're 10 up or 10 down, it probably won't make the cut. If you're a corner-forward, they might show you clipping a nice point. They really can't factor into it the heartfelt desire of your mammy or your missus to see you up there, writ large in your Technicolor slow-motion glory. They are on the clock, the show is on the clock, Des Cahill is on the clock, the pundits are on the clock. They have several hours of action to cut, and not many hours in which to cut it. Your chances of a fleeting few moments are dependent on the spin of the editors' roulette wheel.

There, you are significant here, you are an ordinary Joe with a mug of tea in your hand. Your three-dimensional physical form in the room has less substance than the image on the screen. If Marty Morrissey calls out your name, you are suddenly more real, more vivid, than the person sitting on the living room sofa beside said mother or partner, watching yourself on the telly.

If you make it to the Sunday night picture show, you are real. But they too need the validation of the television cameras, just to be sure to be sure. Your mother knows you exist your partner knows you exist. This is the lot of the early-season strugglers, the championship fodder, the sprats in the GAA's ocean. As a GAA player you are merely a shadow, a rumour, until you have been transformed by the voodoo of the magic lantern. Because, as we all know, if you don't make it to the famed highlights show of a Sunday night, you don't really exist. And then they are gone, expired, returned to oblivion, not to be seen again for another 12 months.

The Oblivion Room by Christopher Conlon