Sideline Cut:  GAA brawls just ain't what they used to be. On Sunday evening, driving through the dark lands of Offaly, the wireless fairly crackled and fizzed with reports of a good, old-fashioned GAA smorgasbord of hoodlumism up North. The tenor of the reports shook with righteous indignation and barely suppressed excitement. February weather just seeps right into the bones, and next to a Powers neat there is nothing like a round or two of GAA fisticuffs to get the blood coursing.

When stories of GAA violence kick off, the GAA man is hit with conflicting feelings. The immediate instinct is to say, "God above, that sounds terrible." But then he sits there imagining all those full forwards vaulting over the wire to get at supporters, physiotherapists setting off Molotov cocktails, and the statistics boys desperately scribbling notes on which player got the most clouts in. And a small part of him wishes he were there. A small part of him feels short changed, even bitter, especially if the closest thing his lousy 0-7 to 0-5 league game had to offer by way of excitement was when the man four rows back won the box of assorted biscuits in the half-time raffle.

The GAA man has very strong views on the issue of "the GAA and Violence" - and much like Willie Yeats of old, he would have no trouble standing up and explaining to the great unwashed they had disgraced themselves again.

He believes absolutely and religiously such acts of violence HAVE NO PLACE ON A GAA FIELD AND SHOULD NOT BE SEEN.

That said, once such acts have been perpetrated, there is no way in hell he is going to miss them. In fact, he is so terrified of missing even a snippet of footage, he rings home and demands that every sports bulletin be recorded, and no, he couldn't give a fiddler's that it means taping over Desperate Housewives.

What happened in Omagh will undoubtedly be archived under M for Melee in the hefty GAA file for such bouts of spontaneous busting. The spectacle of over a dozen players swarming around one another on the sideline is bound to inflame opinion. The calamitous sight of manly young players with their county shirts ripped to shreds hardly belongs to Cusack's original vision and also evokes unwanted memories of the 1980s pop combination Kajagoogoo, who patented that shredded-shirt look.

The first time the Dublin-Tyrone clash was televised, it looked fairly bad. The second time, however, it became clear that for all the pushing and shoving, there were precious few punches thrown. In GAA parlance, no man was opened. Much of what occurred did so because no player on either team was prepared to back down and thereby lose face. And the reason they were unwilling to do so is that such a philosophy has been drilled into them since they first appeared at underage training. GAA methodology has undoubtedly become more moderate and enlightened in recent decades, particularly since the games have become more popular with girls and common sense has led to mixed training sessions.

But the GAA has always guarded a bullshit, hard-man ethos that will take more than a generation or two to shift. Stories of GAA violence are endless and frequently hilarious. Others end in serious injury (the violence that is, not the stories).

It seems inevitable that young boys who show a talent for, and dedication to, Gaelic games, evolve through the underage teams and progress to senior club or county level will be exposed to the old school of GAA wisdom. Man and Ball. Every Man in. No F*****g Prisoners.

Gaelic football is a tough game. Dual players tell you that although you can get a severe clip in hurling, there is nothing more murderous and maddening than the constant dragging and checking and thumping you receive in football. It dulls the limbs and infuriates the mind.

More than most sports, the rules of Gaelic football are enslaved to interpretation, and when the officials and players are not singing off the same hymn sheet, players can lose the head. In fact, sometimes they can lose the head regardless. Gaelic football is a tough game, and its old boys are only too happy to tell you that. Tougher the better, they say. And the worst crime, the worst name, is to be branded yellow, to be branded as windy. The voice of the Hard Man still carries weight and it is only in very recent years the organisation has become serious about stamping out violence.

Sunday is officially regarded as a bad day for the GAA. That is the official word.

But the truth is, 30 county teams couldn't care one way or the other and two must be secretly happy. It doesn't matter how stiff the fine or how tough the suspensions meted out to Dublin. The fact is a team often labelled mentally soft and often subjected to brutal criticism stood together as one in Omagh, one of the most intimidating football arenas in the country, and beat the All-Ireland champions. You can be sure Dublin became a closer and tougher - and arguably a better - team after Sunday.

For Tyrone, the loss and the manner of it will remove any notions of invincibility.

It offered a clattering reminder that as All-Ireland champions they are the team to beat. And it gives them just that extra little motivation. Last year when they played Dublin they actually professed their fondness for the city team, a big-hearted, loud team with great supporters, a team who let them concoct thrilling comebacks. This summer, Tyrone will be playing Dublin (and you know now they are destined to meet) with a point to prove.

This is not to suggest Mickey Harte and Paul Caffrey, both decent and thoughtful men, are pleased by Sunday's spectacle. They would probably have preferred a classic. But it is doubtful they have lost any sleep over it. You take your motivations from where you can in sport, and there is nothing like a row to bind a squad of young athletes.

Harte and Caffrey are grown-ups, both exceptional coaches in a sport that has always held sacred the ideas of victory, of standing your ground and of staying loyal to your team. All those things were at stake when the Dublin and Tyrone players rushed in head-over-heels last Sunday. They are footballers, not boxers, and I guess as well as being excited and pumped up, they were probably a bit afraid. Nobody actually wanted a jaw broken and very few probably wanted to break a jaw either. They were just reacting to the situation in time-honoured GAA fashion.

As for the accusation that such behaviour is wrong and unforgivable for players who are role models and idols for children, well, that is probably true. But it doesn't matter a damn. Shame is the last emotion any of the players will feel.

They are amateurs. They make sacrifices. In their towns and counties, they are judged on how they perform, not on how nice they are to the kiddies. The truth is that in the heat of the moment, the youngsters don't count. The players will willingly sign autographs all summer. They will get over the notoriety of Omagh. But walking away from a row? Backing down? In GAA culture, that remains the only unforgivable sin.

And if, when the weather is fine and the championship is king, Dublin and Tyrone are drawn to meet in Croke Park, do you think the fans will stay away because of what might happen? Do you think the children will be kept at home? Or that nobody will watch on television?

When it comes to the sport and the old whiff of cordite, there is a touch of the hypocrite in us all.

Next time Dublin and Tyrone meet, it will be hottest ticket in town.