If she'd been a rugby or football international she'd have had a Late Late Show devoted to her by now, shampoo, crisps and breakfast cereal advertising contracts to her name and maybe even the freedom of Cork city, her home place, bestowed on her.

God knows, she might even have had her own chat show by now, or at least her name held up as an example to the nation's youth by your average party leader at your average Ard Fheis.

After all, over 12 years of her life she played 153 times for her country (Ireland, you know the one), readily forfeiting a normal social life and jeopardising her working career along the way because she was born with a sublime sporting talent, one she was determined to put to good use, and one she was honoured to put at the disposal of her country.

For no return, of course - an amateur in the auld sense of the word. But a professional in every other aspect, except the financial one. Twelve years of looking at bank statements and concluding "Christ, unpaid leave so that I can represent my country is all very well, but is that the bailiffs I hear knocking on my front door?"

When she announced her international retirement on Wednesday, at the age of 33, the news was a mere footnote on most sports' pages, the few that even chose to mention her at all.

Mind you, if she'd received the tributes and recognition she deserved the shock might have left her in need of resuscitation - she might have been one of the greatest sports people this country has ever produced (and that, your honour, is a fact) but her sport was filed under `minority' and her gender under `not a lad - the other one'.

Consequently, on the rare occasion she ever received any media recognition of note it was one those quirky "Wow, look: a girl who's spookily committed and boyishly devoted to her sport - and isn't half bad at it either" twice-a-year features.

Her sport? Well, that's largely irrelevant in any whinge about a lack of recognition. All that matters is that she represented Ireland internationally 153 times and was one of our most gifted athletes, in any field.

"C'mon, what's the sport? Ah, give us a break - hockey? Why would we be wanting to hear anything about hockey, it's only what the girls do to fill their hours while the lads are playing rugby, football or hurling."

Lord? Grant me the serenity to put my Uzi sub-machine gun back on the shelf.

Yes, hockey. The game played by thousands upon thousands of kids and adults of every class, gender and religious persuasion in every corner of this country, at schools and club level. Some claim it is the biggest female sport in Ireland - I don't know, but I know it's at least one of the biggest.

So, every week shy, introverted, withdrawn young girls go out on to pitches from Bandon to Ballymoney and leave them reborn because in the course of the previous 50, 60 or 70 minutes they've learnt they've a whole lot more in them than they ever imagined.

Maybe it was just one, single crucial tackle that earned them a congratulatory slap on the back from two or three of their team-mates, but it made them feel they weren't so ordinary after all and made them feel they were part of something, belonged to a team.

So, they go home smiling, buoyed by their new found self-belief, one, with the help of a higher power, they'll carry in to every other area of their lives. That, we used to believe, is what sport is about. Whether it's hockey, basketball, football, hurling, rugby, or, damn it, tug-o-war, it doesn't matter. So long as it gives kids the blank canvas to express themselves.

So if someone excels at a sport, any sport at all, and makes huge personal sacrifices to represent the rest us in an international arena - repeat: 153 times - through 12 years of their life it'd be nice if their efforts were at least acknowledged.

Then again, this particular player would probably feel a bit uncomfortable if she received the recognition her career deserved. Her friends tell me she's cut from the same cloth as her father, Thomas. He played hurling for Glen Rovers in his youth, lining out alongside Christy Ring and Jack Lynch. He won club championships and represented Cork at minor level but, I'm told, try and say "you must have been half good" and he'll say "ah, stop". Rings a bell.

I remember the first time I saw his daughter play. It was a club match, on a cold, miserable, icy winter's day in front of two women, their dogs and me. She was glorious. Picked the ball up on the halfway line, set off, glided like her feet weren't in touch with the ground, rounded countless opponents, and drilled the ball high into the top right corner. Goose bumps. It was hockey but the sport was irrelevant - brilliance is brilliance, genius is genius. Only some geniuses get recognition, some don't.

Her name? Mary Logue. Or "Jesus . . . Logie!" as her opponents are oft heard to say after games, eyes drifting heavenwards as they explain "well, I kind of knew she was going to do that . . . but it's awful hard to stop her."

Late Late Show tribute or not, she's still a class apart and an extraordinarily dedicated servant to Irish amateur sport. She should be held up as an example to the nation's youth by your average party leader at your average Ard Fheis, but she won't be. Why? Because only the sporting geniuses with shampoo, crisps and breakfast cereal advertising contracts get the recognition. Such is life.