GAA: A WARTS AND ALL DIARY FROM INSIDE THE CAMP: I TEXTED Lamps immediately. "Sorry 2 hear bout injury, lad. Def out? You were flying too."

Within hours, the texts started falling.

Exhibit A, from a Dub who may prefer to remain nameless because he played Sigerson with Lamps: “Lamps out is your light of opportunity, big guy – I’m sure you’re gutted for him . . .”

Exhibit B, team-mate: “One man’s T-bone is another’s corned beef.”

Exhibit C, our captain: “The three-step plan: 1 Text Lamps your sympathies (knowing you, you’ve probably done this already); 2 Tweet same (done this too, I bet); 3. Burst a gut tomorrow night. Best of luck – we need you.”

Yes, all I had left was Step 3.

Lamps came along to training Wednesday night, which put a dampener on things. I joined the funeral line and wished him all the best. But you can’t dwell on the past.

Warm-up, a few words, including yet another “hard luck on Lamps” bereavement session, and then, the crucial moment, The Match to Decide Who Profits from Lamps’ Misfortune.

Or, to give it its working title, “a bit of a game, lads”.

Thinking he was cute, he mixed the teams up so no-one could decipher which was A and which was B.

It quickly degenerated into Spot the Dreamer time. Fringe panellists tracking back, making off-the-ball runs, showing for ball, demanding possession. Pointing to empty spaces. “There! There! There! Now! Now! Now!” Earnest faces on them, as if they could grimace their way onto the team.

It’d be serious if it weren’t so funny.

Anyone who knew anything about anything knew the vacant place was mine to lose. I had to remain patient: nothing worse than forcing the play.

First few balls in, a bit iffy. Passed to our midfielder when I could have taken my own score. He missed from 14 yards, just the licence I needed: death to charity donations.

Mock my confidence and call me arrogant, but, yes, I was happy with 2-3, all from play, and that on a beaten team. Ahem, I said 2-3.

I offered our “teak-tough” corner back every dummy in my vast collection – and he bought them as a job lot. “Brogan,” joked the only other real forward we have, after I’d slipped in the second goal, “just not as pretty. Fairness, well done.”

Team announcement afterwards, try to look indifferent. Know it wouldn’t be half his best to hold me in reserve to pursue his beloved “strength in depth” agenda.

“One change, lads,” he starts, “tough luck on Lamps , he has been an inspiration to us all . . .”

I feel like shouting “Chrissake, if we can’t beat this crowd without Lamps, we should give it up”, but, instead, lead a polite round of applause for our fallen comrade.

“ . . . hard choices . . . delighted about the quality on our bench . . . after much deliberation we’ve decided to go with a man who has . . .”

I recall bracing myself for a deadpan reaction, no matter which way it went. I also recall a jack-hammer working top-speed where my heart used to be.

“ . . . shown us all before that he has what it takes in the championship . . .”

“Yesssss,” I blurt out, “bring it on!”

Everyone looks at me. Not alone have I not managed deadpan, but the gales of laughter shooting up around the room alert me to the fact he hasn’t even announced my name yet.

He goes through the final formalities as some of the lads congratulate me. You can see their genuine delight at my being back in the team. I often under-estimate how much they have suffered too.

“If only you can overcome your broken heart for Lamps, you will do fine at the weekend . . .” was the first text I received. From the captain again, as it happened.

You see, in every team, there’s an inner circle: a group of players who know that when push comes to shove, when special deeds must be done, you don’t look to the Lamps and the Grinkers of this world to plug the hole. It’s the manager’s job to get that team out there on the field, nothing more complex than that.

But if the last few years have convinced me of anything it’s that managers are control freaks. If talent threatens them, they curl up like hedgehogs. You’ll see examples of it everywhere this weekend: good players, real players, being sacrificed because the manager wants someone who will go through a stone wall.

Last time I checked, nearly every stone wall has a gate, or a ladder, or, hey, even a trampoline. Good players go through stone walls: great ones go around, over, or under them.

Niall McNamee, now there’s a great player. Stone walls don’t even exist in his world.

I know him of old, of course. Thursday night, buoyed up by the sudden turn of events, I texted him. “Niallser, time to make the change. Leave Laois or Offaly or wherever it is again you are, and come join a right team. Me and you inside = maximum mayhem.”

He didn’t reply. He’s very serious about his football, Niall. Maximum respect. Head down myself now too, and get into the zone. Bring it on. Let’s sow some chaos.