Joe Brolly's column in the Sunday Independent has quickly become a 'must-read', whether one is inclined to agree with Brolly or not.
Yesterday his column focused on what the man in the terrace knows as 'playacting'.
It contained much moralistic disgust at the modern practise of 'diving', an unseemly import from soccer from which all true 'gaels' recoil.
As usual, he began with an anecdote.
The disease of playacting caught out his own son last week. Rory was playing for his school against a Crossmaglen school. A Crossmaglen midfielder went powering through the opposition defence. Rory eyed this steam train up and got ready to plant him a shoulder.
Just as he reached him, the big midfielder off-loaded the ball. A split-second later he was crunched.
As he lay on the turf, winded, the referee raced in and reached into his pocket. My son stretched out his arms imploringly and started the obligatory sorrowful pleading. "Come on ref, I was committed to the shoulder."
"Don't blame me son," said the official, raising the black card, "blame your da.'
Oh, the bitter irony.