Into the street the Piper stepped,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe

his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue

his sharp eyes twinkled..

The Mayor was dumb,

and the Council stood

As if they were changed

into blocks of wood,

They could only follow with the eye

The joyous crowd

at the Piper’s back…

ON Saturday night, Dessie Farrell was dumb and his management team stood, as if they were changed into blocks of wood, as the Pied Piper of Fossa led the Dublin team on a merry dance around Croke Park.

For the first 15 minutes, it was being said that the soon to be greatest footballer ever to have played the game was “making no impact on the game” and that Davy Byrne was “keeping him very quiet.” Then, the Piper smiled a little smile, as if he knew what magic slept, took a ball 40 yards out not far from the sideline and did something that only the very greatest sportsmen do.

Think of Maradona slaloming through the Brexiteers in the 1982 World Cup to score the deciding goal. Or Larry Bird with three seconds on the clock, catching the put-in from his team mate as he jumped, then firing a three-pointer to win by one, only to find that a time out had been called just as he was shooting. “Don’t worry,” he said to his opponent, “I’ll do it again when we restart.”

Two minutes later, with the clock re-set to three seconds, he did precisely that.

With the greats, it is a mystery. No point practicing it or trying to do it yourself. It’s a million things that come together that they themselves think nothing of.

Ask Floyd Mayweather to explain how he humiliated every great fighter that stood in front of him and he will be forced to rhyme off clichés. Welcome to the David Clifford era, and just be glad you are here to witness it.

While the kid was making muck of the best defence in the game, Michael Murphy was driving his Donegal team on in Ballybofey, where the cold forced us to wear fur lined parkas and the crowd was in great humour.

“How much are they paying you Joe?” shouted someone. I turned, walked towards the crowd and said: “Who said that?” A boy beside him pointed and shouted “It was him Joe.” “You wouldn’t have lasted long in Castlereagh,” I said.

From the throw-in, Murphy drove his men on like Tom Brady with his Patriots. If he ever gets injured, Donegal are in serious trouble.

I was delighted to be on telly with Murphy’s old teammate Rory Kavanagh, who was looking remarkably slim. “I’m back to my normal weight” he said, “12 and a half stone.” When Jimmy McGuinness took over in 2011, he put Rory on a weight gain regime, feeding him like a fois-gras goose.

“I was drinking three protein shakes a day, and two tubs of ice cream. Jimmy would ring me every night after training to make sure I had finished my ice cream.” Rory went to 14 and a half stone in just five months and by mid 2012 he was a heavyweight midfielder on a heavyweight team that surged irresistibly to the All-Ireland. That team was full of character and conviction, which the current team is a long way off from. Take Murphy out and suddenly they look unconvincing and panicky.

In the first half, a hesitant and experimental Mayo team were saved from annihilation by Donegal’s lack of conviction, with Murphy the honourable exception.

Donegal’s man-to-man kick-out press was a huge success in that period. David Clarke lost eight of his 17 kick-outs, with Donegal scoring off three of those turnovers. In the same period, Shaun Patton successfully found a teammate from 100 percent of his kick-outs. Yet Donegal squandered this advantage by missing nine point-scoring chances, kicking five bad wides and four into the keeper’s hands.

Mayo, with their midfield anonymous and no cohesion up front, could not find a way through Donegal’s defence (Donegal played with a full time sweeper in front of the full-back) and only an outrageous fluked goal from James Carr (stemming from Jamie Brennan kicking a weak shot into Clarke’s hands) kept Mayo in the game.

In the second half, Mayo brought in Tommy Conroy (who was very lively), Aidan O’Shea, Kevin McLaughlin and James Durkan and suddenly the game was turned on its head.

Now, Patton was struggling with his kick-outs, David Clarke was flying with his, Mayo were swarming all over Donegal and Donegal were in trouble. Or rather, they would have been in trouble had it not been for Murphy, who was simply imperious, winning kick-outs, taking improbable high catches, stroking over a series of monstrous frees and generally bucking the trend.

Each time he intervened, it brought temporary calm and relief to his team-mates. A 50-metre free belted over with absolute conviction. A stunning high fetch from a 65-metre kick-out by Patton. Winning a free then slotting it over himself. Like all great leaders, Murphy understood that his interventions were going to be key. Like all the greats, he fully accepts responsibility.

He does not look elsewhere for blame. He does not hide, looking for ball in areas of no consequence and laying it off to someone in no better position.

He is not interested in the number of touches listed on his statistics sheet. Instead, he drives himself and his team on towards victory.

That second half on Saturday night was very similar to what happened between these two in their ‘Super Eight’ match in Castlebar last year, when Donegal’s young players buckled under the Mayo pressure and only Murphy stood between his team and disaster.

With a minute of the six minutes of injury time left, and Donegal three points ahead, James Durkan won possession about 35 yards out and took off towards goal in a manner that suggested he was not settling for a consolation point. A 20-yard screamer flew into the top corner, the Mayo supporters went wild, and we had an epic finale to an excellent contest.

The thing about this Mayo team is that they have always understood that the point of the game is to try to win. They express themselves. They do not play conservatively. They have a go. Unlike say Derry, who like 80 percent of county teams play going through the motions football, a type of limbo that has systematically destroyed the beautiful game. Not for them the mass zonal defence or the endless keep ball. Instead, they give us surprises and fun and excitement. Most of all, they guarantee a contest.

The problem in Gaelic football is the sweeper or sweepers occupying the attacking zone. The GAA instead came up with an answer to a problem that didn’t exist: The offensive mark. It is worth pointing out that in the 80 minutes of this game, there was only one offensive mark taken, by Michael Murphy, after 30 minutes. One.

Afterwards, James Horan complained about the referee, saying on telly, “We didn’t get much from David.” This is pathetic. This Mayo team do not need more excuses and in the context of their epic second-half come back (against a very heavy wind) it was a sour end.

Leaving the ground afterwards, I bumped into Mark McHugh, the first GAA sweeper.  “Ah”, I said, “the man who ruined Gaelic football.” I will not print his response. I went on to have a few jars with three of Murphy’s old teammates from the 2012 team and spent two hours wheezing with laughter, Neil Gallagher giving us a fascinating run-down of pedigree sheepdog prices. One thing they all agreed on. Without Murphy, there would have been no All-Ireland. “He is more popular in Donegal than Daniel O’Donnell” said Gallagher.

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