LOCKER ROOM:The Cork goalkeeper is a hate figure for some traditionalists, which is strange when you look at his unselfish service to the game and its grassroots, writes Tom Humphries.

FROM THE scenes created by the quietly relieved press of Cork people who moseyed onto the field at Páirc Uí Chaoimh on Saturday night when the final whistle shrilled one little tableau stood out. The kids hit Donal Óg Cusack's goal first when they made it on to the field. He was gathering up his supply of hurleys and when he stood to go to the dressingrooms Donal Óg's way was impeded by a sea of young, beseeching fans.

They clamoured for his hurleys, his signature and his jersey, and almost unconsciously he whipped off his famous hooped red-and-white geansaí and offered it to the first kid who had asked for it.

The young fella streaked off in a happy sprint of pure triumph and joy. He was followed by a brand-new retinue of admirers suddenly pleased to be associated with the fella who got Donal Óg's jersey. Meanwhile, Donal Óg stood and signed anything with a surface that would take a signature.

County boards are parsimonious in the matter of jerseys (the parsimony of Cork's county board has occasionally been highlighted by Donal Óg among others) but rather than chastise a player who hands a jersey over to a young kid it would be preferable almost if stars like Donal Óg were given a supply of them to give out. The 60 or 70 euro it might cost to replace Donal Óg's shirt from Saturday would buy just a tiny fragment of the joy and goodwill for the games the gesture provided.

What was interesting was that when you look at the ranks of modern players, Donal Óg Cusack is one of the most pilloried and derided despite the grudging nods to his excellence.

For instance, from our seat in the stands on Saturday one critic of Donal Óg's had been piercingly shrill in his denunciations of the Cork goalie as a "muppet" and a "clown".

Of all the names Donal Óg must have been called, muppet probably wouldn't make the top 100 most wounding, but it was the venom and persistence of the critiques which stood out. The name-calling came from just one corner of a broad coalition of people there to support Cork but also to get on Cusack's case.

The howls of derision abated just once when Ross O'Carroll rasped a snapshot across the Cork goal and Donal Óg, with just the right hand on the hurl, stretched full-length to stop as firmly and as confidently as a policemen raising his hand to halt the flow of traffic. As sweet a save as we are likely to see all season. Only a galoot of the most twisted kind would have denied the save the applause it merited.

Then it was back to the derision. Hard to believe this was for a goalkeeper on his way to yet another clean sheet. Again, there is little here that would surprise Donal Óg. Whether you agree with his profile in matters from the GPA to the strikes which have paralysed Cork GAA in recent years he is exceptional in his ability to go against the instincts of the modern GAA player and put his head above the parapet and take the brickbats and abuse for standing up for something he believes in.

That is no small thing and though it has made Donal Óg the most demonised player among followers in the modern game it should, in fact, make him the most respected.

We are in an era (partly created by Donal Óg himself) when players are more visible than ever and yet less well known. I pass Alan Brogan's face on billboards 100 times a day, but have no real impression of what sort of fella he is beyond the impression he gives with his play. (Speaking of county boards and jerseys, Alan's father, Bernard, finished his Dublin career by being taken to hospital having been creeled in a game against Kildare. He gave his jersey to a nurse who looked after him. He never heard from the county board about his status vis-à-vis Dublin teams, but the missing jersey was an issue for a long time.)

The same phenomenon of visible anonymity is true to a greater or lesser extent of many modern players who have discovered commercial endorsements are a satisfactory outlet for limited self-expression and a reasonable way of conveying a sense of yourself to the public. And the structure of the modern championship competitions helps of course - the back door means never having to say goodbye after one game. Players (there are many of course entitled to wear the traditional béal bocht) have moved into an era where the disconnect between themselves and the places they come from isn't yet dangerous, but has become a source of concern.

The money available for selling your face to sell products gets bigger all the time, but the bits and pieces like scholarships, sponsored cars, free gear, wads of cash to be a talking head at sponsors' press conferences, and the Government stipend mean we move ever closer to the era when players will make a living entirely from having a high GAA profile.

Let's hope when that happens even though we will stone Donal Óg for helping to bring it about the players in question remember the values Cusack brings to his life off the park.

Those who saw him in Parnell Park last summer when Cork beat Dublin a little more convincingly than on Saturday will recall he was one of a clutch of Cork players who stayed on the field for more than an hour signing his name for youngsters. His jersey had long since been given away that day too.

He is, like many of the Cork players demonised during the strike days, exemplary in his commitment to working with young teams. If all clubs saw as much of their county players as Cloyne sees of Donal Óg there would be less talk of this disconnect.

What is odd about this is that players and ex-players like Donal Óg and Dessie Farrell stand indicted as bogeymen in the business of bringing about this gulf between players and ordinary members and yet the GAA has done more than enough tampering with its complexion to have made those changes inevitable anyway.

The arrival of sponsors names on county jerseys, the proliferation of sponsorships and TV coverage and, finally, the invention of the back-door system have been as responsible as anything the GPA or striking Cork players have done to bring about this commercial buoyancy for amateur players.

In the days of the old-style championship one bad day meant a calamitous exit for an entire year. Modern teams can disappear out the back door for a refresher in the qualifiers and then - ta-dah! - step right back on to the big stage a few weeks later arguing the qualifiers suited just fine, allowing them get matches under their belts while their conquerors twiddled thumbs.

Until they are beaten, all teams deem the winning of provincial championships to be the shortest route to Croke Park and the one they are determined to take.

Donal Óg is a strange hate figure for traditionalists. There are those of us who might not agree with every stance he takes, but if the modern era had more players as generous with their time and their instincts and as assiduous with their preparations we would all be less scared about the future.

A kid got a free jersey on Saturday in Páirc Uí Chaoimh and a couple of hundred got autographs. A small, good thing. Our friend in the stands and a coalition of sympathisers went off muttering about Cusack as if he were to blame for Cork's lack of lustre.

We live in an era for Gaelic Games where players have a sense of entitlement more finely honed than in any previous generation. Entitlement comes after duty, however. You can't take out more than you have put in.

We watched Donal Óg on Saturday and listened to the abuse he took and wondered if any of his detractors put so much into the game they feel entitled to belittle a model athlete. Or was it that Cusack's impeccable bearing and unimpeachable commitment make him a frustrating hate figure, a Spartacus in stockades? The kid with the jersey must wonder what all the fuss is about.