St Vincent’s 4-12 Castlebar Mitchells 2-11

Sometimes club football just isn't a fair fight. All the slingshots in the world aren't much use to David when Goliath comes with his game face on. Type "Dr Crokes goals" into YouTube some spare half hour and you'll find a succession of defenders wishing they'd stayed playing Junior B ball as Colm Cooper toys with them. The distance between the best of the best and the great unwashed rest can be an ocean.

So it was on St Patrick's Day, as Diarmuid Connolly ran around Croke Park looking like he was playing three years overage. St Vincent's went in as favourites over Castlebar Mitchells but only marginally. The Mayo side had overcome Corofin, St Brigid's and Dr Crokes on their way to Paddy's Day, so they deserved respect.

Connolly gave them all the respect they could handle. Vincent’s scored 4-12 across the hour - Connolly scored 2-5 and gave the final pass for another 2-3. Just to bang home the point, that means that he had a direct influence on all but one of the scores Vincent’s got from play.

But in a way, it almost feels artificial to talk about his display that day in terms of sheer production. It was more than numbers in brackets. It was the power of his run and through the middle and pass to put Michael Concarr on for the first Vincent's goal. It was the tiptoe into space and flick across goal for Ciarán Dorney to rap home the second.

Most of all, it was the fourth goal. Every once in a while - maybe only three or four times a year - you see a piece of sport to which the only appropriate reaction is to laugh and shake your head. This was one of those.

Picking the ball up on the Castlebar 45, Connolly looped out around one tackler, scythed inside another, picked up speed as he reached the 20 with two solos on his right foot. He had his arm pulled at the edge of the big square, causing the ball to squirt out. But on its second bounce, he flicked it up with his right toe - facing the Cusack stand by now - and buried it on the swivel into the top corner with his left.

We give Gaelic football a terrible kicking sometimes. Sitting there on Paddy’s Day, it was impossible to find a bone to pick.