In the 62nd minute of the All-Ireland semi-final the Kerry players had their first real grasp on the winning of the game – and the reversal of the mythology which has fast built up around Dublin. The quality of the play from both sides was liquid gold at this stage but there was something about the manner of Kerry’s next score that stood out.

They were already three hand-passes into their move when Stephen O'Brien exchanged hand-passes with Bryan Sheehan, who in turn managed to move the ball onto Paul Geaney before the Dubs could do what they do so brilliantly: converge, stall the attacker, strip the ball and haul ass to the other end of the field. Geaney sucked in three Dublin defenders and played a ball to Colm Cooper.

So far, the Kerry men had used six-hand passes in a sequence that illuminated the pointlessness of decrying the absence of the kick-pass: when you are playing against a rush-defence like Dublin’s, there is simply no time to kick. Move it or lose it.

Except then Cooper, eluding his marker, looked infield and made perfect, judicious use of the foot-pass to find Paul Murphy standing all alone and unmarked. If you freeze the picture just as Cooper is about to make his pass, you can count seven Dublin players in his vicinity and one just out of the picture. They are all looking at the ball.

All heads turn to see where his pass is going and by the time it reaches Murphy, there is nothing they can do about it. As Darragh Maloney remarks in the RTÉ commentary box: "And now there is no pressure on Paul Murphy." The score made it 2-13 to 0-16; a three point lead with eight minutes left. The Dubs managed to parlay that unpromising position into a three-point win but that was an instant in which Kerry cracked the code.

Pressuring the ball-carrier

It was one of the few visible instances in this championship in which Dublin betrayed their vulnerabilities still lurking beneath the surface. Someday, hopefully, we will get to hear the detail of how much time and effort

Jim Gavin

and his squad have put into transforming themselves into such an impressive defensive unit. But their defensive system, like all systems, can be stretched and the Murphy point illustrated that.

One of the central tenets of Dublin's approach involves pressuring the ball-carrier. In a way, their approach is a calculated gamble because it leaves space elsewhere. For Murphy's point, Kerry just kept moving the ball until they discovered where the space was. They played on instinct and were rewarded for it. Can Mayo move the ball with the same composure under that kind of heat? If so, their task on Sunday becomes achievable.

When Donegal played Dublin in the quarter-final, the Dubs led by 0-11 to 0-5 and were in cruise-control when the evening was coloured by that rare thing: a stray pass from the immaculate Cian O'Sullivan. No harm should have come: his kick landed inside Donegal's 45. Just over 13 seconds later, after seven slick Donegal hand-passes, Stephen Cluxton was picking the ball out of his net.

Donegal are an exceptionally instinctive counter-attacking team. But nonetheless, the response of Dublin’s collective defensive system in that moment was interesting: it was non-existent. Nobody knew who to pick up or whether to mark space, and once it was turned to face its own goal, Dublin’s collective – the aura of the machine – disappeared and they became individual again.

If Mayo are win their first All-Ireland since 1951, that is something they are going to have to work on for 70 long minutes and then some: stripping Dublin down into 15 individuals, into athletes who are, by virtue of being human, less than perfect. Dublin’s range of splendours have been analysed and celebrated to death. But what are the chinks?

Yes, Diarmuid Connolly is an incredible score-getter of either foot. But are all of the Dublin attackers? And if not, how often can Mayo force the others to shoot off their weaker side? In the Kerry game, everyone praised the classy points from McManamon and Connolly late on. But it's Dublin's quiet points which are the killers. After Murphy's point for Kerry, Dublin responded with a move that finished with Philly McMahon breaking forward and tapping over from close in.

It was a huge, huge score. Maybe Mayo decide that while they can live with Connolly contributing six works of art from open play, they cannot allow Philly to get on the scoreboard. And maybe they decide to be brave and gamble and break with absolute abandon from deep – to overwhelm Dublin as the Dubs overwhelm others – for specific periods. There will be plenty of players from both teams with memories of the meeting in 2012 when Mayo obliterated Dublin, the then All-Ireland champions, for 50 minutes: up 0-17 to 0-7 and in for a goal chance which would have killed the game dead.

Less expressive

Yes, that was before Jim Gavin’s era and Dublin are a better overall team now. Still, players are players. Mayo know deep down what they did that day. Mayo are different now too: colder, less expressive, less excitable and maybe finally sick to death of hearing how brave they are.

Only once, since that day, have Dublin been forced to doubt themselves. Only once have they been disassembled and stripped down into something less than the omnipotent force, the summer beast (the cliché: “Dublin are a different animal”). Jim Gavin’s most brilliant achievement is to present a squad that seems impervious to doubt.

You watch Dublin in their pomp, all heads-up assurance and full of give-and-go chutzpah and it is easy to believe it all. When Dublin attack, they look majestic because they move the ball with the heightened confidence and boldness which comes with winning four national leagues and three All-Irelands. The Hill believes it. The press box believes it: the only time these Dublin players will doubt that they are going to win is when the final whistle goes and they find themselves behind on the scoreboard.

But it doesn’t matter to the Mayo players what the world believes. It only matters what they themselves believe. Cold, clear aggression and relentless organisation and psychological belligerence and Calvinist toughness are not the Mayo traits of old but maybe this vintage of Mayo, less heralded and less liked, have that stuff. In order to win the big battle, they have to be prepared to win their share of a thousand little scraps and to sabotage – somehow, anyhow – that fabulous machine which Jim Gavin has assembled.

If Mayo come ready and prepared to do that, then hold on to your hat because it’s back to the future. They better hope 1952 is all it’s cracked up to be.