GAA: HE'S COUNTY:JUST OUR luck: the only looker when we pull into the hotel is our new sports psychologist. "I'm Maria," she said, in the foyer a few hours later, "you're up next." I winked at the boys. "Oh, great," I replied, "I'll have a faux-hawk, not as out there as Stephen Lavin's, and a few highlights, more understated than Ben Brosnan's."

She smiled. But the smile didn’t reach her eyes. I’ve never had much truck with psychologists. But a looker’s a looker, especially on a team bonding weekend, so I had put my name down for a session.

“First off,” she started, “how do I address you? Nicknames have the detrimental psychological impact of reminding you of a traumatic incident.” She’d nearly lost me at “first off”, but I beckoned her to keep talking.

“For example,” she continued, “I worked with a team whose goalkeeper was known as Five Past. It referred to a day he let five goals in. Five past is a play on a question about the time of day, and the notion of a man letting five goals past him.”

Oh boy! A looker with brains. A man would willingly develop a psychosis to fall into this honey trap.

“So the nickname Five Past is no problem if the player himself has recovered from the trauma. But, if not, the repetition of that nickname can confirm a self-image as a person who makes catastrophic errors,” she explained.

“I bet Clinton Hennessy is glad Seven Past doesn’t roll off the tongue,” I joked.

She didn’t smile. Maybe she’s been doing a bit with Waterford.

“So what about Rod?” she said.

“Ah, what about it?” I replied, pulling myself together.

“Does Rod refer to trauma in your past? Does it condemn you to a category from which you would like to escape?” I put her out of her misery. “No,” I said, “I’m happy with Rod, I’ve even got it engraved on my boots.”

The session lasted about an hour. It was more interesting than I’d expected.

“So,” I heard myself saying, “Pavlovian conditioning explains why other teams rile me? They know that if they push my buttons, I will react, just like Pavlov’s dog always salivated.”

She nodded. “Yes, in effect the opposition are controlling you. My role is to help players regain control. It’s the way of self-awareness, not the way of the cross.”

In fairness to her, it made a lot of sense. I’ve always enjoyed pointing at the scoreboard when a corner back hits me off the ball. My “taxi for a write-off” is the stuff of legend in the intercounty game. But, as she explained, these predictable patterns of behaviour offer opportunity aplenty for teams to throw me off my stride.

I guess it was Pavlovian conditioning, too, that caused me to say ‘absolutely’ when three of the lads invited me to join them on a covert nocturnal mission to the local town two miles away. So when the team meeting – “it’s all about trust, lads” – finished at 10pm, we created a decoy and slipped down the long driveway to the Only Hackney in the Village waiting at the front gates.

It was a sleepy town, but, as I always say, it only takes one butt to light a forest fire. And, sure enough, I spotted one spotting me. Half an hour later came her inevitable drift away from her group.

“You played Sigerson with my boyfriend,” she said, naming him. It meant absolutely nothing to me: yet another Sigerson hewer of wood and carrier of water, no doubt.

“Oh yeah, wow, that’s a coincidence,” I replied, “how’s he getting on? Top man. Still playing good ball?” “Just with the club,” she said, “couldn’t commit to county since he started working nights in the bakery.”

Turned out he was in the bakery that night, and his girlfriend wasn’t averse to an away-from-home fixture.

Things followed the usual format. She favoured all-out attack and laughed when I told her she wouldn’t get a run with Donegal.

At 3.30am, deep in slumber, I felt a series of elbows in my ribs. I was on the verge of pointing to the scoreboard, Pavlov not having kicked in yet, obviously, when I heard her say “you better go, he finishes at four”.

I quickly calculated it was better not to take risks. Sigerson has always attracted its fair share of psychos. Ten minutes later, I’m walking back: the Only Hackney in the Village, and his 2002 Skoda, having long since retired for the night.

A mile from the hotel, a bread van passes by, lights flashing. It must have been some apparition for my old Sigerson buddy, whoever he is. “God only knows what he was up to, but sure give a dog a bad name,” he’d be telling his girlfriend 10 minutes later.

To cap it all when I got back to the hotel the residents’ bar was populated by more members of the county board than you’d ever see at a match against an IT in January. Who needs Hawkeye? Needless to say I got that bit of extra attention in the pre-breakfast session. The manager didn’t take me on head-on. Obviously I have enough credits at the moment. But I know he’s only watching his chance.

Headquarters this week: am positively salivating at the prospect. I wonder what Maria would conclude from “0-8, Five From Play” as a nickname?