In a National Hurling League game a couple of weeks ago, referee Johnny Murphy penalised a team for a technical infraction that was a mystery to everyone except Murphy. The names of the offenders are immaterial because it could have been any of us. A player took a short free to another player who was standing 10 metres away. The referee’s whistle went off like a kitchen alarm. Smoke everywhere.

“I gave a free-in against him,” says Murphy. “The players couldn’t believe what I was doing. The management couldn’t believe what the hell I was doing. You have to be 20 metres from a free – he was 10. So, I gave a free to the other team and advanced it 13 metres. That’s the rule. They never saw it before in their life. All I said to them was, ‘Lads, learn from it.’”

Hurling’s rules lead a twilight existence. Partly ignored, not always respected, not entirely known. Everybody understands the need for order, but nobody wants it to be an intrusion. The general attitude is that the rules should only be applied in extremis. Everything in moderation. It’s like being in a pub when the lights flash for last orders and thinking they’re not serious about closing. In hurling, nobody expects a garda to walk in taking names.

At Congress last weekend, GAA president Jarlath Burns said hurling didn’t need the kind of invasive surgery that has turned Gaelic football from a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Nobody would argue with that.

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