IT is a terrible irony that Jimmy McGuinness’s system won Michael Murphy an All-Ireland medal yet ruined his best years. As a young footballer Michael was so good it was cartoonish. Here was a real life Hotshot Hamish, fetching impossible high balls and driving them to the net like Tony Yeboah, the ‘keeper standing there wondering what it was that just brushed past his ear. A Glenswilly game became a must see event. We went, we laughed, we cheered. We talked about him for days afterwards.

My grandmother Hannah was reared there and when her Uncle Edward “The King” Kelly was in his dotage, she went back to nurse him in his tiny cottage beside Glenswilly chapel. When he died, she inherited the land and in turn, she left it to my father, who passed it on to me. When young Michael exploded onto the scene, I had a notion to apply for planning permission and spend my Sundays watching him playing the ancient game.

The planner met me at the site where a tree was now growing out of the ruins of the cottage. “I’ll give you permission for a tree house,” he said. I stuck at it and eventually wore them down. Planning permission was granted. In 2011, Michael ran riot in the county senior final, scoring 1-8 including a thunderbolt goal, bringing the club its first ever senior championship. Glenswilly only scored one other point that day, a long ball kicked in to Michael by Joe Gibbons which bounced over the bar because the full back and ‘keeper were so spooked by Michael they forgot to watch the ball. At the Glenswilly prize giving, I raised a laugh when I awarded Joe Man of the Match.

Then, Jimmy came along, mobile phones were confiscated, and a strange new game was unveiled. Within a few years, the system spread through the game like myxomatosis. Now, it limps around in a diseased, unrecognisable and pitiful condition.

In 2013, Glenswilly beat St Eunan’s 0-3 to 0-2 in a full 60 minute game. The following year, after watching the 2014 Donegal semi final between Glenswilly and St Michael’s (Glenswilly won 1-4 to 1-2) I abandoned the house building dream. What pleasure is there in watching that every Sunday? Earlier that season, in the 2014 All-Ireland final against Kerry (probably the worst final ever played),

Michael did not even get a shot off and barely got a touch. By then, the others had caught up with the system and it was not enough for Donegal that James O’Donoghue (who went on to be named Player of the Year) likewise did not get a shot off that day.

By the time Michael was in his prime, he was labouring soulessly at the heart of the blanket defence, kicking frees and penalties, holding possession and knocking the ball sideways and backwards. I wrote in these pages that it was like hiring the prize bull from the Ministry then using him to the plough the field. Instead of our hearts being in our mouths every time a long ball was heading for Murphy on the edge of the square, we had to be content with a great long free, a beautifully fielded kick out, or a well struck penalty.

Having been made the youngest ever captain of Donegal aged 21, he captained them to an All-Ireland (his 2012 final performance against Mayo is one of the greatest I have seen) and five Ulster senior championships. He is a leader in the mould of Richie McCaw or Bill Russell. Modest, respectful, driven, private, his ego demands for him the success of his team.

Jimmy said to me once at an event in Dublin that Michael was the key to everything they achieved. He said Michael was “the one.” These two obsessive perfectionists were the only indispensables in that Donegal set up. It is a terrible pity that the game invented by his mentor turned Michael’s prime years into such a dull anti climax, for him and for us. He is one of the true greats. He just wasn’t able to show it.

Last year, Jimmy, who needs a leader for his new team, could not persuade him to come back. Now, the great man is coming back and I cannot stop smiling. He was on Jim Gavin’s Rules Review committee and he clearly likes what he sees. With the three men up rule, he can station himself back where he belongs, on the edge of the square. Instead of exhausting himself toiling in no man’s land, he can go back to terrifying the full back and thrilling us. Let the fun begin.