"I just thought somebody had to stand up to him'' ... Paul Gallen punches Nate Myles. Credit:Getty Images Blues' coach Laurie Daley says what Gallen did to Myles will be considered "a great Origin moment". A punch to the face? "It's Origin," explained Daley. "It's different." Gallen said the punch was a "compliment to him". Which surely must have Myles hoping he is never honoured by his muscular counterpart's ultimate show of respect. A boot in the groin? A tyre lever on the kneecaps? This was inevitable self-justification from player and coach. Equally predictable, the endorsement of the victim. "How good is it?" said Myles. "Let's be honest, everyone wants to see it." After all, what "real Origin player" would squeal about something so routine as a couple of crude upper-cuts to the noggin?

Illustration: Cathy Wilcox Especially when Gallen's fistic fury came with the ultimate imprimatur. A rubber stamp from the officials, both on and off the field. There are pastimes where a competitor could punch another in the face and escape harsh judgment. Ice hockey, perhaps. The Boxing Day sales. But not in more civilised pursuits such as ... rugby league. Which is where State of Origin makes a - quite literally - violent diversion from the mother ship. Gallen is marched and harshly punished if he impersonates Mike Tyson wearing his Sharks' jersey. But there are, we are told, a different set of rules for Origin. Presumably written in blood. Rules that, for three nights per year, allow players to unleash their inner cavemen. To play Old Testament sport. An eye for an eye. Or, in this case, a couple of punches in the head for an illegal tackle and some headbutts.

That innate sense of masculinity, in its crudest form, is somehow beguiling. Old school. Nostalgic. And this is where it gets confusing. Where you find yourself succumbing to those amateur anthropologists. Where you start - against every civilised sinew in your body - falling for the Origin myth. "After all," the little Tommy Raudonikis on your shoulder tells you, "wasn't Gallen merely doing what we wanted? Didn't he do with his fists what we had been doing for days with our mouths? Doesn't the very real menace of Origin justify the hype surrounding Australia's most fearsome sporting contest? Wouldn't taking the biff out of Origin be like replacing the swords in Game of Thrones with pillows?" Yep, that's just Origin, mate. Where the Blues' victory was celebrated in the sheds with cold stubbies, not energy drinks. The tops twisted off in the teeth of assistant coach Trent Barrett. And you have to admit it. The concept - not merely the beer - is intoxicating. That innate sense of masculinity, in its crudest form, is somehow beguiling. Old school. Nostalgic. You can smell the cigarette smoke and sweat on the hill. You can hear the anguished cries that provided ribald additions to your playground vocabulary.