IT was hard to be anything but deflated after a weekend that promised so much ended the way it did with a defeat for Martin Murray and a right old mullering for the Saints.

In both cases representatives of our small town were pitched in against the world's best – tackling the best middleweight boxer and club rugby league team on the planet – so there was no disgrace in either defeat.

Both Gennady Golovkin and Souths operated like brutally ruthless, well-oiled machines.

Golovkin is something else – the last time I saw anything fight like that was when Jason’s pursuit of the Golden Fleece was blocked by the Hydra.

The unbeaten champ may not have had seven heads, but at times it looked like Golovkin possessed half a dozen lethal gloved fists which repeatedly struck the body, face and even hooked into the top of the challenger’s head.

Although he was downed three times before finally being stopped, Murray’s sheer unwillingness to give up in the face of that brutal onslaught was truly admirable.

And as much as some may read the scoreline of 39-0 and say Sunday was the opposite, there was no surrender from the men on the red vee on Sunday.

True, there was some crass, careless play – particularly after some of the heavy lifting had been done.

Messrs Amor, Walmsley, Greenwood and Masoe must have felt like Sisyphus – rolling the stone to the top of the hill – only for a loose carry or inattentive knock on from one of the outside backs to send it rolling back down to the foot again.

Even though defeat was bitterly disappointing, particularly the manner of the Saints loss, we should resist flipping from elation and anticipation to outright depression.

There was understandably a real sense of flatness about the town on Monday, combined a little with the sound of babies being chucked out with the bathwater.

The truth is South Sydney have done that to teams in the NRL – and the winning margin over James Graham’s Canterbury Bulldogs in the Grand Final was 24 points.

Those sorts of hidings are always on the cards when dominant teams get on a roll.

Making no excuses for the poor play that gave the Rabbitohs the opportunity to really grab the game by the scruff of the neck, there was also a big degree of bad luck contributing to the blow out.

Souths would not see it as luck; when they put boot to ball they don’t follow it up with a couple of Hail Marys and even their miraculous boomerang kick which to the rest of us looked like the jammiest try from a kick since Mick Adams was in his pomp had probably been drilled a hundred times on the training paddock.

It is true at times, particularly for Greg Inglis’ score, that my mind flashed back to Boothferry Park 1982 when the Kangaroos that became known as the Invincibles gave the British game a rude awakening in that first test.

But I temper that feeling with a real belief that had some of those penalties not been given – particularly the one from the dummied play the ball – and if Mark Percival had been given the nod we would have genuinely been looking at a different game.

I think we can be honest in apportioning blame and learning lessons from that, but let’s not throw a big heavy burden of shame around this young team’s shoulders just yet and list this up there with the Wembley 89s of this world.

After all, we won’t be playing Souths every week!