Six Nations: England 12 Ireland 13 England 30 Ireland 9

It's a story my Father loves to tell. It was a bright, crisp February morning. A Saturday. I was twelve years old. There was no school, nor sport to play, so my mother, deciding that I was at a loose end, suggested to Dad that I accompany him to work. After all, it was only a half-day. Dad warned me, "you'll be bored, there's not a lot for you to do." I assured him that as a child who enjoyed reading, my imagination was all I needed to stave off any such mental lethargy. To make a long story short, lets jump forward two hours, where I am to be found witlessly bored. So much so, it became arduous. I began to poke and prod my father's patience. Everything I did became accentuated, as if I were a Royal Shakespearian actor and this was Stratford-Upon-Avon. I would sigh deeply, feel faint and throw the back of my hand to my forehead. Theatrically, I would check the time on my watch by flailing the appropriate limb skyward, as if I were the teacher's pet answering a tricky question, then yank it back as though my arm were a whip. All the world is a stage, after all.

Incidentally, though I have no recollection, I'm sure it came as a surprise to me when I first learned that patience are not tangible entities. Dad would say to me, "Emmett, my patience are running out!" Well, get new ones. Or buy rechargeables? Or worse still, I would hear, "Emmett, my patients are running out!" So that's what the butterfly nets are for. It's accurate to say, on that day I didn't just try my father's patience, I defeated them. Please, I cannot accept your  congratulations, for I have done nothing more than lob a couple of pebbles up into the air. Think of a parent's patience as a frozen lake. For most, the ice is think enough to walk across, but my father's were (notoriously) wafer thin.

So, it came knocking-off time and Dad, against my protestations, wanted a pint. It was about two o'clock when into the Red Cow we walked. Dad walked, I trudged. As I grumpily sipped my 7-Up, whilst looking at my watch and thinking what a clever guy Einstein was, Dad announced that "we're staying for the rugby." H'uh? Buh? Like a lot of people, I watched Gordon Hamilton score against Australia in World Cup quarter final of '91, only for Campese & Co. to snatch victory in the end. As we took our seats, most were resigned to an Irish defeat, daring not to hope for more than a spirited moral victory. Why watch something that Ireland are going to get battered at, I griped? Literally. But, like a good boy, I sat and watched and slowly my intransigence thawed, and when Simon Geoghegan roasted Rory Underwood to score for Ireland, I leapt from my seat and cheered. Ireland won the match by a point. I marvelled at the players' commitment and bravery, their dignity and humility. This was my formative oval ball experience and from it are engrained most of the characteristics I still associate with the current Ireland team. One characteristic that has changed in my perception, is Ireland as perennial underdog. 

Though that victory of '94 was Ireland's first in England since 1982, and though Ireland had won the previous year in Dublin, after 1994, Ireland didn't beat the old enemy again until 2001. Since then, Ireland have beaten England seven times. What I am saying is, that for me, and perhaps most people my age, half of my rugby memory is filled with positive remembrances of playing England. Be it at Twickenham or Lansdowne Road. But in the wider rugby context, the St. Patrick's Day's result is not exactly out of the ordinary. So what weight does one give to history? What does it take to change history? That is, the history we have yet to make?

My passion for rugby was ignited sitting in a pub watching Ireland pummel England and win aginst the odds. My most recent experience found me sitting in a pub, this time with Ireland on the receiving end of a severe beating. Thankfully, unlike the first time I was drunk by the end of this one.

Six Nations 2012: Round 4

For those of you who are regular readers, you will know that I have something of a healthy neurosis regarding the number of Twitter followers I have. Or more pertinently, with the number of followers I do not have yet. You don't need me to recount the story here, for it is here, but suffice it to say, with LCB having 89 lackies of her own, I had begun to covet Tweeps. When the moment arrived, I did not doff my hat or hold aloft my bat to the adoring throng. My half-century was a mute celebration. At my peak, I had 56 followers, and on the afternoon in question, I stood on the psychological precipice of 50. Part of me perceived LCB's revelation, that there were a number of unscrupulous Twitter accounts now following me, as merely a ploy to exert her superiority over me, to flex her muscles, as it were. But I knew this to be cynical speculation, for why else did I not rejoice that fifty-six, mostly strangers, chose to let a little piece of everyone's favourite misanthropist into their lives?


Among my many fine followers were an unsavoury few, who were, what the catholic in me calls, of questionable moral character. In the vernacular of 140 characters, one calls them Twats. Perhaps, this is not the time for joking, so let me say quite plainly, I did not want porno-spamming Tweeps, even if I am alone and horny tonight in Dublin. So, understandably, I didn't feel like shouting about it. And that's kind of how I feel about Ireland's drawn game against France last Sunday.


If before the match, I met the man himself at the cross-roads, and he said to me, "I'll give you seventeen-all, right here and now, for your soul," I would have replied as though I was the one getting the bargain. But watching the game develop, I cannot but think, what an opportunity missed!


At half-time, I foolishly dared to dream of an Irish victory, but such hubris was to be my downfall. Such a novice I am! I didn't know how to behave. Leading the French at half-time merely served to emphasise my vulnerability. In Ireland, it is often said that, "so an'so iza mizrabble dis,' or "such an'such iza mizrabble dat" and perhaps we are less than generous toward the achievements of our countrymen and women, but Irish begrudgery is a symptom of a more serious problem. Hope. 


It is an accelerant for the snide and the yer ownley a showera bastard mongers who have blighted our national caricature (along with alcoholism, institutionalised paedophilia, and the financial collapse). But can I blame those who have abandoned the kind of optimism that causes high blood pressure? The poor fools. They are the victims! They always come back for more, while those, who have seen it before, roll their eyes at the proclamation "no, no, this time it's different, it'll be better this time." Qui audet adipiscitur. Ireland dared to win, and we dared to hope. But Ireland drew. This weekend against Scotland, for many, hope turns to expectation. 


In the build-up to the game, on paper assertions may reinforce those expectations. But we should temper them. This will be the team's third game in as many weeks, and their leader, and hero of Stade de France, Paul O'Connell is out. Conor Murray and Sean O'Brien are missing, they too, wounded in action. In Ireland's favour is the late afternoon kick-off, which means that Lansdowne Road will be packed with hordes of inebriated followers (in a truer sense), who will cheer and sing, and even be silent when required. Scotland are improving and play to a simple plan. If a few more passes stuck against England, France or Wales, they may not be coming off the back of three successive defeats. 


Despite the Irish team's depletion, if the physicality of the French performance can be replicated against Scotland, I see only one winner. Due to consecutive exertions, a full eighty-minute display seems unlikely (though more so next week), so expect Ireland to have to defend for extended periods in this game. One hopes that the home side can deliver a fatal blow to Scotland within the opening hour. 


In the words of Leonard Cohen, our "faith was strong," but we "needed proof." Sunday last, in Paris, was fish and loaves. We believe again. We have been renewed. On Saturday, I hope no miracles will be required.