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.