God save the Rose of Tralee’s son
By Gerry Buckley
“I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about Ireland being contenders for the Rugby Union World Cup next year. We’ll be out again at the quarter-final stage, and have no business playing the All Blacks in a must-win game.”
Now what sort of a loud-mouthed mug would have come out with that rant around 10am on Saturday July 2? Look at the mugshot of the mug at the top of this column and you have your answer! Indeed, the closing stages of Westmeath’s wonderful Tailteann Cup adventure were all that prevented a 1,000-word rant in my musings the following Tuesday!
Humble Pie can be a delicious dish when the reason for tucking in is a team which one follows fervently (albeit behind Westmeath in football and hurling, and the Republic in soccer, in this scribe’s lifelong pecking order) proving one wrong. A fabulous win in Dunedin, and an even-more-fabulous victory seven days later in Wellington, have guaranteed the players (including our very own Robbie Henshaw) and management responsible for an unbelievable series victory in New Zealand immortality in Irish sporting folklore.
Indeed, Andy Farrell is well on his way to being the most popular Englishman in Ireland since Jack Charlton.
Some begrudgers may attach an asterisk to the second Test win because of the All Blacks being down to 14 men, but last Saturday morning’s display was nothing short of magnificent. Signs on that one such knocker whom I spoke to ten days ago immediately hung up the phone when I rang him exactly a week later, after the Irish Dukes of Wellington had triumphed, with this simple query: “Remind me please, how many players had New Zealand today?”
Having a much-loved uncle from Multyfarnham based in New Zealand from his ordination as a priest in 1948 until his death in 1991 always ensured that yours truly had a bond with the far-flung rugby-mad country. My first live international to witness was in January 1973 when Tom Grace’s dramatic last-gasp try tied the game at 10-all in the old Lansdowne Road, and Barry McGann (who has a daughter living in Mullingar) was centimetres wide (to borrow the oft-used expression of the lovable and legendary soccer commentator, the late Philip Greene) with his conversion attempt. That draw looked like it would be the closest we would ever get to actually defeating the famous All Blacks. Lo and behold, it’s now five wins from the last eight meetings. Mind-boggling stuff, in all honesty.
A six-week holiday with said uncle and namesake in the south island of New Zealand in 1979 (I had a few spare pounds before taking up sports writing two decades later!) was utterly memorable, including attending a New Zealand v France game in my Christchurch domicile. What a pity that excess consumption of Lion beer meant that the roll was not inserted properly in my camera and precious photographs were ‘taken’ but not developed. Genuinely.
One of the many hilarious stories recounted to me by my very witty uncle concerned a visit he had received three years earlier from a ‘couple’ in their 70s who had been going out for five decades and, for some unknown reason, had suddenly decided to ‘tie the knot’. All was fine and dandy until on checking the date they asked Fr Gerry to celebrate their wedding immediately rang a bell. It had been in his diary for months: June 5, 1976, All Blacks v Ireland in Wellington – the only Test in his native country’s inaugural trip to his country of domicile for 28 years at that juncture.
In his own very imitable style, he had me in stitches recounting his ‘genuine’ efforts to get a very close couple to (at least) postpone their nuptials. But they were having none of it. Accordingly, he missed the home team’s 11-3 win (a home win would never have been in doubt, but it was the occasion he craved). He openly confessed that it was the only time he had ever recommended anybody to ‘live in sin’!
Another memory of my trip to New Zealand in 1979 was the pride which my uncle and I shared when watching televised coverage of our country’s two Test wins in (relatively) nearby Australia in the company of some of his many New Zealand friends.
It is still remembered as the tour which (surprisingly) edged Ollie Campbell ahead of Tony Ward in the race for the precious Irish number 10 shirt.
But deep down, the Kiwis present both days still had a condescending attitude to Ireland as a rugby nation. No amount of (valid) excuses, such as the oval ball sport’s relatively low ranking in Ireland depriving it (as it still does) of our top Gaelic footballers, would wash with the pleasant – if arrogant – people in our company.
I assume that the newly-weds from 1976 have moved on to the great rugby arena in the sky. Perhaps they decided to renew their marriage vows? I hope they didn’t ask my uncle along last Saturday morning to help with the ceremony. With his Roman collar now off, I imagine, the response would have been pretty blunt!
Oh yes, the headline above. Back in 1987 at the inaugural World Cup in amateur days (for players definitely, and bands by the sound of things), ‘The Rose of Tralee’ was inadvertently played as Ireland’s anthem, prompting the incomparable Con Houlihan RIP to suggest a new compromise anthem to appease our northern friends. The title? ‘God Save the Rose of Tralee’!
One of the most famous of the latter ladies was Garda Brenda Hyland (or was it still Ban Garda then?) back in 1983, prompting another national treasure, Christy Moore, to compose a song in her honour. Well Tadhg Beirne is Brenda’s son. He certainly deserves to be saved by God after a particularly heroic display last Saturday!