The Rugby World Cup, a personal miscellany

The scoresheet in the hurling included an unlikely name: M. Moynihan 0-2, (0-1f). The World Cup comes around every four years.

That brace was a good deal rarer

1987: much of this tournament is a haze, which is hardly surprising given your columnist has only a tenuous recall of what he had for breakfast this morning.

But I do recall playing a hurling game down in Dungourney on the morning one of the Rugby World Cup games was played, one which certainly impinged on the post-game refreshments.

We went to a small bar — front-room-of-the-house small — where the barman seemed more involved with the action on-screen in the room beyond the bar than in serving customers.

After a haphazard half-hour, we removed to a bigger establishment, but the day stays in the memory not so much because of that but because the scoresheet in the hurling game included an unlikely name: M. Moynihan 0-2, (0-1f).

The World Cup comes around every four years. Regularly. Believe me, that brace was a good deal rarer.

1991: Can’t recall where I was when Gordon Hamilton got his famous try against Australia but I do recall trekking out to Templehill to see him play for Ballymena against Cork Con shortly afterwards: he was pretty quick that autumn day in Cork, too.

I recall being “in funds”, unusually for a student, and that a long and tiring day which began in the Con clubhouse ended in a nightclub in the middle of the city.

I had a red check shirt that time. I still miss it.

1995: this tournament passed me by because I was living in America, where it didn’t have much of an impact.

I was teaching in a college in San Francisco and a couple of Samoan lads in one of the classes tried to keep me in touch with developments.

To a point.

“You should check out this guy Lomu,” they’d say on a Monday morning. “He’s awesome.”

“I’ve no doubt he is, gents,” I’d say. “How are Ireland getting on?”

Slight pause and briefly exchanged glances.

“Any chance of an extension on that assignment you gave us last week, Mr M?”

1999: Back in Ireland. Watched Ireland’s exit at the hands of Argentina on television in Agriculture House, Kildare Street.

With minutes left, one colleague left Agriculture House, walking the length of the street for a 10-minute stint in the Dáil, came back, and saw the Warren Gatland 12-man lineout still trying to batter their way over the line.

As they’d been when he left.

2003: This particular tournament holds a special place in my heart, because my wedding took place the day before the final (clearly the word order in that sentence requires some work).

The real impact occurred a few weeks earlier.

A journalist friend who travelled to the tournament later recounted being in company with a few other hacks, when one of them idly wondered which club had provided more players to the World Cup than any other.

“I couldn’t answer that,” said our pal, “but I did mention that your stag night had probably provided more journalists than any other club to the tournament.”

2007: this was the World Cup I covered as a journalist, and it was good craic, even allowing for a train journey from Paris to Toulouse that was so long I could have read War And Peace on it (the journey from Toulouse back to Paris was longer: I could have written War and Peace on that).

After the first game, myself and Barry Coughlan of this parish finished our work and went out of the Stade de France looking for the “media bus” back to Paris.

Oh innocents! By midnight it was clear there was no such beast so we hightailed it for the last SNCF train to the city centre. By the time we landed back in the City of Light the Metro had stopped, and there wasn’t a cab visible, never mind one to hire, on the streets.

“Are we going to have to walk the whole way to the hotel?” I said, a clear whine in the voice.

“Hang on,” said BC. He strode into a rapidly-emptying bar and brought an empty cup to the counter, asking the staff to call a taxi for two loyal customers. Amazingly, they did.

I have never forgotten hopping into the taxi with delight, nor the sight which greeted us literally around the corner: a few teenage lads — enormous, hooded — were bending a parking meter to the ground out of sheer boredom. I found myself rubbing my neck and speculating what they’d have done to us if we’d walked another 50 metres.

Might as well tell you now, Barry. I’d have left you behind me as a human sacrifice and ran like Gordon Hamilton.

* Contact: [e-mail]. Twitter: MikeMoynihanEx