Dad’s World with Jonathan deBurca Butler

LET me know if you want tickets for either the Italian game or the Scottish game on the 19th,’ read the text from my father.

He had been offered tickets by a well-to-do friend of his. They would be top-notch, corporate and in out of any potential rain.

The fact that you’d be sharing the stadium with the best opposing fans in the world — the Scots— and the added bonus of an evening kick-off, meant the prospects for a great day were high.

I called him back.

“Sounds great,” I said.

“Let’s go together.”

“Well I was just going to give them to you,” he said, “but yeah why not.”

I was delighted. It had been years since we went to a sporting event together. A school’s rugby match between Blackrock (where we both attended) and St Gerard’s was the last one.

It was an exceptional day for various reasons. The weather was great, ‘Rock lost but most importantly myself and the aul fella got to go out after and have a few pints and a chat... away from our respective caves.

Men don’t talk to each other in their caves, at least not in the way they do when they’re out of them.

The best, most in-depth, and interesting conversations I’ve had with my dad have always been outside the house and often they took place after sporting events.

Men bond over sport. It’s a cliche but like most cliches it’s either wholly or partially true.

Later that day, as I stood washing the spuds at the kitchen sink, I could hear a familiar tune coming from an unfamiliar source.

Fionn was singing to himself but this was no nursery rhyme. I stopped scraping the muck off the potatoes and as the water ran from the tap I stretched to decipher what I thought I had heard.

I walked into the sitting-room and found Fionn sitting on the floor playing with his Lego and singing.

His little brother was sitting quietly opposite him, fascinated by his big brother’s every move.

“Ireland, Irrrrreelaaaand, together standing tall,” sang Fionn, “shoulder to shoulder we’ll answer Ireland’s call.”

“Very good Fionn,” I said.

“Where did you learn that?”

He didn’t answer.

“You love rugby, don’t you Dad?” he asked, still looking at and fiddling with the piece of Lego in his hand.

“I do,” I replied.

He went quiet, looked at Luke and then handing him the piece of Lego, stood up to come closer to me.

“Maybe we can go together at the weekend,” he whispered, making sure his little brother, now engrossed in the Lego, couldn’t hear.

“We’ll go someday,” I whispered back.

He sat back down happy. At three-and-a-half he’s still too young to go to such a big event with so many people, but I was chuffed that he wanted to.

Fionn and myself have a complex relationship. Ridiculous, I hear you saying, but that’s my take on it. He is pig-headed and I am pig-headed. We argue.

And I do worry sometimes that that might not change. So finding a common space where we can talk, where we can communicate is important.

Sport works for a lot of dads and sons. It certainly worked for myself and my father. And Fionn’s rendition of Ireland’s Call tells me that it will be an area worth cultivating.

He’s showing interest in something I’m interested in. I should respect that and I plan to.

Later that evening Dad called me.

“Listen,” he said

“There was a bit of a mix up and he’s given the tickets away already.”

We didn’t start crying down the phone to each other or anything like that but I was a bit disappointed and I could hear that he was too; not because of the game but an opportunity to spend time together had been lost.

“Look,” he said.

“Let’s go and watch it in a pub and have a pint.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.