Tommy Martin: Ireland beating All Blacks again was different but still special, like an accidental third child

Ireland's Caelan Doris celebrates at the final whistle with Tadhg Beirne. Picture: INPHO/Bryan Keane

You would hope that Ireland don’t make a habit of beating the All Blacks as often as they currently do. That’s three out of the last five times it’s happened now. Do we want New Zealand reduced to the status of a small, wet, sheep-ridden nation that we beat every second time we play them? Isn’t that Wales?

For now, the thrill of winning against the All Blacks remains intact, or at least it was last Saturday. It wasn’t quite the historic, whip-out-a-commemorative-DVD rapture of Chicago. That felt slightly unreal, mainly because it was in America, where rugby is mostly played by deeply ironic Harvard undergraduates called Henry. Then came 2018, the first win on home soil, cueing further fist-pumping ecstasy.

Saturday was different but still special, like an accidental third child. It was also good because I was there. I normally prefer watching rugby on television. At the stadium you have no one to explain the rules and point out the things you missed because of guys grinding past you with four pints in each hand. Without the distraction of a commentator, the setting up and collapsing and resetting of the scrums takes on a special, brain-crushing quality. People around you are always having conversations about things like which is the best sailing camp to send your kids to.

But it’s still the All Blacks and we haven’t beaten them that often, yet. To say you were there the THIRD time we beat the All Blacks still seemed a worthwhile life goal.

I went with the first-born and his mother, an unusual combination. Sport has typically been a fun father-son thing while she usually gets stuck with dragging him to mass or to buy new shoes. I’m aware that this is problematic gender stereotyping, but I’m really bad at buying kids’ shoes, unless it’s for their first day in clown college.

The problem is the child knows nothing about rugby. Soccer, rudimentary GAA, dinosaurs, Vikings, the classification of Fortnite skins and puerile songs about bodily functions — those would be his fortes. The oval ball has been squeezed a little in that grand quest for knowledge. On Saturday morning he grabs the sports section like a barrister trying to get on top of a complex brief and, with a self-satisfied air, declares Hugo Keenan his favourite player.

On our way to the match, we grow concerned. He is wearing a garish Tottenham away jersey and a pair of O’Neills trackie bottoms. It’s almost an act of provocation. The tickets came through work. They’re good tickets. He is, frankly, undeserving. What if someone stops to ask the young chap what he thinks of the game?

We go for the Father Jack approach.

“If anyone asks you anything to do with the match, or rugby in general, just say this: I think the battle at the breakdown is going to be key. Now say it.”

“I think the breakdown is going to be key.”

“I think the battle at the breakdown is going to be key!”

“I think the battle at the breakdown is going to be key.”

“Again!”

“I think the battle at the breakdown is going to be key!!”

“Good. Good.”

It hits me as the teams come out that this is my first time in a full stadium since, well, you know. Despite the recent news, with its heavy hints that we shouldn’t really be here, it doesn’t feel oppressive or overwhelming. Instead, after so long, the kinetic energy of mass humanity is exhilarating. It comes at you like an intoxicating whoosh, though that may just have been the Guinness.

There is the usual pregnant lull for the Haka. This was a good Haka, not a great Haka. It lacked the usual no-really-I’m-actually-gonna-cut-your-throat menace. There was a moment of electricity when the Irish team edged a step closer. Then it sort of…went on a bit. The crowd got bored and started singing the Fields of Athenry, as if the only rational response to blood-curdling aggression was a maudlin lament about the Victorian criminal justice system.

It was bad form and you expected righteous anger in return but the sense of the All Blacks being diminished persisted throughout the afternoon. It’s something they are worried about, if you read the Kiwi press. They think their innate All Black mystique is passing, getting moshed up by beefy opposition.

The game was great, as you know, and Ireland were brilliant, maybe the most dominant of the three wins over New Zealand. The one to be at, I lied to myself and the boy. He loved it, celebrating wildly when Ireland scored. He made a rude gesture at the ref when the try was disallowed. Now, now, you don’t do that at the rugby, I told him.

Someone came over to say hello at half-time and asked him something about the game. He hesitated, as if contemplating whether the battle at the breakdown really had been key. Then he forgot what to say and just smiled politely.

When it was all over everyone stuck around as if the Aviva Stadium was a lovely bath no one wanted to get out of. After the crash and wallop of the match, the players hugged and kissed their families and loved ones and then took a long, leisurely lap of honour. They waved at the crowd. The All Blacks did too. Nobody could stop smiling.

We’re all the wiser now. These were moments of connection, fleeting, precious. Keith Earls, who has recently told the world of his inner pain, gently steered his three beautiful daughters around the pitch. Johnny Sexton walked with his son Luca, his flinty purpose cooled by satisfaction. The next day it was announced he would miss six weeks with the blows he took in the game. Six weeks is a long time for a 36-year-old rugby player.

As they headed for the tunnel underneath us, the boy waved at Tadhg Furlong, who, he thinks, waved back. His mother began to blow kisses to the victorious team. The boy recoiled in embarrassment — oh my God, stop flirting with the players, I can’t believe you did that. His mother howled with laughter.

He won’t be a boy forever. You can sense the change in him coming, like a playground swing creaking with the first breath of a winter storm. He walked home holding our hands. It’s still sweet, beating the All Blacks, as sweet as could be.