One minor problem, one major obstacle
Of course, it will be a wonderful accomplishment, our first since 1985, but it just doesn't seem to have the lustre of old: partly because the World Cup has placed all other international competitions in the shade and partly because Scotland wouldn't beat the Highfield Ladies (no offence girls).
But there is another, far more personal reason.
We were in the pub a couple of weeks ago watching Ireland whup the Sassenachs when I was asked what seemed a relatively harmless question.
"Hey," said one of the lads, "who's your little friend?"
I glanced around, puzzled. He wasn't referring to my (perfectly petite) oul' doll at the far end of the counter, and I could spot no other vertically-challenged companions. I was stumped. "Who do you mean?"
In reply, he glanced significantly at my midriff and, following his gaze, I beheld my 'little friend' in all his terrible glory. For the first time in 32 years on this earth, I had to acknowledge the presence of a gut, bulging complacently over my belt.
The situation wasn't helped by the quasi-gay tight white top I was wearing, foolishly purchased in the subconscious belief that I was still 25.
It was a total shock. I have never had weight problems, being one of those 'I can't seem to put it on' guys, who must seem annoyingly smug.
Looking back, I should have seen it coming. The oul' fellah used to row to a very high standard and photos of him in his 20s show the physique of a Greek God.
He always warned me that once you stop training you are embroiled in an eternal Battle of the Bulge but I had never taken much notice.
And now, 12 months after officially, finally, hanging up the boots, I was faced with being a lifelong landlord to the tubby tenant from hell.
Dolphin were playing Cork Con in a Minor Cup match three weeks later and I resolved to get into shape and declare myself available.
On the hallowed turf of Temple Hill, I would achieve my redemption, maybe run in a couple of tries, modestly shrug off the accolades and kick my little friend far into touch.
So, I went back training, on my own so as to avoid embarrassment. It was casual enough, half an hour of jogging, some sprints, 20 sit-ups and then a couple of pints to celebrate this rediscovered sense of well-being.
After about three of these sessions, the time had come to announce my intention of aiding the minors in their battle against the old enemy.
I began telling people about the big 'comeback' but it seems I had overestimated my worth.
A few years ago, secure in my senior status, I had referred to the minors somewhat dismissively in print, as the 'little people'. It was tongue-in-cheek, but now had come the hour of Lilliput's revenge.
"Thank you for offering to help us out," said the King of the Little People, "it is much appreciated, but you see we have quite a young team now and ... " he smiled at my gut, "... we prefer to play a fast brand of rugby."
Too fat for the minors? I had always thought minor rugby was a haven for heavy-set has-beens. I recalled the story of the Old Christians scrum-half trying to put the ball into a scrum during a minor league game.
"Come on now lads," he implored the opposing front rows, "if ye all breathe in together, I'll try and get the feckin' thing in."
Those days were past; the little people had become fit little feckers.
And now, humiliation complete, resignation has set in.
There is an uneasy truce with my little pal, re-housed and hidden in loose-fitting shirts and baggy trousers.
So, best of luck to the Irish lads tomorrow, and Dolphin the day after. Enjoy it while you can, puff out your chests you'll soon be sucking in your stomachs.
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