I love football. From the first memories I have playing football as a 3 year old with my Dad and bigger brother Noel in our childhood garden that felt as big as Wembley; football became a key part of my life. With World Cups, European Championships every two years, I remember our friends, all 12 or so of us from the same street spending every waking hour re-enacting the skills of Zico, Socrates, Platini, Liam Brady and our collective God, Diego Maradona.

At home this play was then enriched with stories by Dad of George Best, Pelé, Garrincha, Eusebio, Lev Yashin, Johnny Giles, Bobby Charlton and Puskás. These legends of the world game gave us a feeling that the football we played on our street and in the field was the game of the people. It was our game and their game; together we were the same. We loved playing football for the simple joy and love of kicking a ball. It was a communal shared experience; this is the essence of football.

Closer to home, my Dad imbued stories of his playing career with skill normally akin to fisherman’s tales. One such tale focused on his League of Ireland (this was top flight football in 1950's Ireland) match for either Earle Celtic or another of his teams V St. Patrick’s Athletic, where as a natural right footer he played left back regularly, on this occasion his tackling annoyed the right winger so much he pushed my Dad into the wall at the side of the pitch and knocked him out cold. Although during my junior years I never endured anything as harsh; broken bones in matches or on the street were all part of it.

I remember being taken to hospital with a broken nose, this time from a bike crash (cycling is my other passion) only to stop-off to see Shelbourne FC take-on Galway United in Harold’s Cross. My nose might have been bleeding but I was happy to be with my Dad and brother at the top on the terrace. Fortune in the form of a giant piece of chocolate from a generous fellow football supporter made the pain dissipate. This was bolstered by the promise of a bag of chips after what had become necessary trip to the hospital. I think the hospital trip only had to be made after the match just to keep my Mam happy in the knowledge that we actually made the trip for medical assistance.

As kids, all we ever needed was a ball, jumpers for goal posts and a few of our friends. Then the magic would last for hours shortened only by the call from someone’s Mam for dinner. This would reduce the numbers in the match one by one until, it might just leave 3 of us; enough for penalties or 3 n’ In.

As the World Cup 2014 in Brazil is about to engulf the world I remember being lifted over the turnstiles at Lansdowne Road by my Dad to see Ireland V Uruguay, this was my first taste of live international football. Uruguay! Who? a normal 9 year old might say, but not me and my big brother Noel, we mentally ate the full details of the world cup from its beginning in 1930 to that day in 1986. We knew who hosted and who won each World Cup. We knew who 2 times World Cup Winners Uruguay was, for sure. Being held up on the barrier on the South Terrace by Dad on that cool night in Lansdowne Road with my brother meant the world to me. Ireland did not qualify for Mexico ‘86 but seeing an international team that did that night, left us thirsty for more.

The thirst still exists with me now. So, on the day of World Cup 2014 kicks off in Sao Paulo, Brazil, I hope that I can pass onto my two kids, Oscar & Holly the thirst for the people’s game, football, that my Dad passed on to my brother Noel and I over 30 years ago; a gift for life. Thanks Da.