“Did you see that tackle?!”
It’s been a strange Six Nations for me in 2018. In many ways it’s been a personal milestone, something that has made sit back and stare at a wall blankly for 30 seconds (could be 30 minutes for all I know!).
It’s the first tournament I’ve ever watched without my Dad being about.
I’ve never been the best sportsman in the world, I’d give it a go, realise I wasn’t necessarily the best and then continue giving it a go because I just liked it. Football, Rugby, Cricket, Tennis, Athletics, Skiing — the list could go on, they were all sports I loved to watched, play, compete in and most importantly, get some impartial, critical feedback from my Dad. This was the man that would drive down from London to Canterbury each Wednesday to watch me play University Rugby. He was in a fortunate position to do this running his own company, but he still did it. Like he used to take us to Saturday Morning Football with the other School Dads before then taking us off to a match at Spurs or down to Sunbury to watch London Irish. That’s what my childhood was filled with. Weekends over to Dublin to see my cousins and Ireland play in a multitude of sports. It’s those memories that I cherish more than anything right now as I know that I won’t get a chance to make any more with my Dad any more.
Back in 2016 I was working at a Marketing Agency in London whilst the Euro’s were on. It was Monday 20th and I got a call from my Dad…
“I’ve got the tickets. Get yourself out of work”
“Wait.. wha-”
“Just shut up and get yourself out of work on Wednesday!”
And then he hung up.
Ok, so I did as I was instructed, blagged myself a quick bit of holiday and later that evening popped round to my Dad’s place. There I found him dancing and prancing around the kitchen waving two tickets to Ireland v Italy. THE GAME. We travelled out early on the Wednesday morning, driving down from London to the Euro-Tunnel and then on to Lille where destiny awaited.
We arrived into Lille with about six hours to go before kick off so headed to the main square where approximately 78% of Ireland had descended upon to soak up the atmosphere (and a lot of lager thrown about) before making our way to the Stade Pierre Mauroy to endure what was 84 minutes of tension, 1 minute of elation (that included my Dad throwing himself up so high he vaulted a railing) and and another 7 minutes of nerve wrecking hell. But then it was over and Ireland had done it, we were jumping up and down on the transit back to central Lille so much it felt like it was going to rip off it’s brackets. We ambled back through the town, got to the car and drove home to London. We’d been to Lille and back in a day and seen Ireland go through to the knock out stages of the Euro’s for the first time. That was special. We chatted the whole way back about the game, the plays, the ifs, the maybes, just anything we could think of. It was one of the best car journeys I’d ever had. We got bck into London early Wednesday Morning (my Dad’s birthday) and crashed out before getting up to head into work for the Thursday. A whirlwind adventure that had the perfect ending.
Now of course I started this by talking about the Six Nations. That’s because it’s on at the moment and it’s been making me think about all the things not just I, but my younger brother and sister got to do with my Dad. The places he would take us and the things we got to do together that installed this passionate love for sport and all that comes with it. The heartbreak, the elation, the devastation and the devotion. It’s a powerful medium organised competitive sport, whether you support or play, it’s got a huge amount of meaning.
All I’ve wanted to do after the last couple of rounds of the tournament (or even the last couple of Spurs matches, damn you Juventus…) is just call him up and say “What about that then!”. That’s all I’d need to say to then have his expert opinion pontificated through the phone, stick it on loud speaker and just listen, until there was something I disagreed with, which I would raise and then have a few minutes of being told why I was wrong. All the same. I miss it like mad.
My Dad managed 55 solid years in which he got to see some of the best matches or tournaments ever, he followed three lions tours, went to a world cup final, followed Ireland across the globe. He also got to see some pony University Rugby down in Canterbury, some average Cross Country competitions in Surrey and some under 7’s Netball in Wimbledon.
Do you know what?
I think out of it all he preferred the latter.
I’ve enjoyed writing this down. Might do it again some time.
Lorcan x
