A COUPLE of days after the new year, I was standing on the sideline at Lansdowne, the rugby ground of Christian Brothers College in Cork. The pitch, atop the windswept hill overlooking the city, bears little resemblance to its namesake in Dublin, that beautifully manicured tract of green upon which international teams stake their skills and reputation.
Lansdowne in Cork is famous for its ability to attract arctic winds, abut fortunately early January brought cold, still weather and the blew spectators watching the schools' game seemed to be enjoying themselves. I was standing alone until a gentleman approached and we exchanged the usual pleasantries while watching the match. The gentleman asked if I had a son in the CBC team and I pointed out the prop with the kneeband and asked if he too had rugby playing sons. A gentle smile crossed my companion's face as he told me he was in fact a priest from the visiting school, St Michael's of Dublin. He'd made the trip down because an extra car was needed. Travelling incognito too, I noted dressed in a collar and tie.
He took no offence from my faux pais, and we chatted on. I, too, forgave him - for thinking I was Australian.
After a time, he moved away to talk with some of the St Michael's flock but returned during the second half of the match.
"You are a very patient person," he remarked, "standing, here all alone watching the game.
"I've spent a lot of my life watching rugby," I replied. And waiting. Standing outside club rooms while players shower - it has to be the longest wait of all. I've waited to greet my boyfriend (later my husband) and discovered that as a coach he takes just as long to make the trek from the changing room as he did when playing. I've waited to interview players, managers and coaches and now I'm waiting for my sons.
The waiting can be onerous but I have enjoyed the rugby and the opportunities I've had to be heavily involved in the game without having to get my hands dirty . . . well, there was one occasion when I was facedown, arm outstretched, on Eden Park, the tip of one finger holding the bail steady so that John Gallagher, the British born All Black now declared for Ireland, could practise his goal kicking. It may have been outside the call of duty but then John had surpassed himself earlier in the morning by agreeing to pose for a cover shot for Rugby News
The photo was to be taken in a fish wholesalers - the idea was to make a play on his nickname, "Kipper". The stench, for the uninitiated, was almost impossible to bear. While those who worked there every day carried on, our group, trying desperately not to gag, would rush outside frequently to gulp fresh air.
Eden Park is New Zealand's equivalent to Lansdowne Road. Situated in an older suburb of Auckland, the towering sports arena is surrounded by box shaped woodenhouses. I covered a lot of club rugby at the park during its reconstruction years. My sons loved to come along and spent many happy hours, times they talk about still, clambering around timber and piping, under and over scaffolding while I recorded events on the pitch.
They still play games at rugby grounds, but now they're members of a team. Neither is a rugby fanatic, a fact that surprises many people. But within our family rugby has been a job for one or other parent all their lives. Rugby has meant work rather than play.
The main benefit to me of working as a rugby journalist was the sense of purpose the job gave me every time I attended a match. It didn't have to be an international or a highly publicised provincial encounter. Some of my fondest rugby memories involve games taking place well away from big city areas.
I wrote my first rugby report as a 19 year old and worked every rugby season for the next 16 years. Upon arriving in Ireland in 1990, I had to gleam to do nothing but stand on the sideline and simply watch a match. The adjustment took much time and even now, six years dawn the track, I don't particularly enjoy watching the games of teams my husband coaches.
His involvement with a team has caused me just one bout of professional grief. The team he coached, Suburbs, was playing an Auckland first division semi final against the highly fancied Marist team. I was sitting alongside Don Cameron from the New Zealand Herald and as the game, wore on and Suburbs began a startling comeback from many points down, I edged closer and closer to my colleague. He reckons that by the end of the match I was almost in his lap and I was well aware I'd talked too much.
WHEN Suburbs played the final a couple of weeks later, I was determined to be on my best behaviour. Seated again beside Mr Cameron I spoke not a word and I never moved. By half time he'd had enough. I don't mind if you talk a bit," he said. "Just make sure you stay in your own seat."
But while games are hard work, the atmosphere created by a big rugby occasion in Ireland is marvellous, a spectacular combination of interesting sights and sounds, spectators bedecked in shades of green, the hawkers selling their wares, the DART rumbling through the back of the main stand. An Irish international played at Lansdowne Road cannot be bettered. The boot parties at Twickenham, the leggy cheerleaders at Eden Park and the fire crackers at Parc de Prince are passe when compared to the earthy friendliness and generosity of spirit that seems to pervade Dublin on match day.
I may be tempted to bite my nails to the quick, but I wouldn't miss it for the world.