Twenty-four years ago, not yet into his teens, Pádraig Harrington entered his first big competition at Stackstown Golf Club. It was a national tournament for juvenile players, and young Harrington closed out the day with his name on the Tilestyle Trophy.
He has never forgotten it.
Yesterday, he returned home from the British Open Championship with another trophy: the Championship Cup. It's better known as the Claret Jug. There is no higher prize in the world of golf.
And Pádraig, a garda's son from Dublin, had it in his custody. "This is going everywhere with me for a long time," he declared.
Stepping from a private jet at Weston airport, he cradled the celebrated silverware in his arm as the media swarmed around on the tarmac and a giddy crowd of supporters waited inside to fete their conquering hero.
Pádraig is on top of the world. He entered the pantheon of the golfing greats when he won the British Open in Scotland on Sunday. He travels by private jet. He pocketed a cheque for over a million euro when he beat Spain's Sergio Garcia in a play-off. But it wasn't about the money. It was about the title.
Everyone wants a piece of Pádraig. He could be a right uppity so-and-so now if he wanted.
Instead, as he made his way towards the building, he saw three people standing to one side - Stackstown Golf Club captain Tom Collins, lady captain Betty Smith and member Bill Keaty. Pádraig made a beeline for them.
"Listen, I'll be over at around eight o'clock for the Tilestyle. I'll present the prizes. Is that all right?" Is it what? They said that would be grand. Pádraig said it wouldn't be a problem. He was going out to dinner, but he could nip in on the way and do the necessary.
How cool is that? Those juvenile players, the future of the game, will never forget the time the newly crowned British Open Champion paid a call. Last night they would dream they too might be champions.
Then it was inside to a deafening wall of cheers. Harrington held the Claret Jug close and went upstairs to the press conference.
It was wonderfully chaotic, the media hugely outnumbered by hyperventilating middle-aged men, who all but swooned at the sight of the golfer.
Pádraig sat at the top table, smiling broadly. His wife Caroline, who is expecting their second child in November, stayed downstairs with her mother-in-law Rita and son Paddy, who will be four next month.
To win the British Open is a terrific feat. Sixty years since an Irishman last lifted the cup. Time and time again yesterday, Pádraig Harrington relived those seconds when he drew back his putter, struck the ball and watched it fall, dead centre, into the hole.
For Harrington, the more he describes the shots, the more the reality sinks in, just like that ball on the 18th.
On the night he won, he slept with the Claret Jug at the end of his bed. "I woke up at six in the morning, looking at it, and I had to nudge my wife and say: 'Hey! I'm the Open Champion!"
His homecoming press conference was hijacked by the fans. Golf mad Stephen Fay (12) from Lucan watched, enraptured. He had a copybook open and his Ryder Cup felt pen at the ready for an autograph. As he listened, he began to write. "He's very happy," recorded Stephen.
Meanwhile, the men were into a frenzy of adulation. When Pádraig made a light-hearted remark, they laughed uproariously. Some were shaking with excitement. Worse than teenyboppers at a Westlife concert. "Was it always your plan to take a driver to the 18th tee," asked a man standing on a chair. "Your eagle was very good!" declared another. "Nicky Coughlan from Birr offers his congratulations," came a voice from the sidelines. "I had you at 25/1" burbled a lady in a cap. "We're thrilled for you!" "Hear hear!" roared the ageing lads, in a lather of sweat.
Then a chap in a Celtic jersey, quite beside himself, pointed to a man with a very distinctive moustache. "Pádraig, Tommy Byrne from the Wolfe Tones is here," he cried, "is there any song you'd like him to sing for you?" The bould Tommy looked a bit taken aback. "I don't know any golf songs," he protested.
Mercifully, a photographer brought proceedings to a close by asking the Open champion to pose again with the Claret Jug. The men, in flitters by now, held up their cameras and mobile phones and clicked.
The table was rushed for autographs. Young Stephen managed to wiggle in under the trembling blokes to get his signature.
"Three Cheers for Pádraig" yelled the Celtic Shirt.
Ticket stubs, Dublin flags, hats and jerseys, scraps of paper, pages ripped from Monday's Irish Times sports supplement and an 18th hole pin flag were proffered and signed. Then the children moved in beside patient Pádraig and had their photos taken.
Then the aul fellas moved in and were snapped for posterity, gurgling with joy beside their hero.
Pádraig moved off to do more interviews. So the men posed for pictures with his caddy, Ronan Flood. Then, and this is no word of a lie, they posed for photographs with Pádraig's golf clubs.
As we left, the champ was still chatting to kids. The dads were in love. "I shook his hand," a grey-haired man marvelled to his pal.
"You wouldn't believe it, would ya."
"Ah jaysus, it's great."
"How were you this morning?" "Oh, not good. Not good."
"Ah jaysus, it's great."