We might cram our international rugby team with some South Sea Islander here or some great burly voer-trekking Boer there or even some long lad from Down Under whose Irishness largely depends on precisely who impregnated his mum Shirl behind the beer-tent that night of the annual Choobawunga sheep-shearing contest (for she's not too sure); but we couldn't maintain there was anything remotely Irish about what these imports achieved in our name.
And much the same can be said about Scotland, New Zealand, Japan and others. International rugby now resembles, in pale outline if not in detail, the spirit of club soccer: Manchester United's achievements are as much a reflection of the indigenous skills of the people of Manchester as they are of the natives of Bohola.
Uniquely Irish
Admittedly, we haven't reached the point where all our Irish players are descended from Polynesian warriors who once traversed the Pacific like canoeists shooting rapids; there is, not least, something still uniquely Irish about Keith Wood. In appearance he resembles a cannibal infant which every now and then tucks into a nice juicy nanny, and which has over time caused mass resignations from the National Union of Governesses and Childminders. He is probably the most popular member of the Irish squad; perhaps the most popular person in Ireland. Why? Is it because he scores tries? Hardly.
We've seen try-scorers before, though admittedly not many in recent decades. No, the real reason why people like him so much is because he reminds us of the traditional qualities of Irish rugby: bravery, decency, honesty, gentlemanliness and that joie d'esprit which once characterised the game when coaches were solely the means by which you arrived at the other fellows' grounds.
So it was wonderful to see and hear the enthusiastic reception for Keith last Saturday. It was more than recognition for a record-breaking performance - will any front-row forward ever score four times in a match this side of an amalgamation between rugby and basketball? It was also a celebration of the rapidly vanishing Corinthian values of rugby. His face said it all: a simple smile covering that terrain of muscle which extends from its northern slopes of follicled stubble to its southern foothills of sandpaper jawbone, interrupted by the odd brief aperture or two to house the occasional eye or nostril, but without any effeminate concession to aesthetics, fine line or delicate bone structure. In other words, a landscape of rugby joy.
Warrior emotion
Now look at the faces of so many players playing with the southern hemisphere sides. Do such smiles of simple, unfeigned happiness fill their faces when they score, or are their expressions simply those of that meaner warrior emotion known as triumph? Is that what will happen in some Woodless land ahead, when Irish rugby is represented entirely by emigrants from the far side of the world who think that Gay Byrne is a homosexual barbecue? And when that day comes, might not the true and traditional spirit of Irish rugby have to be found amongst the spectators?
If that is the case, the battle is being lost already, yet without any intervention from the Lords of Irfu. They own Lansdowne Road. They had the moral and the legal right to insist on absolute silence last Saturday when the Americans were preparing for a conversion.
The din of cat-calls, booing and derision as Mark Williams lined up to take his kick would have been disgraceful if we had been playing in a vital match against the South Africans; that it should have been inflicted on the last Corinthian-inspired rugby team in the world - to be sure, with some South Sea muscle thrown in to keep their opponents' scores from exceeding blood temperature - was perfectly disgusting.
There might or might not be any love lost between this column and the Lords of Irfu; perhaps they very wisely do not permit the ocular contamination which would result from their eyes straying over this space. But could somebody who does read this column not point out to them that a truly precious quality of our game of rugby is being jeopardised by the unpunished behaviour of a single section of the Irish crowd? That sector is there at discount: it is the schoolboy enclosure, whose inhabitants are present on sufferance.
Boys' enclosure
Is there any reason why these brats should be so indulged? Is there any reason why the Lords of Irfu should continue to sell cut-price tickets to people who do not respect the traditions of what we all agree is one of the holy grounds of world rugby? Is there any reason why the Lords of Irfu do not threaten to empty the boys' enclosure completely in the event of any more barracking? I can't believe they don't care. Our rugby teams are no longer all ours, and I understand why; but I do not understand why we fail to insist on traditional rugby spectator standards among the young. Otherwise, why bother?