When my brother Frankie realised all my dreams in 1966, it was probably the moment I became a football coach, writes BRIAN KERR

I WENT on an interesting journey in the summer of 1966. There I was, a 13-year-old boy, just a few rows down from the Royal box as Franz Beckenbauer’s efficient West Germans drew blades (back then they were screw-ins) against Bobby Moore’s heroes.

Pinching myself.

I remember my brother Frankie jnr phoning the house a few weeks beforehand. It was the night of England’s first match – a boring 0-0 draw with Uruguay – and he somehow convinced Frankie snr to stick me on a plane to London.

“Well, would you like to go?” asks me Da after Frankie twisted his arm.

Bleedin’ sure I would.

Like many men his age around that time, my older brother was working in London. He was a barman in the Gunnersbury Arms in Acton.

Frankie never had any football connections but he worked a few miracles that summer. The first was to secure my release papers. Then he came up with tickets for the remaining Group 1 games (England were also joined by France and Mexico). Frankie was working every day so I went alone.

Up to then my only exposure to World Cup football was watching Pele in Sweden 1958 and Garrincha in Chile 1962 on the Pathé newsreel.

But my heroes back then were the men I got to see up close at Richmond Park.

St Pat’s.

I looked elsewhere before settling permanently on my beloved football. I did Croke Park. The National Stadium for boxing (Frankie senior was a coach). Lansdowne Road for the big rugby games and even Water Polo internationals in the Blackrock baths. We would get the train out.

But nothing compared to peaking through the wire fencing at Dalymount when the Republic of Ireland played.

I was going to be like Charlie Hurley or Noel Cantwell or Johnny Giles or even Alan Kelly senior. I always liked the goalkeepers.

All of a sudden there I was, surrounded by 92,000 as England dismissed Mexico 2-0. I remember heading back to the flat afterwards when a Mexican handed me his sombrero as his bus departed for the airport.

“Adios amigo.”

“Wha?”

On my head it went. It is still in the house with rosettes pinned on for the 16 competing countries. A treasured memorial from a special time. I bought all the rosettes and stuck them on the hat myself.

I was back down Wembley Way four days later as England tentatively topped the group but they seemed certain to struggle as the great Jimmy Greaves was crocked in another 2-0 victory, this time over the French.

The tempestuous quarter-final against Argentina was remembered by Tom Humphries in these pages last Monday mainly due to the Rattin dismissal. It was a scorcher of a Saturday afternoon. I didn’t understand what all the jostling down by the dugouts was about but something more exciting was occurring high up on the Wembley roof that kept my attention. The scoreboard keeper was busy keeping us all updated on the goal feast between North Korea and Portugal.

Opening minute: North Korea 1-0.

A gasp goes up from the terrace.

Not long after: 3-0.

That’s got to be a mistake.

Half-time: 3-2

Jesus!

The elegant Portuguese were backboned by Benfica’s two-time European Cup-winning team. The great Eusebio eventually rattled in four goals to secure safe passage into the semi-finals against England. It ended 5-3!

I finally got to see Eusebio in the flesh when Portugal lost 2-1 to England. I was in line with Charlton’s iconic pile driver that secured victory. I can see his body shape now. Forget Frank Lampard or Paul Scholes, Bobby was the original lethal English ball striker.

By this stage I was cheering faithfully for England. Strange but it’s true. I was young and impressionable. They were an easy team to fall for.

However, I stayed with Portugal when they overcame the mighty USSR 2-1 in the third place play-off as another moment was etched in my memory. An early penalty to Portugal pitted the greatest goalkeeper of the era, Lev Yashin, against the dark-skinned assassin from Mozambique.

Back in the dream fields of Drimnagh I would sneak into the older lads’ game by volunteering to play in goal. I would transform into Yashin. Here I was behind his goal as Eusebio drove a powerful spot kick past the Russian giant.

I wanted to tell Eusebio that story when sitting beside him at the Republic of Ireland versus Portugal game at Lansdowne Road in 2001. I was thinking, after 35 years, it might not be that important to him anymore. I settled for an autograph. I knew I was close to greatness.

It had been a good run but my World Cup odyssey was over, wasn’t it Frankie? How many people live in London, my brother asked me.

Eight million?

No, 10 million and they are all looking to be at this final.

I gave up.

Then he handed me a 15 shilling ticket. It gets better. On the morning of the game, to my astonishment, he asked me for it back as he produced a seat up near the Royal box. It cost him three pounds and 10 shillings. I was so proud sitting there that I could have passed for a Windsor myself.

It was probably the moment I became a football coach. I was mesmerised by the brilliance of Beckenbauer and Uwe Seeler – later of Cork Celtic (a pub quiz gem) – for West Germany but still willed Moore, the Charltons, Ball, Stiles, Banks, Hurst and the rest to hang on for a 2-1 victory. Of course, the Germans equalised bringing it to extra-time. Cue that extraordinary finish.

I remember where I was and what was happening in my life for every World Cup since. My leaving cert was decimated by the Brazilians in 1970. I saw all 19 goals in six games as many a B plus became a D minus. Or worse. The day after my exams finished I scored the winner in the Blakely Cup final for Shelbourne under-17s against St Josephs.

Germany ’74 up to Mexico ’86 are associated with various weddings, births and family functions that I either begrudgingly attended or dodged as the tournament consumed my thoughts.

I can track my career through World Cups. In ’74 I was about to take over the Shamrock Rovers youth team. By ’78 I was reserve team manager at Shelbourne. In ’82 Bluebell had just finished a decent season – I was just a player. In ’86, pre-season was about to start as assistant manager to Mick Lawlor up in Drogheda. Mick is a great guy and acts as kitman/domestic scout for Giovanni Trapattoni this weather.

In 1990 I made the trip to Italy in high spirits as St Pat’s had just clinched the league title. Life ambition achieved! When everyone decamped to Genoa for the Romanians I found a nice spot on a Sicilian beach and dozed off.

I made it to the Giants Stadium in ’94, chased Zidane through France in ’98 only to be confined to a television studio when the madness of 2002 was unfolding. I was back on the road for Germany ’06. It was tempting to do some recky on the Faroe Islands’ upcoming opponents Italy, Serbia and Slovenia down in South Africa but I’ve settled for the couch.

Ten tournaments later and my memories of London in ’66 remain as vivid as ever.

So Frankie, it is mostly your fault that I have been at it all these years.

He is not well at the moment. I was in trying to cheer him up this week out in Tallaght hospital.

“Go on, tell us, how did you get that World Cup final ticket 44 years ago?”

He just smiled.