Dublin's Deputy Lord Mayor was explaining why it was worth erecting a plaque at John Giles's old house last weekend when he let slip what a bargain the thing had been. "It only cost 500 quid," said Cllr Aodhán Ó Riordáin imprudently.
He meant it was a small price to pay if the tribute inspired inner-city kids to take up football, and so it was. In fact it seemed a small price to pay even to put up a plaque to John Giles.
How can Ireland ever repay its debt to Giles? Is there a wall in the country wide enough to accommodate the plaque he surely merits? After a great career as a soccer player, and a spell as a manager, he is now familiar from our living-room televisions, not least at World Cup time, as the supreme authority on the game, the man whose judgment we can trust.
I would like to erect my own plaque to Giles. It would read: "To John Giles: thank you for the telephone." A peculiar tribute perhaps, but he would know what I meant. The best place for it would be Elland Road, Leeds, not because of the many years he played there for Leeds United but because that was where I met him. It was a Saturday - September 7th, 1996 - and it was the day when Giles became my hero. I think I would put that on the plaque too.
Three months earlier I had started as a sports reporter for the Sunday Tribune, fresh out of college and clumsy of sentence. The Tribune had a talented team of sports writers and the paper was known in Irish journalism as the best place to learn your trade.
My beat was the League of Ireland, about which I knew little. Like everyone else I was in thrall to the English Premiership, and would watch in awe and envy as the football correspondent left the office on Friday evenings, knowing he was off to cover a match in England the next day. The paper had a deal with Ryanair whereby the airline would fly him to Britain in exchange for an footnote to his report along the lines of: "So-and-so flew to wherever with Ryanair". I longed more than anything to be flown somewhere by Ryanair.
Then suddenly it happened. The football correspondent couldn't go one Saturday and the Lord's finger came through the clouds and pointed at me. The game was Leeds United v Manchester United at Elland Road, a clash of the titans of the day. I had never written a match report before and I had no laptop computer, just a gigantic mobile phone.The brief was 800 words "on the whistle", which meant the report had to be telephoned to a copytaker just after the game ended.
I had just bundled into the Leeds United press box when I saw John Giles. It was about an hour before kick-off so there were seats on either side of him. I had only ever seen him on TV and didn't know what to do. He was Irish, I was Irish: should I introduce myself? "Is there anyone sitting there?" I asked. He gave me a friendly look and said there wasn't, so I sat beside him.
When the game started I took notes furiously for fear I'd be short of material. At the same time Giles and I talked about the game, offering each of our opinions in turn. Man United won 4-0, with Karel Poborsky and Eric Cantona among the scorers. It would be Howard Wilkinson's last match as Leeds United manager. I wondered if he'd remember it the way I would.
As full-time neared I noticed my phone had no signal. It was a disaster. I turned to Giles and desperately spilled out my problem. In my mind I could see a gravestone and an inscription of how I'd blown it.
At the time Giles was himself filing his report to the Evening Herald. I had already caught sight of his phone, which was about twice the size of mine: the receiver was connected to a big block by a thick, coiled wire. But it was working perfectly. He said to me: "Why don't you use my phone and drop it into RTÉ some time next week?" "Are you sure?" I asked. He was sure - he had already finished his work - and he packed up his things, said goodbye and went. There was just me and Giles's giant phone left. I rang the Tribune and filed my first match report. Then I put the phone into the boot-bag he kept it in and left the ground with it under my arm.
My brother was at the game and I met him outside. "Guess whose boot-bag this is!" I said. "Johnny Giles's!"
I saw Giles on TV many times after that, and even shared a flight with him once. But that was many years ago, long before his bash at Ormond Square last weekend. His old pal Jimmy Sheils was there, and so was Shay O'Brien, who had grown up with Giles on the square and had flown in from New York. Some photographers took pictures of Nobby Stiles, who is married to Giles's sister Kay.
I covered the event and had a brief word with him, but I never got a chance to say: thank you for the telephone.