Brian Kerr, the only soccer manager in the world who can make Alex Ferguson seem like a lightweight, has taken to advertising on the radio. His commercials tell how, when his Irish team were playing in the under-20 World Cup two years ago, his friends in the transport business saw to it that an extra kit sent from Dublin to the Malaysian capital Kuala Lumpur arrived in time for the team's crucial games at the end of the tournament.
The young men of the Republic, remember, came third in the competition, beating Ghana in a play-off after a defeat in the semi-final by the eventual champions, Argentina. Along the way, Ireland had beaten the United States, Morocco and Spain in what was, all told, the finest performance by any soccer team from this country.
My involvement in this great affair was, despite my best efforts, marginal. Like Kerr and our heroes, I was in Kuala Lumpur on the day they beat Ghana, July 5th. And, like the kit they wore, I had travelled a great distance to be there. Lamentably, however, I was not present to see Dessie Baker and Damien Duff score a goal each to better the goal Ghana scored. I was downtown at the time, wishing I was there of course, but lost.
Ready for action
Early that evening, I had arrived in the city from Singapore after an eight-hour train journey in the clammy heat through the jungles and swamps of southern Malaysia. Always ready for action, I had established the night before that the match would definitely take place that evening in KL and resolved to be there for the occasion.
But where? I checked in first at a guilty-looking hotel near the railway station where the wily porter told me not to worry about the lizards in the room because they were harmless. This seemed odd, but at the time I was concerned only about the match. "No," said the man. "Know nothing about this game. Better try tourist office. Only round the corner."
The office was closed - it was after 5 p.m. But the match, I figured, would not start until 8 p.m. There would be time to eat, to sample the atmosphere of the place - I was returning the next day - and then to cheer our boys against the Ghanaians.
Wrong. KL is a city where gleaming, glassy skyscrapers poke at the heavens, but all is disorder on the ground. In some places, there are roads, but no footpaths. Elsewhere, the place resembles a massive building site.
I meandered through sidestreets for about an hour looking at beauteous women balancing baskets on their heads and at the old men sitting around on plastic chairs making wise talk. I came to a market. Busy hawkers were selling satay and durians, a mighty-smelling fruit with addictive qualities. The teeming multitudes, their exotic languages and their strange, colourful foods were very distracting, so I stayed a while. I asked the odd stranger if they knew where the stadium was, but no-one did. One suggested taking a bus, but he did not know the route. Some of the buses I saw had numbers well into the 500s. And not a taxi could I find - it was worse than Dublin.
Thwarted again
The heat was sticky. I was hungry and tired and, worse, losing time. On I walked, though, and came eventually to the business district. The plan was to eat there and head for the match afterwards. I was thwarted again, however, when the waitress in the restaurant told me that there was more than one stadium in KL. Neither she nor her colleagues knew the one in which the World Cup matches were taking place and no, they didn't have a newspaper either. Marvellous. Outside, it began to rain. Soon the skies were in uproar and as I watched the dreary lashings from my table, I ordered the full whack, all four courses - it was not looking good for the match.
When I left the restaurant, it was still raining. Hungry no more, but disillusioned, I continued my walkabout, contemplating the likelihood of a daft struggle against the lizards in the hotel - if I could find it. I came to the shopping area soon afterwards and then, in the thick of it all, there appeared a neon sign: "Irish Bar". Dubiously Irish as the place was likely to be, it was a welcome sight.
Inside, it was quiet. Not bothering to ask about the match, I sat at the bar and ordered. For a while I drank with a cheery giant of a German who knew all about KL's new Formula 1 motor-racing stadium - he was designing it - but nothing about the soccer ground. The night progressed and the place gradually filled up. I had already gone well beyond caring about the lizards and the match, when a large group arrived en masse. Everyone burst into song: "Ole, Ole, Ole". Brian Kerr, the team and their minders, the third-best in the world, had landed.
Long night
"Weren't the lads great?" said a man from Dublin. "Ah they were," said I. "They surely were." Songs, speeches and yarns followed, and by the end of what turned into a very long night, all, needless to say, were brilliantly tipsy.
Afterwards, I went searching again for a taxi. Full of talk and walking like Boris Yeltsin, with that careful tread, as Tom Hardy put it, of one conscious of one's alcoholic load, there was no difficulty this time.
"Pleasant evening, sir?" asked the driver.
"Yes, thank you. Very pleasant indeed. Remarkable in fact."
"Pleased to hear it, sir."
A charming fellow, the driver was much less inquisitive than his counterpart at Singapore Airport on the morning I arrived there, three weeks previously.
"Morning, sir," he said. "Good morning. Plaza Hotel please."
"Certainly, sir. Hotel Plaza. Here on business, sir?"
"Yes."
"Wish you every success in business, sir. Where you from, sir?"
"I'm from Ireland."
"Ah - from Ireland. You still having that trouble with your Queen out there, sir?"