Never again. Every March, when the championship is over, I decide that’s it.
I'm ringing the IRFU to ask them to move me to another part of the ground, far away from the Lower West Stand, where the old man has sat since 1969, within shouting distance of both the Irish bench and, in more recent years, the coach's box, from which position he has managed to piss off 16 successive Irish coaches, from Ronnie Dawson to, yes, even the cool and unflappable Joe Schmidt.
That happened two years ago. We were at home to France and the game was tight. Between sips from his hip flask, the old man storted up this chant of, "Stealth, Ireland! Stealth! Stealth! Stealth! Stealth! Stealth! Stealth! Stealth!" and he didn't seem to mind at all that nobody was joining in.
Now, that coach’s box is supposed to be soundproofed. But when I looked over my shoulder, I could see poor Joe’s head was up, studying the crowd, trying to find where the distraction was coming from.
“Stealth!” the old man continued shouting. “Stealth! Stealth! Stealth! Stealth!”
Ireland v Scotland 1982
And
Cian Healy
, who was on the bench, looked around and I saw him mouth the words, “Who is that annoying focker?” and I had to pull my baseball cap down over my eyes in case he saw me and thought I was related to him.
I said it that day. Never again.
The old man has been embarrassing me at rugby matches since before I had the words to tell him to cop himself on. The first match he ever took me to was Ireland v Scotland in 1982. A Triple Crown year. I'd just turned two and thankfully I have no memory of it. But I'm told on good authority that he kept holding me up above his head and shouting at Ollie Campbell: "The future is in safe hands, Ollie! Ross O'Carroll-Kelly – a young 10 in the making!"
I was too young to say it but I’m sure I must have thought it. Never again.
Ireland v Australia 1991
Then there was 1991. Although that was the
Rugby World Cup
. Ireland v Australia in the quarter-final. When
Gordon Hamilton
went over in the corner, the old man chorged down to the front of the stand, dragging me with him. He pulled me over the advertising hoarding and on to the pitch. If you watch Hamilton’s post-try celebrations on YouTube, you can just about make out my old man, in his
Cole Haan
camel-hair coat, trying to introduce me to him as “a star of the future” until a young gorda from somewhere up
Leitrim
way pointed a truncheon in his face and went, “Fook off back to your seat, you fooken alickadoo!”
My old man was still arguing with him, reminding him that it was he who paid his wages, when Michael Lynagh went down the other end and scored the winner. We missed it. I said that was the last time I'd ever go to a match with him.
Ireland v England 1999
Then there was 1999. We lost to England in what was still the Five Nations at what was still Lansdowne Road. It was exactly one week before
Castlerock College
beat
Newbridge
in the
Leinster
Schools Senior Cup final, with me scoring all the points. The old man spent the entire second half roaring at Warren Gatland: “Come back here in a week’s time, Gatty, and you’ll see a real number 10 in action!”
Gatland never showed up for the final and I couldn’t blame him.
And I said it. Same thing. He’s on his own from here on.
Ireland v England 2003
Four years later. England again at Lansdowne Road again – this time for the Grand Slam.
Martin Johnson
refused to move his fat orse and Mary McAleese was forced to walk on grass – and in heels! “For shame!” the old man spent the entire first half shouting. “Failure to follow an established and clearly communicated protocol! For shame!”
When England storted to run away with it in the second half, the old man switched his attention to poor Eddie O’Sullivan. “The man who could have made all the difference today is sitting beside me in the stand!”
Yeah, for the last time, I thought. Definitely for the last time.
I'm pretty sure it was after that match that coaches storted to sit in their own little soundproofed rooms. But it didn't do any good. The old man has a voice that could pierce Kevlar. Ask Declan Kidney.
Ireland v France 2009
We beat France in February 2009, our first victory on the way to the Grand Slam. The old man made a bold prediction that day. He went, “Ireland will never win anything while it continues to ignore the claims of one Ross O’Carroll-Kelly Esquire!”
At that point I hadn’t had a rugby ball in my hands for about nine years and I was drinking like a rock star. Didn’t stop poor Declan having to listen to it for the next four years, though.
And every year I said that’s it. I’m out. I’m never going with him again. I said it last year as well. He can bring someone else. He’s an embarrassment. And I meant it.
But then he arrived at the house the other day and he went, “Got the tickets, Ross! France and England at home this year, eh?”
And I was about to tell him what he could do with his tickets. But then he went, “You know, you and I, Ross, will never, ever reach that point that many fathers and sons do, where we have nothing of passionate interest to say to one another. I really feel sorry for people who don’t have rugby in their lives.”
And what could I say except, “Okay, leave the tickets on the mantelpiece. But this is the last year I’m ever sitting beside you. I mean it this time. Never again.”
