Susan Buckland: The cheek of the Irish

COMMENT

With some people rating Ireland as a contender for the Rugby World Cup, I've been thinking about an entrepreneur I met in Dublin during the World Cup of 1991. A friend and I were parking our car on a narrow street near the River Liffey when he appeared out of the shadows.

About 12 years of age and oozing street savvy, he was surrounded by a tight circle of mates. Would we like him and his gang to look after our car, he wanted to know. We declined the offer, more out of a sense of Kiwi independence than an aversion to handing over the Irish pound or two they were after.

He was undeterred. "Yer in a not very safe part of town," he told us. "Do yer want yer car to be here when yer return from wherever yer going? And where are yer going, anyway?"

My friend, a former head prefect, addressed me authoritatively. "You've got your purse and camera, Susy? Fine, let's go," she said deliberately ignoring the street urchins.

Their leader swiftly sized her up and concentrated on me; the soft touch, he calculated. Where was I from, he wanted to know. New Zealand, I told him.

It was as if I had spoken some kind of magic password. "New Zealand," he said caressing the words. The tough expression on his grubby face gave way to the widest smile. "The All Blacks."

Bingo. Sensing that the rugby connection might enable our car to survive the evening unscathed, I pulled out one of my cards. "The All Blacks are great," I agreed. "But what about your Irish team? You guys nearly thrashed the Aussies."

I'm not a constant follower of rugby world cups. By good luck, however, I happened to have seen that titanic match during the 1991 World Cup when the Wallabies were almost beaten by the Irish team.

The leader of the group stepped forward. His man-child chest was puffed with pride. "Where did yer say yer were off to?" To the pub down the end of the street, we told him. My friend and I had driven through a labyrinth of increasingly downtrodden Dublin streets to find the pub. Locals had told us that on the other side of the river from the city we would find real Irish music. Not the homogenised kind that was dished up for tourist consumption.

Another member of the gang piped up. "Dad plays the fiddle in that pub. You'll be singin' along for sure." His leader took over: "Go ahead, Ma'am. Yer car will still be here when yer return."

Praise be to the All Blacks. They had forged an immediate bond between a Dublin street gang and a couple of New Zealanders old enough to be their mothers. Our car would now be under surveillance. And it would have been an insult to talk about tips. We had become blood brothers in rugby-speak

Later, when we emerged from the pub, well after midnight and swaying with Irish music and stout, the gang was on duty. "What did we tell yer, Ma'am," said their leader, pointing to my car with a cheeky grin. "Not a scratch on it."

Where is the small chieftain now, I wonder? He would be in his early twenties today. If I had to bet on it I would say that he has used his impish wit and charm to lever himself out of the poverty that plagued the streets of his childhood. Wherever he is, I know he will be on the edge of his seat for Ireland.