World Cup Fever has officially taken hold in our house, as we await the tournament kick-off, one week from today.1 I was chatting to some folks earlier in the week whose first tournament memory was France ’98 – a good one – but I go back four years earlier to USA ’94, and specifically Ireland getting out of the group stage only to lose to the Netherlands in the next round. There’s still a branded USA ’94 McDonald’s toy knocking around somewhere.
The tournament famously ended with Roberto Baggio missing his penalty to hand the trophy to Brazil. My memory is that it was on TV late – certainly post-bed-time for seven-year-old me – but I saw it all thanks to my partner-in-crime, my Nana. We were staying “down home” for a few weeks over the summer, as usual, but as soon as my parents went up the street for the evening to the pub, Nana would let me sneak up to watch TV: and seeing the Seleçāo lift the trophy is a core childhood memory.
The same summer, Nana was at peak fandom – Garth Brooks fandom. And the other thing I remember sitting up to watch with her was a Brooks concert film on TV, which she loved. It’s not my favourite Garth Brooks song,2 but the one that I have the clearest memory of was her awe at his hit, Standing Outside The Fire – and a key debate about whether, for the particular performance on show, he was wearing flame-retardant trousers!
Listen, Garth Brooks sounds cheesy, but will be forever associated with this favourite aspect of my childhood, so it is cemented in place. Nana passed away when I was nine, so memories aren’t always the clearest. Several memories endure: I picture her laughing at my cousins and I dancing around the kitchen, someone blasting tunelessly into a mouth organ; picking gooseberries off the bushes in her playground of a garden; shaking her head at us messing around at the summer scheme we were sent too, where I think she was helping out as first aider.
I remember her appearing on the Late Late Show along with half the town, and this being A Big Deal. I remember her tutting at my uncle Bobby for filling us up on ice cream (HB sliders, cut straight from the block) on the way home from the bog, before we’d had our dinner. I also remember her, towards the end, struggling to vocalise as she fought aggressive cancer from her hospital bed in Dublin. But I prefer to remember her lastly, standing, silhouetted in the doorway, waving us off as we set off on the long journey back up north each time we left.
And she loved Garth Brooks, and his potentially-flame-retardant trousers. So this one’s for her.
- I count at least three wall charts already erected on the wall, but pride of place, as always, goes to the latest design by Elliott Quince. Elliott has been selling his wall charts for years to raise funds for Luton & Dunstable Hospital’s Neonatal Unit, and his charts are the best – you might still be able to get one here. ↩︎
- I endured a lot of Garth Brooks at his peak – the Irish love him – but it’s a toss-up between the humour of Friends in Low Places and the absolute caricature of Callin’ Baton Rouge. ↩︎