One of the best memories I have of my dad is when we were on holiday in west Cork, staying in a caravan park near Barleycove.
It was the summer of 1990. I was 15, and myself, my parents and five siblings had all piled into a mobile home for a couple of weeks of bliss away from our lives in Dublin.
We did so slap bang in the middle of Italia '90. Football meant everything, a passion inherited from my dad, and having rented bikes the two of us set off for Crookhaven and O'Sullivan's Bar to watch some of the matches.
It was practically empty on the afternoon of June 25. Tennis at Wimbledon was on the TV and we were almost apologetic about asking the barman to switch over for the build-up of Ireland's second round clash with Romania.
Two hours later the bar was jammed as the greatest sporting drama of my life was played out as Sheedy, Houghton, Townsend, Cascarino (just) and then O'Leary converted the penalties to put Ireland into the quarter-finals of the World Cup.
The place erupted, the country was alive in celebration. And this was Jack Charlton's doing.
Six years earlier I was a ball-boy at Lansdowne Road for Eoin Hand's last game in charge of the national team, a dispiriting 4-1 defeat to a Danish team that enjoyed the spectacle with their large travelling support.
Hand had come so close to guiding Ireland to major tournament qualification, his efforts done for by misfortune and, most likely, by misdeed on the part of officials.
But now Ireland, backed by Jackie's Army, were on the world stage where so many of the talented players involved deserved to be.
And on that heart-thumping, glorious afternoon that stretched into evening in west Cork, myself and my dad embraced in joyous abandon, ecstatic to be witnesses to this green revolution.
We arrived home from our holiday just hours before the quarter-final against Italy. At half-time and a goal down, it felt like the dream was ending, and there were tears at the final whistle.
A day later, Charlton and his players edged their way from Dublin Airport into the city, surrounded on all sides by grateful and awestruck fans, old and new.
From our Drumcondra Road vantage spot, we watched in wonder as the cavalcade passed, our lives enriched by the whole experience.
Revenge of sorts would be served on the Italians four years later in Giants Stadium, with Paul McGrath's colossal display and Ray Houghton's goal.
Perhaps that will be the overriding memory of the era for others, or Houghton scoring the winner against England in Euro '88.
But it is that day in Crookhaven, watching events unfold in Genoa, that will live with me forever.
Thank you, Jack. Thanks for the memories. Rest in peace.
