'Ireland is the new New Zealand': Top dogs and proud of it, the emerald isle is locked in passionate embrace of rugby

There was a small dog on a green in Dublin on Sunday.

The only one unleashed despite a sign: “All dogs must be on a lead.” She ran for a half hour, under benches, through legs, into flowers, around the open market, up to the walls of the old church, scampering next to a saggy pantsed guitarist playing the blues; and from time to time, she did confront other dogs.

All of them were bigger. Since they were all leashed, the smallest dog could start funny business with utter impunity. She was a whir of perpetual motion, returning only twice to a frowning man in a tracksuit who sat on a bench next to me and gave her a tiny snack.

She looked at me, gave my hand a quick lick, and tore off into the park.

In a way, the entire languid Irish assemblage was focused on one dog, the only animal life on the green which was free, or felt free.

You could not take your eyes off her.

Her energy (“feckin’ hair on fire” as her tired minder put it) made one think: “Was I once like that? Could I be again?” She was a bit of a hero.

Ireland’s rugby heroes have captured the eyes and hearts of their five million fellow residents.

A bit undersized, freed of Joe Schmidt shackles, doing rugby in a different way than the rest of the big dogs, and impossible to stop watching.

As I had strolled through the city on the day of the Grand Slam match against England, I was struck by how much more besotted the locals had become with their national team even in the four months since last I strode Lansdowne Road.

The island has rugby fever: their greatest team in any sport is here, now. Myths grow, like the harps and stones and saints and famines of yore.

Once a rich man told me: “If you get a lot of money, don’t think your IQ rose along with it.” But I forgot that, along with everyone else: when we succeed, we think we know better.

Ireland is the new New Zealand.

When I travelled to the North Island to watch the Springboks lose (2011) and then win (2018) I marvelled at the depth and ubiquity of Kiwi rugby love and nous. Nobody was immune from the feeling they knew better, and it was palpable how much they adored Richie and the boys.

An octogenarian who gave us tomato soup after a Waikato cave rappel and black water tube trip held forth on a dual playmaker system.

The giant in the morning market explained halfback play; when did he ever crouch at the base?

People who had never seen a scalpel articulated the reasons Richie’s foot was going to be fine.

And everywhere we went: rugby fields and rugby know how.

The Ian Foster saga and the Irish conquest may have taken some of the bloom off the Kiwi love affair with their All Blacks. I suspect that is just a blip and they will be back in full force in France.

But Ireland is still in an innocent phase. Famines form the lifeblood of Irish self conception.

At the game, when English fans would try to jump start their sour chariot, the east stands where I sat erupted with the song of the man who stole food to feed his starving family in County Galway and was sent to Australia.

Ireland rugby fans (photo by Getty Images)

The duelling songs told its own tale. This rugby feast is not the norm. The Irish have been drawn and “quartered” every four years. So no one is counting chickens or putting their eggs in a basket. But the Irish seem intent on grabbing every scrap.

The mobs outside the Shelbourne Hotel stood patiently in the soft rain for an hour; boys on dads’ shoulders to catch a glimpse of Dan and Johnny and Robbie and Hugo.

I had walked from the stadium (where a security man allowed me on the field for a few minutes if I promised not to take a picture) in the morning through the city and then reversed with the crowds after a couple of pints with a gregarious Irish stats guru at The Duke.

Smart and curious people in Ireland from all walks are drawn to rugby. All hands are on deck.

Poets find a way to wax lyrical about the newcomers to the team. Cab drivers like Igor and Jorge asked me shyly to explain the ruck and scrum. Historians are on the radio or TV articulating how this team fits the ethos of the history of the isle. Girls treat the starting hooker like he is a rock star. When did hookers become heartthrobs?

When the stadium opened officially at half past three, a stream of green clad fans filled the concourses.

England practiced on our end. Owen Farrell was the weatherman, detecting eddies of wind and shaping his kicks to Marcus Smith accordingly. Jamie George went seven for seven in a row, hitting the crossbar from 20 metres. Maro Itoje mimicked Jaco Peyper’s warmup, and then just copied it for real. The pied Peyper has that effect on lads.

The Aviva Stadium was provisioned with beer and flags; it is a minimalist place and one of my favourite grounds: nothing detracts or distracts.

Early it was that lines into the loos turned into illegal mauls (disconcertingly, as we were packed and shuffling like polar penguins, the man next to me announced to the melee that he had opened his fly “just to be ready when it is my time”) and I reached my dozenth Guinness before halftime.

England did what must be done to Ireland to have a chance; for a while. Squeeze, kick well, cover any break, and keep the attack narrow.

Manu Tuilagi seemed to have an edge on Bundee Aki in the early going. Loose balls were being collected by the visitors. Itoje had a couple of the best carries I’ve seen him do: using his weight as he always does on defence.

The Irish looked like a small pack. Mack Hansen was scooting around and back like a terrier on the green. The Dublin crowd applaud each catch and swerve as if it is a try.

Behind me, an Irish rain man was unerringly predicting each English action. But tellingly, he was unable to do so for his own team.

The red card was seen as harsh even by the partisans; Freddie Steward sent off for having an elbow rather than really using it.

Hugo Keenan has been the best fifteen in the competition, on balance, and ended up being the decisive player for a new reason.

It was nervy in the Aviva. The curry chips ran out during halftime. The W/C became a condemned place.

“They aren’t gonna just give it to us.”

But in this tournament, Ireland has solved every problem and in the second half pulled away with slick moves, an extra bit of motive, and finishing skills.

I came twice to Dublin in just a few winter months to watch the Irish reformation in person: off the ball resets, close enough to hear the back three calls, study Sexton’s choreography, and see if the pillar and post and pod are just the same but faster or if the setup for the Greens is substantively different.

The beers may not have helped my vision but maybe that is not the point. This team is more of a feeling than a techne. Yes, I saw Robbie Henshaw point out an exact spot for Hansen to occupy: not an obvious one. And the arrangement at ruck is noteworthy: arrival time and height preordained and pretty. Diagonals are inverted and the pods have more players.

However, those are all degrees and spectrums; the secret sauce is reorganisation. The scant time spent on the ground. Measure “total time spent by all players off their feet” and I am certain Ireland is the best by several nautical miles.

As it became certain the Grand Slam was secure, and for the first time in Dublin, with Sexton leading points scorer ever in the Six Nations, and Peter O’Mahony smiling on the sidelines to rapturous applause, the entire place turned into a middle-aged nightclub.

Even the start time (five o’clock) was perfect. As darkening skies came, a series of U2 songs had full audience participation, and it seemed nobody left at all.

Gold confetti on the pitch it was and a classy defeated but valiant George (when did hookers get classy?) walked around the entire field by himself applauding the Irish fans and receiving quite a response.

Aki is the clown of this squad, egged on by a beaming Sexton.

Sheehan leapt into the stands a few feet away from me to hug and assault and hug again a young man he knew quite well.

A helicopter flew over, but was not part of the plan; perhaps a weather copter taking the piss.

An hour after the final whistle, the stadium was not cleared out yet. The streets around were wet and full and frenetic and turning into spontaneous rugby matches.

Find your pub and stick, said some. Roam and stay on your feet: others.

I did a bit of both and finished strong.

There is not a bravado or triumphalism in Ireland over this feat. There is a cheeky smile and an all-in and a reality that the centre of the rugby universe is in Ireland and it is very green.