An Irishman's Diary

I watched the World Cup final at the old home place in Monaghan, where my brother now runs the farm. As I've said before here, you can measure your life out in World Cups: with their four-year intervals, there is usually some personal event or milestone that defines the tournament. And I was still wondering how Germany 2006 would be defined when, 15 minutes before kick-off on Sunday, word reached me that a heifer had broken through a fence out in our back field, and was sinking slowly in the bog.

This was a bit of a dilemma. It was a 98 per cent certainty, I knew, that I would be superfluous to attempt a rescue. Most farm problems these days have mechanical solutions, even to heifers in bog-holes. My brother had already sent for a neighbour with a Hymac - a small digger with caterpillar wheels - that could winch the animal to safety if it wasn't too late. The machine was en route to the scene. I could lend moral support, of course. But I was likely to be about as useful as nipples on a bull.

Besides, apart from the great spectacle that is a World Cup final, I had an unusual interest in this one. Italy carried my hopes in the office pool, while only Thierry Henry remained a threat to a 20-1 bet on Germany's Klose to win the Golden Boot.

In common with many sports fans, I retain a sneaking suspicion that you can influence televised games by concentrating hard enough on them; and equally that you can be punished for not paying full attention. It was clear to me that Henry, in particular, would need a lot of watching.

Yet as I wrestled with my conscience, memories of the last World Cup final to be played in Germany drifted into my mind. I was only a boy then, in the same house, and recall being cheered by the fact that several men from the neighbourhood had turned up, apparently to see the game. Yes, I was dimly aware that my father had scheduled a hay-making event for the same day. But surely that would have to wait the outcome of the drama in Munich.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked down to the afternoon kick-off, while the TV presenters assured us, as if we needed telling, that everyone on the planet was tuning in. The male-bonding opportunity provided by the visitors only heightened the drama. This is what men did, I noted: we watched football matches.

And then, about 10 minutes before the game started - the moment is forever etched on my brain - the men got up and left. As if on a secret signal, like the flick of a cap, they rose together. One of them probably said: "That's all right, but it won't get the hay in." This was a notoriously popular philosophy in the Monaghan of my youth. But I can't remember for sure because I was so stunned. Was this what being an adult meant? You could so lose your sense of perspective that work could not be put off, even for the world's most important football match? The exemption granted to me was only small consolation. I felt abandoned. It was as if the occasion had developed a puncture, and it took the game's dramatic opening - a Dutch penalty after 80 seconds, before the Germans touched the ball - to start pumping it up again. It was fully inflated by the end. And when I belatedly joined the haymakers, my report of the German victory was received with gratifying enough interest to ease the earlier disappointment.

That was 1974, however. This was now. And with the thought of a stricken animal sinking in a bog, there was only one course for a self-respecting adult male to take. It was a cathartic moment switching off the television as the pre-match build-up reached climax. I like to think that if my father could have seen it, he would not only have been proud, he might also have had second thoughts about not leaving me the farm.

In the event, my initial reaction had been correct. By the time I reached the emergency control centre, a happy scene unfolded. The Hymac was already returning to

base, mission accomplished. The heifer was back on solid ground, a bit damp, but with only dim memories of her near-appointment with a watery grave. My brother confirmed they had been able to tie a rope around her and yank her out, no bother.

Back in the unreal world, a World Cup final had begun without me for the first time I can remember. It was no surprise to find that the French had taken advantage of my absence to con the referee into awarding an early penalty. And yet I was philosophical about that now. It was only a game, I knew.

Sure, there was a certain relief at how it subsequently played out. And I've since checked 50 times that I still have the betting docket on Klose. But as another quadrennial tournament slipped by, it was the sense of personal growth I valued most.