We passed somewhere over Siberia: Roy heading westwards and home, to walk his dog, Triggs, while I was flying in the opposite direction towards Japan and the Ireland team which was missing its star player.
The shadow of Roy and earlier events on the small Pacific island of Saipan loomed over everything, including our long journey. Officials from the FAI, who had the misfortune to be flying east with a group of excited journalists, looked and sounded baffled and exhausted even before the jet lag kicked in.
Sorting out old clothes at home recently reminded me that all of this happened almost two decades ago. At the bottom of one drawer I found a green T-shirt from Ireland's pre-tournament base in the Japanese city of Izumo. I had asked some of the players to sign it as a souvenir, and there were their names: goalkeeper Shay Given, Damien Duff, Roy's namesake, Robbie, Steve Staunton and others.
I was in Japan to report for the BBC, an outsider on the inside, just a few months into my posting as the Dublin correspondent – in my humble view, the best job in the corporation. After covering a US presidential election and a UK general election at close quarters in the preceding years, I was now ticking off the third part of my journalistic bucket list: a World Cup.
For me, a former sports reporter and soccer obsessive, this was almost a dream assignment. I was being paid to travel to a place I had always wanted to visit and report on endless football. The only catch was that I was leaving behind my wife, Charlotte, and our first born son, Joseph, still only a few months old, for an unknown period at the height of our first, precious Irish summer.
Phrase for the ages
In case you were on Mars at the time, or were not born, then here is the briefest of summaries: Roy Keane left Saipan, where the Republic of Ireland had been training ahead of the World Cup, after a major falling out with Mick McCarthy, the then manager. In a phrase for the ages, he is said to have told McCarthy to stick the World Cup "up his bollocks".
As a result, the team lost its best player on the eve of the world’s greatest tournament. And, back home – I’m told, as I was heading for the Far East – Ireland rapidly polarised into fervent Roy or Mick camps after what was surely the biggest row in Irish sporting history.
Some journalists had been present in Saipan before they and the remaining players flew on to Japan ahead of the tournament’s kick-off. When the rest of us later arrivals finally reached Izumo, it felt like arriving at a party long after the birthday boy had thrown the cake at his parents and stormed out.
Daily training carried on regardless. A few young Japanese fans turned up at the gates of the smart sports complex each day to cheer the players as they climbed back on the team bus. One of them always screamed the name of Gary Breen, a Coventry City defender not usually given the star treatment.
A game between the journalists was arranged on one of the pristine training pitches, refereed by a senior member of the Irish media. Oblivious to the internal relationships and rivalries, I pitched up to play. Within seconds of the referee’s whistle, all hell broke loose as middle-aged scribes tore into each other.
Each day Mick faced the press, and he grew increasingly exasperated at being asked about one player’s absence and criticisms. In his broad Yorkshire tones, he countered Roy’s “bollocks” line by repeatedly talking about how he was putting his own backside “in the bacon slicer”. It was a new phrase on me, despite having also grown up in the same English county, and one that always conjured up terrible images.
When we then heard that Roy had given a coruscating interview to The Irish Times, the journalists ran around as news filtered eastwards and editors began to ring. Late that night, on the flat roof of our hotel, it was obvious that some media colleagues who lived without the constant threat of having to do live TV reports had, shall we say, enjoyed a couple of drinks. As the broadcasters chattered breathlessly into cameras and the rest of the press pack gathered in huddles, I fretted about potential fatalities due to the lack of a safety rail.
Mick was under huge pressure, and back home bacon slicers were being sharpened. At times, it must have felt like a lonely job. During one particularly tense press conference we couldn’t help but notice that his FAI press minder, in the seat beside him, was fast asleep.
Meanwhile, in Tokyo, and later in Seoul, South Korea’s capital, I watched the World Cup unfold into one massive, boisterous knees-up, and felt privileged to be there. At times it looked as if the majority of young Japanese were wearing England shirts with “Beckham 7” on the back. Thank goodness Roy was spared from seeing that.
When we gathered in a packed Tokyo bar to watch a Japan game, the home team’s goal sparked celebrations so wild that a woman’s front tooth fell out when she leapt up, and the BBC team helped her find it under the tables.
On the pitch, even without Roy, the team was growing in confidence. A steady 1-1 draw with Cameroon was followed by the same result against Germany, the eventual finalists. Robbie Keane scored a thrilling late equaliser and ran to the thousands of Ireland fans behind the goal to celebrate. A rapid rewrite was required for the BBC News bulletin which was soon to go out on BBC1. A comfortable win over Saudi Arabia meant Ireland progressed to the next stage, and so moved on to Seoul. After the game I also realised that the victory meant another week or more away from home and family.
Sumptuous skills
Once there, I joined a group of journalists keen to see the Demilitarised Zone, the DMZ, between South and North Korea. We peered through binoculars to see woodsmoke rising beyond a ridge inside the Hermit kingdom, and squeezed into a little train to explore a tunnel dug deep beneath the border.
The time difference made for very late working nights and quieter mornings. Social media wasn't around to keep us busy, and I would head out for sushi or noodles with colleagues for lunch. Later in the day, the BBC's then foreign editor, Jon Williams, who now runs RTÉ News, might ring to talk about that night's TV report.
I got to watch some great football from the press box: the controversies of Italy versus Croatia, and the sumptuous skills of Brazil against Costa Rica. I was in Seoul’s vast central square when hundreds of thousands of young Korean fans in red T-shirts bearing the legend “Be the Reds” gathered to cheer on their team in its remarkable run.
I tried the local kimchee, and we went to a nightclub where some of the Irish players were enjoying themselves on the dancefloor. I sincerely hope that still happens during tournaments, but I doubt it. One night, an Irish journalist introduced me with great enthusiasm to an FAI official called John Delaney, calling him the "the future of Irish football".
Eventually, the final whistle blew. Ireland deserved to beat Spain in their last 16 match, but instead bowed out on penalties. Mick’s team did themselves proud, but we were left to wonder what difference their best player would have made had he been in midfield rather than walking his dog back in England.
The flight home was a rowdy, 12-hour party, as those on board said farewells with a sing-song, and the KLM air hostesses served blue Kahlúa that matched their outfits. Thousands of fans, plus airport staff, gathered to welcome the players back to Dublin. It was memorable, but it also meant that bleary-eyed hacks had a long wait for their luggage to be slung on to the carousels before they could head home.
Back in the cool of Dublin, I was reunited with Charlotte and young Joseph, who had grown and changed during my weeks of absence. The row around Roy and Mick had subsided just a little. I folded my signed shirt and put it in a drawer with some other mementoes. With young Joseph on my knee, I watched Brazil knock out England on TV. My duties switched from reporting the world’s greatest sporting event to nappy changing, and I was happy with that.
