Emmet Moloney writes for the 'The Irish Farmers Journal' and is a former sports columnist with 'The Kerryman'.

The All Blacks are coming. Brace yourselves. This might get ugly. Emmet Moloney invokes the spirit of Willie Anderson...

November is traditionally the miserable month. We go on the dry. We hibernate, saving for Christmas. The GAA is not fully put away but the club championships can be endurance contests for players and spectators alike. We have the Holy Souls and we have the hardy souls who brave the weather at this time of the year, which is usually awful.

So, not a lot to recommend the 11th month until the marketing gurus invented something called the “November Internationals”. Great stuff. Ireland playing against the southern hemisphere sides on tour. A win here and there to lift our spirits on a cold and damp Saturday. It’s not turning out that way, is it?

What harm! We are alive to see it. This Saturday will be worth seeing. New Zealand are here, we’ve no chance and the critics are circling, just waiting for the home team to be blown away. All week long it will be predictions of doom and gloom. But then, at about twenty-five past five on Saturday, the haka will start, the Aviva will (at last) lift and wherever you are watching, you will feel it too. It will be like someone plugging in the electric heater beside you. The rest is up to Ireland. Let’s have a bit of faith.
I was lucky enough to be a bold young student back in 1989 when the All Blacks came to Lansdowne Road. I’m fairly sure my gang had about 60 quid between the four of us but managed to get to the match and knock a good weekend out of it. Four schoolboy tickets and four train tickets purchased with the one student card. There was a vague invite to a party somewhere in a place called Booterstown. We camped there for the two nights. Happy days.

Of course, the abiding memory was the match itself. Everything went to plan. We chanced the DART for nothing. The crush was unbelievable from Westland Row but we made it, split up going in the student gate so as not to attract attention and bluffed our way through.
“What do you mean I don’t look young enough to be a schoolboy? Sure that fella you let through before me had a beard!”

Drive on. Inside, the old Lansdowne Road was a trip back in time. You went to the toilets before you tried to find space to stand because there was no getting out again. Everything looked ancient. It was a decrepit stadium but, like a lot of them, it fairly crackled when the crowd smelt blood.

We didn’t really smell any that day until the haka started. For a student this was required viewing because inevitably at a party some crowd of young fellas are going to perform the haka. Like the words to a song, it would be handy to know the haka.
There was no YouTube in those days, so we had to pay attention any time we got a chance to see it. As it began, we had no idea what was about to happen. This had never happened before. Willie Anderson and Ireland decided that the haka would be dealt with.
Anderson was captain and in rugby that really means something. At the time, Ireland were in dire straits. As we were savouring the New Zealand party piece in the middle of the field, out of the corner of our eyes we noticed the Irish team, arm in arm, inching closer to the All Blacks. Anderson was leading the way and there was mischief as well as intent on his mind. The crowd picked up on it immediately. The roar grew all around us. By the time the haka ended, the Irish team were in their faces. The All Blacks weren’t used to this and they were clearly rattled. Anderson stepped away and waved to the crowd. We went mad.

A repeat of that on Saturday would set fire to the Aviva.

Ireland lost the game back in 1989, but not by much. The game was poor on quality but high on octane for the 80 minutes. All who were there will never forget it.
That’s what the November Internationals could be. Instead, we’ve had the worst of the elements and a poor lead-in to the showpiece that this match is supposed to be. It’s the best in the world against us. And at home, we die with our boots on.

That’s what we want from this game. Fight. The spirit of Willie Anderson and his under-matched men. They stood up then. We have to stand up now.

Declan Kidney knows this. Brian O’Driscoll knows it. The stakes are a little bit higher than the friendly banner this game travels under. This is our season.

I think we’ll do it. I really do. I firmly believe we will find the performance needed. This is set up for us. Those of us from the traditional weaker GAA counties will know what I’m on about. Every now and again you have a gut feeling that your county are going to produce something out of the blue.

The Kiwis had a walk in the park against Scotland and we’ve been poor against Samoa and South Africa. Our team doesn’t pick itself. Our scrum is desperate. We have no go-forward ball carriers. Our backs can’t make the breaks. I could go on.
But here’s what will happen. We’ll have a little stare during the haka. The fans will sense it. The team will know it. Within five minutes, there’ll be a dust up of some variety. The pack will look and play angry.

There will be setbacks because they’ll score. Let’s hope we delay that inevitability until we have a foothold in the match. If we can do that, it might be there for us. Deep down, Declan Kidney’s most realistic hope is for us to be competitive for 60 minutes. But we can do better. There is a performance in this team and the backroom staff have the wit to get it from them. Dry weather would be a bonus. We’ll rattle them. We just can’t think about beating them until the full-time whistle. Because with 10 minutes to go, it will be there for us. I’m sure of it.

The glass is half full. Let’s hope the Aviva has a few more in it.

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