A WITNESS to a rare piece of history.
Even when the heart returns to a more manageable rhythm, I’ll recall it the same.
Dizzy spells, a spectrum of wild moods followed by edge-of-the-seat delirium.
Nightfall at the Stade de France on Saturday.
Glory, in the end, confirmed in the most unholy manner.
A ball buried deep beneath an emerald pile featuring the towering trio of messers Henry, Toner, O’Connell.
It certainly wasn’t all glitz and glam out in Paris. Not for the 22 Irish warriors who entered our sporting folklore. Neither was it for many of the legions of fans who made the trip over.
As the overnight bus pulled in to the French capital 12 hours previous, I arrived bleary eyed and tired as an ominous bluish-grey mist wrapped itself around rows and rows of fierce, block-head flats.
However, the first buds of a green infestation of Paris never felt far off.
9am, sure enough, three Irish supporters (one in the obligatory Guinness hat) giddily alighted from a coach nearby.
They lads had the same idea. Or, rather, they’d discovered what I had.
Trying to sort out last-minute transportation to see O’Driscoll’s curtain call — and to watch his proud nation clinch the Six Nations (while topping the old foe, England) — was something of a challenge.
As Paris awoke, anticipation was growing palpably.
Cartoonish and stereotyped scenes — impossibly beautiful lovers entwined, lazy cafes and petit scooters tooting around cobbled streets — jostled with an ever-growing green army who were starting to flood the city. The Irish had come in their thousands.
It was clear 15 minutes before kick-off, as, fittingly, the day’s first ray of sunlight broke through in what was a glorious evening at the Stade de France.
The four rounded corners of the magnificent stadium were splashed with green and looked more like representations of the provinces of Ireland.
Something else was soon obvious: the occasion, as expected, would really be about one man. Himself.
Ireland's Rory Best, Cian Healy and Jordi Murphy celebrate at the final whistleCredit ©INPHO/Dan Sheridan
A now packed, buzzing stadium was treated to a touching video which played out on the big screens. Personal tributes to Brian O’Driscoll’s poured in from his peers.
Captain Paul O’Connell, friend and teammate of 12 years, ended the video with simple words: “Thank you, Brian.”
Earlier in the week, French teen superstar Gael Fickou said he was “proud” at having the honour of playing against O’Driscoll in the legendary Ireland centre’s final game.
A typical response and, from the moment the stadium announcer barked “numero treize’’, the greatest roars were reserved for Ireland’s greatest ever rugby player.
Manic scream accompanied the mere sight of the 13 on the big screen – along with his every touch of the ball.
O’Driscoll got his dues, and, if it not for an excitable Andrew Trimble who was a split second eager with an offload, he would have had his cherry on top with a try in his 141st and last Ireland game.
You’ve all seen the match now — at least once. You know it had more twists and turns than an Agatha Christie whodunit. To be honest, and this puts me in a bit of an awkward position given the role here, it really was hard to put such a spectacle into words.
The encounter became sheer sporting drama elevated to a God-like level. Deep in the madness, all I can confirm for certain is that, from where I was sitting, that that pass looked a mile forward.
Ireland’s tepid start only served to add to the occasion, as the gallant, Gallic home support got behind their side through deafening screams and a cacophonous trumpet rang out loudly throughout.
Although the French lacked that little bit of quality throughout to make the visitors pay, a lot of credit will rightly go to the hosts.
Did the side who started with six forwards of their eight-strong bench – and go six points clear early on – revert to quashing the ball and turning the match into the predicted slugfest?
Ireland's Fergus McFadden, Brian O'Driscoll, Andrew Trimble and Rob Kearney celebrate at the final whistleCredit ©INPHO/Billy Stickland
Not a bit. The French produce more artists per square mile than anywhere in the world, and they wanted to put on a proper show to match the occasion.
They danced and dazzled at times looking like the hard-running, dashing French side of old. Good on them. Let’s hope they joined O’Driscoll for a beer after as well. Out of respect — and admiration too.
Soon after the dramatic events leading to the final whistle, the bars of the appropriately titled number It Had To Be You played out as BOD uttered his final, graceful words in a green shirt.
It was clear that, while many French fans had stayed to credit Ireland’s Six Nations success, some had evaporated revealing ever more visiting fans dotted across the stadium.
Before lights dimmed for the presentation ceremony, the heroes enjoyed a victory march around all four provinces — sorry, corners — of the Stade de France.
The party carried on deep into the Parisian night.
