kiss me, i'm irish.

Even though the Rugby World Cup pool matches are over, I want to take you back to the night of September 17, when Ireland rose victorious against the Wallabies.

It had not occurred to me to make the concerted effort to watch the game, and it was only the enthusiasm of a friend's fiancée that turned my attention to the television.  I was thinking to myself, why would I want to watch a game where it is not my beloved Manu Samoa playing?

In the early stages of the game it was quite obvious the household would have been happy with any winner on the night, as long as it was not Australia, which suited me just fine being loyal to the land of my birth.

At half-time, the game was locked 6-6 and I could feel some part of my being unfurling.  Then when the final whistle blew, I sat back in my chair with a sense of elation, not because Australia had been defeated.  No, I was elated because Ireland had won.

Amidst all the screaming and cheering and frightening my two-year-old niece (who did not know whether to laugh or cry staring at all the crazed adults in the room) an apple came crashing from the sky, smacking me nicely in the head.  I remembered, during of all things, a rugby game, that I have Irish blood running though my veins too.  Truly I do.

This is me - Teine 'Afakasi.