When Jack Charlton was manager of the Irish soccer team, the team used to stay at the Nuremore Hotel in Carrickmacross. I had just begun working for Northern Sound radio; doing everything from reporting news and sport to reading the death notices.

Ireland were due to play a crucial match. I can’t remember which one, but it may very well have been that infamous November 1993 World Cup qualifier in Belfast against Northern Ireland. The team were staying in the Nuremore and, of course, Northern Sound was the local radio station. So I thought it was my job to see if I could interview Jack Charlton. I rang the hotel and asked if I could be put through to his room. The lady on the switch duly obliged without haste.

The ring tone lasted about three seconds before it was picked up and the voice at the other end snarled: “Hello!”

The people in the radio station couldn’t believe it when they heard me introduce the lunchtime sports news

It was Jack Charlton. I introduced myself, but started rambling; trying to over explain my request for him to do an interview. He interrupted and said: “OK, get on with it.” And I did. The people in the radio station couldn’t believe it when they heard me introduce the lunchtime sports news with words to the effect: “...and earlier, I spoke to Jack Charlton.”

The Football Association of Ireland (FAI) can best be defined by how they have bungled their way along. Well, it was a well-documented form of bungling that saw Big Jack become Ireland manager in February 1986. I was almost 13 years old. For the next 10 years, I was in the box seat as a sports fan to soak up the so-called Charlton years.

I got off and ran to my dad’s pub just in time for the shoot out

I remember being on a double-decker bus that broke land speed records the day of the shoot out against Romania. I was sitting a Leaving Cert exam that afternoon in 1990, and the roads were deserted as I sat on that swaying 39 bus. I got off and ran to my dad’s pub just in time for the shoot out. I often wondered did the bus driver make it to his local. He did his best anyway.

In 1994, I was in the Citrus bowl in Orlando for the World Cup match against Holland, which we lost 2-0. Six days previously, Ireland qualified out of the group for the game. My dad spotted that a travel agent was offering an all-in package of flights and match ticket to the Dutch game, so he bought it for me.

This week I tried, in vain, to explain to my children the significance of Jack Charlton

I travelled alone, aged 21, on this charter flight, full of Irish fans, to Florida. The heat was horrendous. But it was a short round trip I’ll never forget.

This week I tried, in vain, to explain to my children the significance of Jack Charlton. It’s a cliché, but I do concur with the notion that he had a profound impact on this country beyond sport. I can say this because I was of the generation most affected. But there isn’t enough space here to explain it in full, so I have found myself feeling sorry for the people who have little or no memory of that decade.

Gosh, you actually interviewed Jack Charlton. How did you manage that?

They would also have little clue of those pre-Premiership, Sky Sports, millionaire-lifestyle, non-PR managed times either. Reminiscing about Charlton with a young journalist friend at the weekend, he exclaimed: “Gosh, you actually interviewed Jack Charlton. How did you manage that?”

“I just picked up the phone and rang his hotel room,” I replied.

RIP Big Jack.