On the first Saturday of June 2002, I stopped to do four things: meet my Dad, clean myself up, eat, and watch Ireland stuff the recently crowned African champs.
Dad only arrived at half-time, as the result of the usual Turkish attempts to screw foreigners over. When he was there, I felt much better, and we sat down to enjoy hamburgers as Ireland faced a 1-0 deficit from the opening half.
By the end of the game, all in the roadstop were cheering the mighty boys in green as Mattie Holland drove a well-deserved equaliser home. We should have won, according to all present, but it was enough to spring Dad and I forward to our European return.