Years ago, I played in an AIL League game - won't say against who or where.

I'd say the ball got about five minutes airtime in the entire match. After the first all-inmill there was a granddaddy of a bench clearer - spotless wingers, ball boys, coaches, tea ladies, linesmen - it lasted for minutes. I neither started nor finished it nor did I engage in anything outside of Queensbury. After my immediate opponent was dispatched - I kind of just stood there - it was Vaudeville. I noticed a colleague 15-metres away who had his arms trapped and his opponent was pummelling him in the face. I ran over and literally rucked him off my teammate. I held him down for no more than 10 seconds, until my teammate had recovered himself.

I was then socked from behind - it was a Dunnes Stores shot - really cheap. It also hurt. Hadn't seen it coming.

At this stage I was vaguely aware that someone was screaming and shouting at me. The crowd were fairly animated but this old fella was apoplectic. I knew he was shouting at me because he was roaring my name out.

There were nearly 40 people on the pitch fighting but strangely enough it was me who he had decided to single out.

I floored the cheapskate whereupon I stepped out of the melee, not too far away from the touchline. If you ever ask a seven-year-old what's the worst bad word he has said, he would come up with something like smelly poo, bum breath, bollix, fecker. This guy in his senior years was trying too hard to shout dreadful things, too hard that you wouldn't mind him at all. But like one of these awful polyphonic ringtones, you pray that someone will switch it off quickly. In quite intimidating fashion, I ran over to the advertising hoardings, vaulted them a couple of metres away from where this fella was standing. I have never seen a scalded cat but your man slipped and fell on his arse as he tried to get away. Some of the observers laughed at the situation. I jumped the hoardings again and strolled back into Madison Square Garden.

I was at all times calm and in control, my intention being to shut the guy up.

There was never any question of violence. I was delighted he fell on his arse and got soaked through. Afterwards someone told me that he was thinking of taking action. For what? Me jumping the fence?

My friend was a brave man for thinking that after shouting for two or three minutes the worst vitriol his little mind could think of, that an advertising hoarding could protect him from someone who was a foot taller, eight stone heavier and had just extricated himself from a brawl. If he had met me in a shopping centre would he have said those things to me? I was just two feet away from him. Does a fiver at the gate entitle him to roar abuse at me, most of if unconnected with my ability as a rugby player? Why didn't he shout abuse at one of the spotless wingers? Is there some form of self-empowerment which you gain from baiting a well-known player?

Prior to this incident I played a warmup match in 1991 just before the World Cup. Cork Constitution and Old Wesley were celebrating their centenaries and they picked a joint XV to play Ireland.

After the match I was about to go into the corporate hospitality tent. A couple of people, teammates included, came out into the blistering sunshine covered in the brightest blood I had ever seen. Some just had flecks of blood, others had their entire shirts drenched in it. A bomb or knife murderer - it had to be.

What had happened was that a young 20-something player had come up to an Irish team member who had played well that day. The guy came over and blurted out that this player shouldn't be anywhere near the Irish team, it was a disgrace and he said so in a fairly forceful manner. My teammate understandably took umbrage - he also took him out. One punch. Floored him. Covered everyone in the vicinity with blood.

Yer man is carried away. Meanwhile the whole team congratulated the punch - well I did anyway.

The story didn't get out of bed. It didn't make the press but most significantly there were no inquiries or reports. There was never any thought of criminal action. There was serious provocation, he got what he deserved and would have been embarrassed if he had tried to take it any further. That was 1991, this is now. What happened in