IF EVER one were looking for proof that capital punishment is due a comeback, they need search no further than Thomond Park last Saturday.

While the sight of almost 20,000 fans packed into a revamped Thomond Park was breathtaking, the sound of people – I say people, I mean children – jeering before each and every penalty kick was nothing short of infuriating to anyone who has taken pride in the silence traditionally granted to kickers in Limerick.

Well before the home of Munster Rugby became a stadium to rival any around Europe, the respect afforded to a kicker was a fundamental part of the Thomond Park experience.

The silence showed visiting sides that they were in a place where rugby – and those lucky enough to play it on this sacred ground – were revered. Before the ground had a museum, a shop and corporate suites, back when you paid local rogues a pound for needlessly beckoning you into a parking space, there was silence.

Back when a few thousand of those in attendance at big games had entered the ground over a wall behind Mayorstone Garda Station there was silence. Ever before the Fields of Athenry became the bizarre choice of anthem for the Munster supporters, before AIL games lost their crowds, before the sport went professional, well before this particular supporter was born, before the heartbreak of two lost finals and the pure ecstasy of two victorious ones, before the hats, before the flags, before the bloody headbands, there was silence.

And if we lose that most unique element of our support, then the difference between every other European club and Munster will become much less apparent. We have the super stadium, we have the imported superstars and we have the silverware – all of which are just wonderful by the way – but we must not lose our identity.

Like it or not, to the untrained eye the new Thomond Park isn't all that different from many of the other state-of-the-art grounds around Europe. Yes, it's magnificent, but the massive stands, merchandise stores and conference centres could just as easily belong to Toulouse, Stade Francais or countless soccer sides on the continent.

What sets us apart from other European superpowers is our knowledge, love and – most importantly – respect of the game and its players. While measured responses to refereeing decisions and 30,000 people looking at a big screen on O'Connell Street displays our knowledge and love, nothing, absolutely nothing better illustrates our respect than that beautiful, eery silence in a ground full of people just before an attempt at goal.

So if you are one of the lucky 26,000 in our new stadium this weekend and you do notice some pre-pubescent pimpleface or a 'Johnny come lately' adult shouting as the ball is put on the tee, don't be afraid to reprimand them.

It's also been tradition to tell someone in Thomond Park who didn't know any better to "shut their mouth" for longer than I can remember.


One favour too many

I NEVER much cared for Geography in school.

I couldn't understand why I needed to know where anywhere else was located as long as someone else could get me there. Unfortunately that indifference towards all matters geographic came back to bite me in the rosy reds at the weekend. Before my wits were fully about me on Saturday morning, I offered to give a friend a lift from Limerick to Nenagh.

Being the polite sort, she declined, saying it was far too long a distance to drive someone. "Not at all," I replied, "sure isn't Nenagh only out the road." Now to the untrained ear, this would sound like I was making little of quite a substantial favour but in reality, I genuinely thought Nenagh was literally "out the road", ie a few minutes drive, possibly even walkable on a nice day.

I'd be back before you knew it. It wasn't until I saw a sign for Nenagh with 37km printed underneath that I realised I'd made an error and thought how unusually generous a favour this must have seemed to my passenger.

I immediately started to fear that the my friends would think I had turned over a new, kinder, more accommodating leaf when in reality I had worked long and hard to build up a reputation as someone who should not be asked for a favour.

Kind of a "don't ask and you won't be disappointed" sort of thing. Needless to say, this one gesture had the potential to render my years of image-building as a 'Scroogely' sort pointless.

If word got out that I was now a soft target, every freeloading Tom, Dick and Harry would be asking me for lifts, loans and lends. I tried frantically to think of a way in which I could renege on my offer, with crashing or abandoning my car the best I could come up with at such short notice.

While tempting, neither of those were great options so I reluctantly ploughed ahead with my first selfless gesture since puberty. On the way home, I bought a road map of Munster and won't rest until I've learned every inch of it off by heart, allowing me to keep all future "favours" within a five-mile radius.