The Saudis had beaten Morocco but lost to the Dutch, who, themselves, having been beaten by Belgium, were unlikely to go through in first place. So it had been arranged for Jack to go and watch the Belgians. Belgium against Saudi Arabia also happened to be the next match on our schedule.

Tadhg De Brún [of RTÉ] and I flew down on the morning of the game. Jack was on the same flight. RTÉ, under Tim O’Connor, looked after its personnel in the field. The same could not be said of the FAI. Tadhg and I were up at the front of the plane. Jack was down the back.

Tadhg, ever the man to look after the stars of the show, made representations to the American Airlines cabin staff.

“You may not be aware,” he said, gently getting around the fact that while association football may be the most popular sport on the planet, its World Cup was coming in a distant second to what was uppermost in the host country’s consciousness, “the tall gent who’s just gone down the aisle is a main man in the big soccer gig.”

“Oh really?” Well, they could not have been more attentive. He was summoned to the first-class cabin and treated with the absolute respect he deserved.

It was clearly not what the crew were expecting, but they made the most of it. He was introduced to the captain and his presence on board was announced. He loved every minute.

When we landed, there was a driver holding a ‘Coach Charlton’ sign. Jack did the decent thing. “OK, you lot, get in. You don’t think I’m going to let you get a taxi.”

Belgium against Saudi Arabia got off to a sensational start. You often find teams at the World Cup whose players are not used to the conventions of the upper echelons of the elite game. They just do their own thing.

Like Cameroon, who had beaten Argentina in the opening game of Italia 90, Saudi Arabia played like young puppies let off the leash. There were just five minutes on the clock when a Belgian attack broke down and Saeed Al-Owairan took possession in what, in old money, would have been the left half position.

And off he went, slaloming past each opponent who challenged until he’d covered two-thirds of the pitch and reached Belgium’s penalty area. He fired and Saudi Arabia took the lead.

Tadhg was charged with bringing Jack to our commentary position for a half-time comment. He was being looked after in the VIP seats and it took some persuading to prise him away from the interval refreshments.

When he came into our box, he sat with his back to me throughout the interview, his way of making the point that he didn’t want to be there.

Saudi Arabia held on to win the game 1-0 and throw everything into confusion. The result meant the Netherlands, who had beaten Morocco while the Saudis made a mockery of the odds against them, were top of the group.

They would be Ireland’s opponents in the last 16. Jack’s scouting mission had been a complete waste of time.

What happened after the game, I’ll tell you in Tadhg’s words: “He came back up to us and told us he was meeting an old friend of his for a meal and would we care to join them.” We did, as their guests. There was a lot more to Jack Charlton than met the eye.

Of course, another dodgy Dutch goal sealed Ireland’s fate. Already 1-0 down after Dennis Bergkamp scored under the searing midday sun in Orlando, a tame shot from Wim Jonk somehow went through Packie Bonner’s hands.

There would be no way back from that second goal. Ireland went out, but the RTÉ roadshow rolled on.

Placing the tournament in the United States demanded early kick-offs to satisfy the European audience. It meant the games were played in insufferable heat.

It was no surprise that Ireland had eventually wilted. The tournament itself suffered. The showpiece games — the semi-finals and final — were thundering disappointments, with tired teams playing at a snail’s pace in the blistering conditions. It was so hot in Pasadena, my stopwatch melted.

The final was the first to end without a goal and the first to be decided on a penalty shoot-out. (You take the Finals to America to sell it to the locals, all of whose games demand score after score, and you deliver what should be the pièce de résistance, which ends up lasting two hours without producing a goal, never mind a winner. Surely there was a lesson in that.)

Brazil won the trophy — or rather Italy lost it. Roberto Baggio missed from the spot and that gave Brazil the Cup.

But there is one precious memory from that World Cup final weekend in California.

The night before the main event, in the LA Dodgers baseball stadium, one of the greatest acts ever assembled took to the stage for only the third time. The Three Tenors — Carreras, Domingo and Pavarotti — had first performed under that banner prior to the final of the 1990 World Cup. There was a selection of arias and Neapolitan songs for each to sing on his own, plus a medley for the three of them which brought the house down.

That open-air concert, amid the ruins of the ancient Caracalla Baths, had been conceived as a fundraiser for Carreras’ charity, which he’d set up when he recovered from leukaemia some years before.

There had been no indication of the phenomenon The Three Tenors would become. When it came to discussing performing rights for the CD and video that would follow, the singers settled for a flat fee rather than a percentage of sales.

They may well have rued that decision, for the concert, which reached a worldwide TV audience of 800 million, spawned what became the biggest-selling classical recording in history.

Pavarotti’s promoter, a US-based Hungarian impresario called Tibor Rudas, saw a huge opportunity. He’d already taken the tenor out of the opera house, putting on shows in unlikely locations from a marquee in New Jersey’s casino capital, Atlantic City, to Central Park in New York, racking up lucrative pay-days for his client along the way.

For a reprise of The Three Tenors, the first World Cup in the United States would provide the perfect setting.

Bringing opera to people who are not part of the opera world, as Rudas put it, would not only fill the Dodgers baseball stadium in Los Angeles on the night before the final, it would deliver stellar viewing figures right across the globe.

The tenors, football fans themselves, were at first reluctant to recreate what they’d regarded as a one-off, but they were won over by the fact that this concert, unlike the one in Rome, would be part of the official World Cup programme.

And that was where we came in. Quite literally, from behind the stage and onto the outfield. The organisers had set aside seats for the TV broadcasters.

RTÉ got three, meant for the great and the good of the rights-holding organisations. But while directors-general and chief executives from all of the major stations were there in abundance, the Irish broadcaster was represented by Tadhg De Brún, Maurice Reidy and myself.

Tadhg, a musician of considerable accomplishment, was thrilled to have the opportunity, though, like Jack Charlton at the Belgium game, Maurice took some convincing. Classical music wouldn’t be all that big in Castleisland, Kerry, where he comes from.

We entered the diamond facing the audience. In the front row was a vast array of famous faces.

I spotted Bob Hope and made a beeline for him. How often would you get the chance to meet, or more precisely gatecrash, a global superstar? He was 87 at the time, but he sparkled, clearly very happy to engage. His wife, Dolores, was seated beside him.

Tadhg, who’d been left a bit behind in my starstruck rush to shake Bob Hope’s hand, arrived at my shoulder and I introduced him as my colleague from the west of Ireland. “Well,” said Mrs Hope, “we have something in common.” She and Bob weren’t long back from a family reunion in Galway.

I would never have believed a spontaneous interaction with a personality like Bob Hope could have gone so well. We parted all smiles, the four of us grateful for the chat. Maurice had maintained a respectful distance.

Making our way along the front row towards the aisle that would lead us to our seats, I spotted another famous face.

I tried the Bob Hope approach once more but didn’t get close. Two large men in black suits converged blocking sight of my target. One of them spoke. “Mr Sinatra doesn’t want to speak to you.” Ol’ Blue Eyes, I reckon it was your loss.

The show was spectacular. On a stage that featured classical columns, waterfalls, fake rocks and abundant green foliage — a southern Californian rainforest, according to its creator — The Three Tenors went through their routine with Zubin Mehta conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic and the chorus of the Los Angeles Opera.

The American World Cup had one last surprise in store. Taking my seat on British Airways 747 back to Heathrow, I glanced across the aisle. Who was by the window on the other side? None other than Luciano Pavarotti.

This edited extract is taken from ‘The Nation Holds Its Breath’ by George Hamilton, published by Merrion Press