Keith Byrne, age 10, woke up one morning in Darndale with a single, burning ambition: Meet B.A. Baracus.
Not a teacher, not a footballer, not the Taoiseach — B.A. Baracus. Mr T. The man with the chains, the mohawk, and the attitude.
His mate Noel Murray, 13, clearly thought this was a perfectly reasonable plan. Because of course, if you want to meet a TV star in America, the obvious first step is… get the DART to Dún Laoghaire.
From there, the boys basically treated international borders like suggestions. They slipped onto a ferry, dodged police like seasoned fugitives, and arrived in Holyhead with the confidence of lads who thought the world was just one big playground.
Then came London. Heathrow. Security guards. Air India staff. A Boeing 747.
And two children who simply said: “Our mam and dad are just behind us.”
Apparently, in 1985, that was enough to get you on a transatlantic flight.
Once airborne, Keith discovered curry. Curry discovered Keith. Keith lost the fight.
They landed in New York, marched up to a policeman, and asked how to get “into town.” The policeman took one look at these tiny Irish travellers and thought: Absolutely not.
Within hours they were global celebrities, eating BLTs in a hotel suite with five security guards — which is more than most actual celebrities get.
All because Keith Byrne wanted to meet Mr T.
Why it’s so funny
It’s the purity of it. No malice, no mischief — just two kids who genuinely believed the world would let them wander into America because they fancied meeting a TV hero. And somehow… the world did.
After all that effort, all that sheer Dublin‑child determination, all those trains, ferries, planes, curries… and they STILL didn’t get to meet Mr T.
It’s almost too funny, because the boys genuinely thought America would greet them like honoured guests:
“Welcome, lads! B.A. Baracus is just over there, polishing his chains — he’ll be with you in a minute.”
Instead, the moment they asked a New York cop how to get “into town,” the adventure ended. The authorities basically said:
“Right. Hotel. Sandwiches. Security guards. And then home.”
Mr T never even knew they were coming.
When journalists asked Keith what he thought of America, he said:
“It’s big.”
That was it. The lad crossed the Atlantic illegally and gave a review worthy of a bored geography student.
But it’s also… a tiny bit tragic
Keith had one dream — meet B.A. Baracus, the toughest man on telly — and he got SO CLOSE. He made it to New York. He made it to the police station. He made it to the hotel with BLTs.
But not to Mr T.
After everything those two little Dublin heroes pulled off, the least America could’ve done was let them shake Mr T’s hand, get a photo, maybe even try on one of the chains. It would’ve been iconic.
And honestly — it would’ve solved half the problem. Imagine the press conference:
“Yes, they crossed international borders without passports, but look — Mr T is here, and he’s delighted.”
Instead, the authorities panicked, whisked them into a hotel, fed them BLTs, and sent them home like two runaway hamsters. No Mr T. No mohawk. No “I pity the fool.” Nothing.
Why letting them meet B.A. Baracus would’ve been perfect.
His whole persona — protecting kids, standing up for the underdog, being the tough guy with a soft heart — was made for two scrappy Dublin lads who crossed the Atlantic with nothing but hope and cheek.
He’d have seen them and thought:
“These boys got guts. I pity the fool who tries to stop them.”
And he’d have meant it.
THE MONTHLY MOSQUITO 