Month: June 2016

Sin é. All over. Including the shouting. Normal life resumes. The tournament goes on without Ireland and the big boys will fight on to Paris in a few weeks. Dry your eyes out, go back to work and those other second-rate hobbies, have a cup of tea and relax because it’ll be a while before you get those feelings of euphoria and heartbreak in your life again. What a fortnight though. It seems like months since Wes Hoolahan had us on our feet with that beautifully crafted goal against Sweden. It’s been just over two weeks. Two weeks not unlike the 2 year campaign that led us to France, containing polar opposite lows and highs with very little in-between. There was no average game in this tournament. We were the better team by some distance in 2 1/2 out of 4 games; and nowhere near our opponents in the other 1 1/2. No in-between. And perhaps that’s how it will be remembered.

I read somewhere a few months back that this Ireland team would make the 2012 team look terrible; like impostors; pretend internationals. In a way, the performances in France achieved that, but moreover, they confirmed that Trappatoni and Tardelli were a pair of hacks when it came to this job. Even accounting for the fact that a number of players such as Hendrick and Randolph have emerged more recently, the absence of Coleman, Hoolahan et al and the lack of game-time given to others over the Trap years now looks like gross incompetence on the part of the Italians. Ireland 2016, in essence, made absolute shit of Ireland 2012.

It’s too soon to rehash the stories of how each game unfolded in the manner of previous posts (Euro 88, Italia 90, USA 94, and Japan and Korea 2002), as we’ve just seen them and read all about them so I’ll approach this one a bit differently.

The build-up to the tournament was subdued. The sting of Poland was still felt and we knew this was yet another difficult group, in a tournament format that required other results in other groups to fall kindly. We ‘knew’ we had to beat Sweden however. Experts, of the paid media and barstool variety, all agreed.

So it was off to the Swan on Aungier Street at 4pm on Monday 13th June, a great Dublin pub. Annual leave and ‘flexi’ had been arranged to suit the fixtures. Tuesday would be a day off because you never know, and it’s always better to be safe. Amazingly, we arrived to 4 empty stools under the TV at the bar. It would be rammed by 4:45 however. We were the lucky ones. Then Wes scored that wonderful, wonderful goal and we were on our feet. The difference in this game to other games we’ve taken the lead in recently (Scotland, Germany, even Georgia), was that we felt we could hold this one. We were playing very well, with little threat coming from Sweden, and the most panic in the Irish defence was in fact, self-inflicted with Ciaran Clark doing his best to beat Randolph. He eventually succeeded after the only peek we had of Zlatan all day.

2 points dropped. Not quite doom and gloom, but not far off. Tougher tests lay ahead. Positives emerged all over the park, but none so clear as the performance of Jeff Hendrick. The Dubliner had shown great quality at times in the qualification campaign, but in this match he took a giant leap forward, controlling the game, creating, and coming close to scoring with a rocket off the Swedish crossbar.

Belgium. Saturday afternoon. Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street. Another one of the best pubs in Dublin, but not too hectic for the match, which was fine as the Irish team weren’t too hectic either. Battered by a better side who were intent on showing their quality after their disappointing and very poor defeat to Italy in the first game. We had a definite penalty refused at 0-0 – see picture below. Had we scored then, god knows what would’ve happened, but defensive lapses and naivety combined with lethal marksmanship done for us. This was a disaster. Not only were we stuck on 1 point, but our goal difference coupled with the results that would come about in the other groups meant nothing but a victory against Italy would do.

I booked my flight to Charleroi months ago, with tickets secured through those allocated to FAI season ticket holders. I had a feeling about Italy. Knowing that, no matter what, this match was likely to be decisive due to the format of the tournament, I put all my money on it. As I walked into Lille City Centre with my mate Bryan (he of the Polish police assault in 2012), we found a roundabout with a few bars around it already being colonised by the Green Army’s advance party. Every passing minute the crowd grew and the traffic gave way. Footballs bounced around and as usual the locals wandered around with a wry smile which said they loved it, but will be happy enough to have their city back by Friday. We left this location about 6 hours later. Sunburnt and hopeful. But we never in our wildest of imaginations could have predicted the drama ahead.

Getting to the stadium was not the easiest. As an aside, one of the greatest decisions in Irish sport was surely the maintenance of Lansdowne Road as our national stadium within walking distance of the city centre. Imagine having to trek to fucking Abbotstown for all those games and imagine not having every pub in Dublin 4 and 2 and many more so accessible before and after. I’ll take the diminished north stand and the 50,000 capacity any day over the alternative. History and location are important.

Anyway, Stade Pierre Mauroy is not central. It sits close to the University of Lille’s campus on a fairly low capacity driverless tram line. Security was bloody slow, but you can’t really complain about that. Once inside the ground however, there was a special buzz. By 10 minutes in we were all thinking that Ireland looked assured; confident; and belonging at that level. Even if it was an under-strength Italy, the 11 in blue would give any team a game. As many have explained before and since, unlike the white of England, the Azzurri brings out the best in Italian footballers and they don’t bring bad players to tournaments. We had chances and they had chances. But we would have the moment…

It’s incredible how 5 minutes can wash away almost 15 years. It wasn’t just Robbie Brady in my mind as I jumped around the stadium, hugging strangers, screaming as we went 1-0 up. It was all the near-misses and football disasters beforehand – the 2 weeks in Poland; Thierry Henry; Cyprus away; Staunton as manager; Brian Kerr and Israel and Switzerland. It was all the nonsense comparing the footballers to the rugby team; the “you wouldn’t get that in the GAA” brigade; all of the years that Irish football was ridiculed and made a national punchline because for a decade and a half we punched at or below our weight for a fucking change. Could tonight in this stadium be one of those great nights? What about the 12 year old kid beside me in the stadium with his parents who was bawling his eyes out after the goal, bringing me right back to my own formative Italia 90 experience. Could he be denied this night?

I spent the next 5 minutes hunched over the seat in front. Could I vomit? Possibly. Was my head splitting from the beer and indoor humidity? Yes indeed. Can I feel my left arm? Yes (thankfully) Will it ever end??? God will it ever fucking end?

Then it did. It finally ended. And the place, already in the midst of a volcanic event, erupted even further. I have never in my life experienced anything quite like this. Everything listed above rushing through my head and heart. The crowd in absolute rapture. Grown men all over the place crying. Women and children too. No-one knew where to turn so we all just turned to whoever. Hugging, singing, cheering. Our lads, our Boys in Green had beaten Italy. Their place in national history secured. We still talk about Houghton, Whelan, Sheedy, Quinn and O’Leary. Now it’s going to be Robbie Brady. No one will forget that moment. We had finally surpassed expectations again. For the first time in a long, long time. We were out of the group. Into the knockout stages of a tournament for the first time in 14 years. The players came over for the congratulations. The Fields of Athenry belted out endlessly in the stadium, before one-by-one we left, texts flying back and forth between Lille and home. We knew we had seen something truly special. And another generation had their night!

The tram ride back was a sweaty stinking ordeal, but all worthwhile for the moment when we emerged from the underground into the concourse of Gare de Lille Flandres station. Hundreds of fans were standing around the escalators as they came up to ground level but the acoustics of the cavernous station building made it sound like thousands. Again it was The Fields of Athenry, endlessly. It was an incredible moment. To be welcomed into the station by that crowd, then to join in for half an hour and watch the rest of the supporters stare around at this sight was unforgettable. Forget the last pint lads. Just soak it in. Thursday was sweet. Thunder and lightning all morning followed by glorious sunshine all day long. In the evening we headed back to Charleroi and to Dublin, privileged with the knowledge that the host nation awaited on Sunday.

And in Lyon it would end. For me, it was the Sugar Club on Leeson Street which is a bloody marvellous place to watch a big match with it’s cinema layout and massive screen. We had a dream start and a pretty phenomenal hour of Irish football, undone by 10 minutes of French quality; some Irish naivety; and a centre-half doing what he had to do and getting himself sent off. 2-1 it ended. We could have equalised. We had a go, but there were no complaints. The better team won fairly and we would be on our way home.

There’s been plenty already said and written and there’ll be plenty more to be said and written about the Irish performance in Euro 2016. We’ve heard daftness on a regular basis from Eamon Dunphy, a man I’ve always respected in many ways, but in the last fortnight he has well and truly exposed himself as a bluffer and, in his own words, a cod. Each line-up announcement was greeted like a blasphemous text; each mistake or conceded goal as an excuse to peddle another one of his hobby-horses. McCarthy, Clark and Shane Duffy were all scapegoated and treated fairly disgracefully by this clown, who has now decided John O’Shea is some sort of Irish Fabio Cannavaro for fucks’s sake. Eamon, you can inform the viewers as to how and why a goal was conceded but you don’t have to hang a player every fucking time and claim the alternative would not have conceded the goal. We’ve had plenty of shite defensive performances with O’Shea in there. Dunphy, like his knackered hobby-horses, needs to be put out to pasture. He has become nothing but click-bait for the national broadcaster and has plummeted in my humble estimation.

On the other side, and to be positive,  the phenomenal Second Captains have proven to be among the very best in sports broadcasting on these islands once again. A new hour of material every day of the Euros, an hour of quality, insight and humour. Highlights include Ken Early’s refusal to review the Ireland Belgium game, instead taking up about 10 precious minutes of airtime reviewing the game that should have happened where the “Jean Claude Van-Damming” of Shane Long led to a penalty and we won as Belgium, under pressure and falling apart, could not muster up an equaliser. Quality stuff, as was his wonderful story of getting back from an England game on the train. Sounds mundane but it was nothing of the sort. Add in the rest of the lads, the world class guests, and we have a clear, outright winner when it comes to the Irish sports media. We waited in a department store – quite a posh one – in Lille so we could use their wifi to download the post-Italy podcast to listen to on the drive back to Charleroi. It took a while and pushed us into the next hour of car park charges but it was well worth it.

So I’d like to end with the one most important outcome of these Euros for Ireland. Above all else it was a time when the Irish people fell back in love with the Boys in Green. A time for new heroes, at long last. We had a taste against Germany, but all of the problems and issues for the national team ebbed away with, let’s upgrade it to 3, memorable performances in France, including rattling the host nation in front of 55,000 of their fans. That was the first time we had ever led in a knock-out tournament game in our history. In all the folklore of the Charlton years with all those world-class players, we had never taken the game to anyone like that and led. And held on for so long. These lads were the ones that did that. This group with this management team have created some of the best football memories in Irish history in the last 2 years, just when you thought you would never see their likes again. We owe them big and we will let them know next time the old ground in Dublin 4 opens up. Here’s to the next World Cup campaign and let’s make qualification seem normal again, and let’s make performing well at the tournament normal again. Wales, Serbia and Austria await. My season ticket will be sent out soon. And the whole bloody palaver starts all over again….

Merci.

 

Listen, it’s always better to be there than not. In amongst the top 16 of the continent, while many larger nations; many nations where football is the undisputed major field sport; and nations with a deeper footballing culture, miss out entirely. We stumbled into this tournament without one decent performance in qualifying – Ireland were not good in Moscow. Richard Dunne was, and we survived an absolute annihilation. We were gifted the woeful Estonia in the play-off who made it even easier by getting a red card in the first leg, in which we strolled to a 4-0 away victory. We paid more attention to the paper planes in the 2nd leg in Lansdowne, as a very mild party unfolded. We were there. For the first time in 10 years, we had qualified. Having been robbed 2 years previously, it was felt we deserved this one. And you never know what might happen over there…

This time the draw was cruel. 3 countries from the FIFA top ten. In any scenario where your best bet is a result against Croatia, you’re fucked. And nothing in the qualifying campaign or the build-up; the squad selection; the friendlies; the interactions with the media, nothing gave us confidence. And we were right. So unlike the previous reviews of Ireland’s performances in major tournaments, I’m just going to put up my holiday snaps from the fortnight in Poland instead. Much better. We were dirt on the field, absolute dirt, but all of us who travelled took back great memories of Poland. And it’s not a case of “win or lose, we’re here for the booze”. There were moments of real anger and real frustration from the terraces. We were, to a man and woman, disgusted with what we saw, or did not see. We saw no cohesion; no effort to get back into a game; no leadership; no guts; no willingness to change from Trappatoni – exemplified by his choice of a first XI that had just conceded 7 goals in 2 games for the last game; and we saw no hope. No hope for the next campaign. Trap was finished as Irish manager by half-time in the Spanish game. That we stumbled on after Poland with him in charge into a disgraceful humiliation at home to the Germans the following Autumn was a dreadful reflection on all involved.

But for those who were there, these may bring back some of the good times. For those who weren’t, maybe they’ll show why we still, to an extent, speak fondly of this trip.

Before packing:

Town Square in Poznan the day before we kicked off:

Before the Croatia game “Muintir na hÉireann, Táimid i nGrá Libh”:

On tram to the ground:

2012 – Ireland in the middle of the bailout:

One of the more memorable flags of the time. Perhaps one with Shane Long mooning her would reflect the more recent footballing relationship between our 2 countries…

Class.

Sopot the night before the Spanish game. Irish team hotel about 200 yards away to the left…

Manolo. Gdansk…

Crackin’ t-shirt

Iker Casillas vs Ireland. Yep. 90 minutes of this…

Gdansk shipyards. Where Polish communism started to truly fall apart. The site now of a great museum dedicated to the struggle across Poland.

Hope in advance of the Spanish onslaught…

That’s my mate Bryan. You might remember this photo from the other side.

Newspaper in Poznan the day I left Poland.

 

No one went to Poland for a holiday. We went for the football. As such, we were not satisfied just with being there. We had to perform. And we were awful. The dreadful mantra that “we didn’t have the players” grew up based to a great degree on this tournament and on the performances and results from 2010 to 2013 generally. It was bullshit. Absolute bullshit. And we’ve proven that wrong on a few occasions since, admittedly not throughout the whole campaign. Now we can prove it in a tournament.

Bring it on!!!

 

As I said here, we waited long enough to get back in the big time. The Netherlands, Belgium and Turkey had all pipped us in play-offs to Euros ’96 and 2000, and France ’98. Good Irish teams had fallen at the last fence, particularly in the two previous campaigns. But while Euro ’88 and Italia ’90 saw Irish football earthquakes on the pitch, it was off the pitch events that brought Ireland to the forefront this time around. What happened in Saipan and in the days and weeks afterwards is the stuff of folklore now. It divided the nation like no other sporting story in our history. But it happened, and once closure was obtained, the business of football began. This was a far more satisfying Irish performance perhaps than at USA ’94. We played brilliantly at times and were desperately unfortunate (but not unlucky) to lose out on penalties to a decent, but far from great, Spanish side, in a slightly chaotic match in the end. We did all this while our best player and captain, and arguably the most influential player in Europe stayed in Manchester instead of leading his country. Perhaps that’s why some of us have such warmth towards that team – that through all that upheaval and upset, they galvanised themselves and delivered some great moments, gave us some great memories as well, and were left kicking themselves not to have emulated the heroes of Italia ’90 by getting to the last 8.

Qualification

For us to get to Japan and Korea, we would have to get past either Portugal or The Netherlands – no mean feat. We would not only get between them, but we would emerge unbeaten and on a memorable September day, we beat the Dutch in Lansdowne Road despite going down to 10 men at 0-0. This was no upset. After all we had  thrown away a victory in the away game when we went from flying at 2-0 up to hanging on for dear life at 2-2. Roy Keane was notably less happy with that point than Mick McCarthy – an omen of what was to come later. An insane play-off against Iran followed where we took a 2 goal lead to Tehran and managed to hang on to win 2-1 on aggregate in front of 120,000 people. Relief all round. A result obtained also without Roy Keane, this one due to injury. But a play-off victory at long last.

Saipan

Beautiful eh? Certainly it looks slightly more “car park” than “training pitch”, in fairness to Roy, but how could such a peaceful place be the scene of such uproar. Ah ok… It wasn’t just 2002. So you know the story. Roy gave an interview berating preparations. Mick challenged him publicly. Roy fucked off. Roy came back. Something else happened. Someone sent someone home. Steve Staunton couldn’t believe his ears. Bertie (remember that ****) said he’d sort it out. Niall Quinn shook his head. The young lads got upset. The nation went into a collective seizure. Sky Sports moved its entire operation to Triggs’ favourite walk. And eventually we all got on with our lives and the tournament. Seriously there is no point revisiting it now in any great detail. All that’s relevant now is that we had to face Cameroon, Germany and Saudi Arabia without Roy Keane. It could only happen to Ireland, many idiots have since said despite this happening at the same tournament.

June 1st 2002 – Niigata Stadium, Niigata. Ireland 1-1 Cameroon

The nation held its breakfast for this one, rather than its breath. I think it was an 8am kick off Irish time. So the only black stuff being consumed was the burnt edges of the rashers. On the pitch, the pattern of Irish World Cup games from Italia ’90 continued here. Falling behind in the first half, followed by a second half equaliser. This time Patrick Mboma gave Cameroon the lead and Matt Holland popped up with a fairly decent strike from the edge of the box, not long after half-time. As I recall, we probably should have kicked on from there and won the game, but just lacked that little bit extra that was required and perhaps settled for the draw in the end. A solid, but unspectacular start. All that was really asked for given the events of the previous few weeks.

(I seem to also recall something about Cameroon wearing some sort of onesie kit that year! Anyone else?)

June 5th 2002 – Kashima Soccer Stadium, Kashima. Ireland 1-1 Germany

Yet again we fall behind, this time to an early header from Miroslav Klose. We were in big trouble here, but played pretty well. We pressed and pressed, once again showing a global giant that we were indeed their peers. There was no luck involved in the late goal either. It was well deserved. McCarthy brought on Niall Quinn to get in amongst the Germans, and it was his flick from a Steve Finnan long ball that invited Robbie Keane onto it. With nothing but pure Robbie instinct, he squeezed it past Oliver Kahn. The country erupted. Total and absolute drama on a par with Genoa! I came to as the final whistle went with grass stains all over my knees having lost it completely and ran around my friend’s back garden screaming my head off for a few minutes. Pure relief. All we needed was to beat the Saudis by 2 clear goals to ensure our passage to the second round.

And who could forget Mick McCarthy’s face as Robbie scored…

June 11th 2002 – International Stadium Yokohama, Yokohama. Ireland 3-0 Saudi Arabia

It probably should have been a lot easier, but as it happened any sort of victory would have done us as Cameroon lost 2-0 to Germany. A decent strike from Robbie, but one an U-12 DDSL keeper would’ve saved; a rare beauty from Gary Breen; and a jammy enough one from Duffer – that the aforementioned schoolboy keeper’s younger brother would’ve saved – wrapped up our second ever win in World Cup tournaments.

It was worth celebrating, and the noon kick-off meant we watched this one with pints that were more respectable than any sneaky early morning ones earlier in the group. A beautiful day in Dublin as well. I watched the game in what was then called the Down Under bar in Stephen’s Green. After full-time we sauntered down Grafton Street and hung around Kehoe’s for many hours in the afternoon sun, before toddling over to  Bruxelles and McDaids for the evening. An evening which included a pretty impressive 15-20 a side game of football on Harry Street at some stage and then a Nitelink home at about 2. You just have to love being in a World Cup and doing well.

June 16th 2002 – Suwon World Cup Stadium, Suwon. Ireland 1-1 Spain (Spain win 3-2 on penalties)

I watched this in the front room of a house in Clonsilla, in the back garden of which was, and still is, this recording studio. I was in a band called Mixtwitch at the time and we were recording our 2nd album. Fucking great stuff altogether. How I managed to end up there for this match is beyond me, but we all made sacrifices. So we managed to take enough of a break to witness the entire 2 and half hours of drama, excitement, hope, heartbreak, despair and anger that accompanied this particular tournament exit.

Spain were decent. They may not have scaled the heights that their successors would, but they were completely robbed by the referee in the next round against the co-hosts South Korea. Italy were similarly robbed at the last 16-stage against the same opponents, so you’d have to ask questions of that. The spine of this Spanish side were Casillas, Puyol and Hierro, and Raul and Morientes, and it was no surprise that it was the latter who gave them a lead after 8 minutes. Yet again, we were behind and yet again we would have to dig deep, very very deep, to salvage an equaliser.

We played great however. Damien Duff tormented them. We were given a great chance when he was – without any doubt whatsoever 😉 – unceremoniously upended in the box  for a penalty. Up stepped Ian Harte, and if you think it’s bad to miss a penalty, his blunder was somewhat overlooked after Kevin Kilbane made a dog’s dinner of the rebound! We would get another chance in the dying seconds when Hierro tried to take Niall Quinn’s jersey off. Robbie Keane had a go this time and, as usual, slotted home. A reprieve. A well-deserved reprieve. This team really had something more when required.

In extra time, however, we truly had something more – an extra man – as the Spanish had used up all their subs when Albelda went off injured. For some reason this advantage did not trickle down to the management team and possible even the players. In the cauldron of a World Cup last 16 match, this may be understandable, but not excusable. We should have really gone after them, rather than just be the better team. They were there for the taking had we really committed. The half-hour passed, and on we went to penalties.

Matt Holland, Kevin Kilbane and David Connolly all missed. Juanfran and Valeron also missed for Spain. Mendietta’s kick was to win it. And it just squeaked past Shay Given’s left foot as he dived to his right. Spain were through.

So that was that. Again we emerged from our group.That made us part of the top 16 in 3 of the previous 4 World Cups. We don’t tend to look back on McCarthy’s era with as much fondness as Charlton’s. It was less successful – mainly due to having so little luck in comparison, but we played good football; we had great results; and we had a solid tournament despite losing our captain and best player – the best player in the English League and one of the very best in Europe. The upheaval within the squad in advance of the World Cup cannot be overestimated. It is a testament to the senior players in particular that we did what we did here – regardless of where you stand on the Roy Keane episode.

The inquiries and investigations led to the Genesis report. Has anything changed? Really changed? Has the last week, and some of the stuff said by O’Neill and one Roy Keane, in the Irish camp shown we’re still a bit all over the gaff in this respect? The shambolic last 12 months of Trappatoni’s reign, including his disgraceful treatment of some players and his disdain even for the talents of those he selected; the FIFA €5m nonsense; John Delaney’s schoolboy antics in pubs and town squares across the Continent; the fact that Denis O’Brien is involved; the way in which a team can pull out of our national league while the blazers were having the craic in Poland 4 years ago; and last week how Athlone could not field a side while we were preparing for France? Not to mention the treatment of Brian Kerr and the subsequent appointment of Steve Staunton. Or John Delaney’s salary. The FAI have presided over a fairly regular litany of shambolic episodes since Saipan, but it stumbles on and on. A tournament every so often seems to placate the masses.

But we deserve something more. We deserve to see our team put it up to the likes of Germany and Spain every time. We did just that in qualifying for EURO 2016. Now let’s do it over there.

Jaysus, it starts in 2 days and I’m only on USA 94. This was a strange tournament for Ireland looking back. It most certainly featured our best ever result on a big stage; beating eventual finalists Italy 1-0 in the opening game, but then we kinda limped out of the group and left America with a whimper. There was some degree of gruff hubris on the part of Jack Charlton in not bothering to attend some of the pre-tournament workshops, where minor details like when the players could get water would be discussed – not that big a deal for us northern Europeans playing 90 minutes in Florida in June, but apart from that we went into the tournament as dark horses – not to get out of the group, but to go on and win the bloody thing, having beaten both the Dutch and the Germans away in the build-up, while we were sitting in the top 10 of the FIFA rankings.

Qualification

We qualified by the skin of our teeth, getting between Spain and European Champions Denmark. This achievement has always been overlooked particularly when compared to the 2002 World Cup qualification. Perhaps had a more glamorous team than Denmark been the ‘best in Europe’ at the time and we had done them, it would have been more celebrated today. Coupled with the dreadful atmosphere on the final night in Belfast, perhaps we often forget that our campaign to get there was fairly impressive, losing only once at home to Spain, Charlton’s first competitive home defeat.

June 18th 1994 – Giants Stadium, New Jersey. Ireland 1-0 Italy

Revenge for Rome. Ray Houghton etches his name even deeper into Irish football folklore. What a great goal and what a performance from Ireland. We were never overly worried and could have even added another when  John Sheridan hit the crossbar. I remember this game for 3 other things however. One, Paul McGrath owning Roberto Baggio, and anyone else who dared challenge. Two, it was the first time in my life I experienced uncontrollable shakes, as the clock passed 90 and into injury time. And three, we won with Tommy Coyne starting up front on his own – a Motherwell player against Costacurta, Maldini, Baresi et al. It was a phenomenal start and proved that the performance 4 years previously was no flash in the pan and this result itself was no upset. The traditional elite were our peers now, and we were beating them.

June 24th 1994 – Citrus Bowl, Orlando. Ireland 1-2 Mexico

An all-round disaster, remembered primarily for John Aldridge’s mickey fit on the sideline, followed by his goal, the importance of which only became apparent a few days later. We were terrible, fried in the heat of a midday game in near tropical conditions. Dehydrated before it even kicked off, we were not prepared for this. 2 from Luis Garcia put the Mexicans clear, the second included that rarest of footballing events – a Denis Irwin mistake. Aldo’s 83rd minute goal, in normal circumstances, would almost always lead to a fightback from this team, but in those conditions it was well beyond them. A major bump in the road.

June 28th 1994 – Giants Stadium, New Jersey. Ireland 0-0 Norway

So we went into this final game with all 4 teams on 3 points with a win and a defeat each. We were ahead of Norway on goals scored so all we needed was a draw. I watched this one in the Olympia or the Gaiety theatre on the big screen with my sister, her fella (future brother-in-law) and all their work mates. I remember nothing of the match. I was underage so it wasn’t the booze. It was just an awful, awful game of football. Any memories you may have, you’re welcome to share. We got out of the group. But if we’re to be honest, our tournament had long since peaked. The elation of Palermo 4 years ago was nowhere to be seen. All teams were level on 4 points, but John Aldridge’s goal in Orlando, seemingly consolatory at the time, was the pivotal moment in deciding the group in our favour. We finished runners-up.

July 4th 1994 – Citrus Bowl, Orlando. Ireland 0-2 The Netherlands

2 mistakes. One a ludicrous Terry Phelan back header that led to the first Dutch goal, but the second by Packie Bonner in letting Wim Jonk’s weak shot through his hands was probably the worst of his distinguished career. It has been largely forgotten that the Dutchman strolled right through the Irish midfield without a care in the world before shooting. That was it then. Paul McGrath had a goal disallowed at the death but we were outplayed by a decent Dutch side. Two finals tournaments out of three then we fell to the Dutch, and we would have to wait a while, and suffer one further heartbreak at their hands, before getting some degree of revenge.

Despite Jack Charlton staying on for the Euro 96 campaign, ended by the Netherlands again, this time in a play-off at Anfield, I think USA 94 was the true end of his era. New blood was coming through, players were retiring, but above all else, the game itself was changing rapidly. Charlton was becoming a relic. The sort of nonsense he got away with due to his being gifted a phenomenal group of players, by any country’s standards, would not do anymore. Harry Ramsden’s Challenge  led to an embarassment at home to Austria in the next campaign. We were also stuffed 3-0 away to Portugal and drew 0-0 away to Liechtenstein – unthinkable performances in previous campaigns. We finished above Northern Ireland by virtue of our head-to head and Charlton’s newest challenge in an expanding Europe came by having to play-off for a place at the Euros despite finishing second. We failed and would fail again at the next 3 attempts.

USA 94 seemed routine. Missing out on Euro 92 seemed to be an unfortunate blip due to getting a very tough draw; some degree of complacency; and a late Gary Lineker goal in Poland in the last game. But one epic result in the opening game of the World Cup could not mask the fact that this was a team in decline. The new blood, with Roy Keane emerging as one of Europe’s greatest players of the 1990’s, would be desperately unlucky not to qualify regularly. They would finally get their reward but we’d all be made wait long enough. And we all remember what happened there…

_________

EURO 2016 – 2 days to go… 5 until we kick off…Get in the mood

Where do you start? As significant a month as there ever was in this country. In any sphere. When Jack Charlton, Packie Bonner and David O’Leary were added not only to the list that included Eamonn Coghlan, Ronnie Delaney and Christy O’Connor Jr., but the other one, the one that included Ulysses, The Joshua Tree and Oscar Wilde. This was beyond football. This was a sporting and cultural earthquake, and one that many out there regard as the nascent stirrings of the Celtic Tiger. We had arrived. Ireland – the country, not just the football team – had arrived.

The indescribable communal mania that gripped the nation for that summer is still felt. We still look back on it as the time when Ireland went from the odd cheeky grin, the nod and the wink, to a full-throated belly laugh and unapologetically threw off the shackles of a downtrodden history. The country, simply put, went absolutely fucking mental. For soccer. Men and women who had never seen a match in their lives were glued to their tellies. Men and women who would spit the word “soccer” before now were inviting over the neighbours for the matches. Whopping loans were taken out with the Credit Unions across the land. Work, school, everything stopped for each match. How do you think O’Connell Street will look when we kick off against Sweden this month? Quieter than normal absolutely. But will it be literally deserted? And I mean not one single soul, no cars, buses or bicycles on the main street of a city of over 1 million people. That’s how it was. It was magnificent, and I was 12 years old at the time – the perfect age for it. I was there for the two group games in Palermo, and while I was always going to be a football fan, I may not have gone to Poland in 2012, or bought several Ireland season tickets to date, or have tickets for France, if it wasn’t for Italia ’90. It changed everything. So let’s roll back the years and remember how it all happened.

Qualification

A bit of a stroll. 2nd place would do. We started off with a string of away games, drawing with Northern Ireland and Hungary and losing to Spain. With 4 home matches in a row, things turned radically in our favour as, first, Spain were beaten, before Malta, Hungary, and Northern Ireland were all brushed aside easily enough in the Lansdowne daylight in those days before the floodlights. All we needed then was an away draw with Malta in the last game. There was never even a question of an upset and we emerged 2-0 winners.

(All images in this post are from YoG’s personal collection of programmes and press cuttings)

Our reward was a trip to Sardinia and Sicily with England, The Netherlands and Egypt.

June 11th 1990 – Stadio Sant’Elia, Cagliari. Ireland 1-1 England

Euro ’88 was our baptism in major tournaments. A superior beast of a tournament in the footballing sense with no bad teams and few bad games. As soon as this one began, however – in the final build-up – we knew it was different. This was the World Cup, the greatest stage in sport. And Ireland was there. The Tricolour and Amhrán na bhFiann. For so long we had looked in from the outside as our closest rivals contested it; when our opponents that night won it in 1966; then their neighbours to the north, Scotland could not stop qualifying; and then as our nearest neighbours to the north qualified and made their own great memories in 1982 and ’86. When the hell was our turn going to come? So this was already different to Germany. Euro 88 showed them what we could do. It also showed the Irish public what Irish football could do, but now we had our chance to actually do it. And we bloody well did.

As I said here, this was no bad English side. Managed by the great Bobby Robson, they inexplicably drew a blank in Germany, but would return from Italy with their best performance at a major tournament since 1966. This was a close match. Massive thunderstorms lit up the stadium as the drowned fans kept the singing going. England took the lead through a messy Gary Lineker opener, and Ireland pushed for the equaliser; a good finish from Kevin Sheedy, but the build-up was ugly. A hoof from Bonner fell to Sheedy who played it forward straight to Steve McMahon, who rather politely gave it straight back, at which point Sheedy buried it from the edge of the box. A solid enough start all the same.

June 17th 1990 – Stadio La Favorita, Palermo. Ireland 0-0 Egypt

The England game wasn’t great, but this was a disaster. I think Steve Staunton had a long-range effort go close at some point but I choose not to remember the football. I do remember the occasion. We were staying in Sliema, Malta for the week and taking the Catamaran over for the 2 matches, there and back in the one day/night. I remember playing in a 20-a-side football match on the dock in Valletta at 5am, thinking I was Roberto feckin’ Baggio dribbling around all these adults and scoring a goal, blissfully unaware that they had all just arrived from the nightclub rather than their hotels. Drink had certainly been taken. I remember the queues for the jacks on the boat; the stench of vomit; and the horror stories of the 8 hour trip from Sardinia down to Sicily; the “I survived the Catamaran” t-shirts. Y’see catamarans are not made for drinking or being drunk, let alone the killer hangover kicking in to the poor lads as we crashed into every wave. The queue through immigration at Sicily was met with an hour or so of farmyard animal noises. Then a bus trip. We scoffed at the massive security presence; the outriders accompanying us all the way across the island; the sheer number of police. Do they not know we’re not English? But we got it wrong. This was to protect us. From the Mafia! Jaysus. At the rest stop along the way, we were informed not to walk away from the cafe or the bus in any direction. Grand so…

Palermo was a bit of a dive as far as I can remember, with little in the way of attractions. A town square somewhere and terrible restaurant service. It must have been really bad if a 12-year old kid at the World Cup remembers! But of course we made the most of it. We sang, we hung around the main square and we made our way to the match expecting a win. We didn’t get one. We were crap. Dunphy was right. How a team with those players failed to break down Egypt is beyond me. But then again, neither did the European Champions a few days earlier. We struggled on, enjoying the phenomenal hospitality offered by the Maltese. I must go back one of these days. Several thousand have since returned for holidays and Ireland internationals.

June 21st 1990 – Stadio La Favorita, Palermo. Ireland 1-1 The Netherlands

This day is when the real mania started. This may have been only the 2nd time that grown Irish men cried openly and publicly because of football – the first being Stuttgart two years previously. We never take the easy option and if a Scotsman had played a key role in Euro ’88, we have a much-maligned English centre-half to thank for this one. Mark Wright, a very good centre-half made hopeless by Liverpool in subsequent years, popped up with a header to put England 1 up against Egypt in the other group game, meaning all ourselves and the Dutch needed was a point each. As such, a complete lottery draw to decide the group in its entirety could be avoided and would only be done to separate the Irish and the Dutch. The only problem was that Ireland were 1-0 down and heading home as one of the lesser 3rd place teams across all groups with only 2 points.

Then – again – Packie popped up with a long hoof. Van Aerle attempted a dangerous back-pass to Van Breukelen, who spilled it towards the on-rushing Niall Quinn, and he slid in to score. We were behind the goal and the place went apeshit. Absolutely apeshit.

Another truly unforgettable moment in Irish football history. We made our way back to our coaches, completely drained, and drove through the night into the early hours to the ferry terminal. I don’t think we knew who we were playing in the next round until the following day. It’s not like your mate could text you, or you could watch it live on a pocket sized device. But it was Romania. The Dutch got Germany. That’ll do.

June 25th 1990 – Stadio Luigi Ferraris, Genoa. Ireland 0-0 Romania. Ireland win 5-4 on penalties

This was when the mania peaked. The day the country reached absolute and total pandemonium. When millions of Irish men, women and children streamed out of their houses, their offices, and their pubs, to simply cry and sing with joy in the glorious Italia ’90 sunshine that shone relentlessly on every city, town, neighbourhood and townland in Ireland that month. Unrestrained, unbridled joy. We were in the quarter-final. We had 2 new national heroes. Packie Bonner had already achieved a level of greatness in Stuttgart in ’88, but David O’Leary was as unlikely a hero as you could imagine. Isolated from Jack Charlton’s squad for years for refusing to travel to a tournament in Iceland, he returned. But to say he would etch his name forever in our national consciousness and that it would be his run-up to the penalty spot that would accompany George Hamilton’s most famous quote – “A Nation Holds it’s Breath” would have been regarded as total fantasy. But so it went. And nothing sums up the national euphoria that day better than this scene in “The Van”…

It was another dour enough game however, the dullness pierced only by a few Gheorghe Hagi belters from the edge of the box and a handful of Irish half-chances. The game limped through extra-time and into penalties. Simply put, we both scored all of our first 4, Timofte missed their last one and then a formerly exiled centre half stepped up and made history. I lay on the floor on my knees with my head in my hands and did not see O’Leary score. But I was on my feet straight away. And my Mam got me out into the car to drive around the place beepin’ the horn. As you did. Which was grand until we got to the pub and the car started getting absolutely battered (all in good humour obviously). It wasn’t a very imposing sort of vehicle, so we went home and probably just watched the whole thing again, waiting for the rest of the family to get home. Meanwhile elsewhere in South Dublin…

Ah jaysus… It was a different country then. It really was. But a Quarter-Final in our first ever World Cup awaited. And just to add spice to that, it was against host nation Italy. It was another magnificent occasion.

June 30th 1990 – Stadio Olimpico, Rome. Ireland 0-1 Italy

Schillaci simply broke our hearts that evening. A fast breakaway goal caught us on the hop and Packie’s slip was pure bad luck. We had our moments too, but ultimately beating the hosts in the Quarter Final was too much even for this blessed group of players (literally for this game, having met the Pope a few days beforehand). So we welcomed them home. As heroes.

Ireland have played in 3 tournaments since Italia ’90. Despite getting out of both World Cup groups in ’94 and ’02 with no little drama and heroism, nothing has captured the Irish public’s imagination again like that summer 26 years ago. And possibly nothing ever will. You never forget your first time. Italia ’90 is widely regarded as the worst ever World Cup. It was turgid stuff perfectly exemplified by a terrible final. The rules of football were changed in its wake – with the back-pass eradicated and several changes to the offside rule since. In this part of the world, however – both Ireland and England –  it became the stuff of mythology. We have all of the Irish heroics described above for us; and there was Gazza’s tears and their historically good performance for the English. All played out to the wonderful soundtrack of “Nessun Dorma” sung by Luciano Pavarotti. Epic performances set in an epic country to an epic soundtrack. To have lived through this month was a privilege; to do so as a 12 year old obsessive football fan even more so; and to have been behind the goal when Niall Quinn scored was an experience beyond words.

In the decades since, we have fallen in and out of love several times with the Boys in Green and the whole set-up – McCarthy’s near misses; Saipan; Kerr’s disappointing and unfair dismissal; John Delaney’s endless antics; the Steve Staunton era; Paris; and Trappatoni’s rapid descent have all pockmarked some great performances and decent periods.

But this group we have now is different to many of the previous ones. I think the people love this team almost as much as the class of 1990. Despite some of the results and performances, the campaign to get to Euro 2016 was brilliant – drama in almost every bloody match – late winners, late equalisers, one thoroughly magnificent home victory and a solid play-off win. So maybe, just maybe, when Shane Long bursts the net in Paris next week, we can well and truly relight that joyous Italia ’90 fire that raged across the country that month.

It’s up to us…

For now, a few more images to remember the Italia ’90 campaign including yours truly circled in blue on the cover of the Sunday Tribune from the Egypt game (honestly).