
Originally Posted by
Eamonn Sweeney
...
As the game entered its final minute, Ireland looked set to lose despite an encouraging performance before Jeff Hendrick hooked a ball back across the box and John O'Shea stabbed home a shot to give us a point which would . . .
Who knows? But that late goal and the result weren't the only reminders of the Charlton era on show last Tuesday. You also had the stirring sight of 3,000 Irish fans outsinging and outshouting the home support and being rewarded for their fervency with a gutsy performance which was properly rewarded at the death.
It was like old times. And what times they were. There's never been an Irish sporting experience of such collective and all-embracing national joyousness as the 1988 European Championships and Italia 90. In fact, there have been few non-sporting experiences which can compare in terms of boosting the sense of national well-being though I believe the Eucharistic Congress in 1932 was a bit of a blast if you like that kind of thing.
It's easy to lose sight of that after the decade of denigration our national football team has suffered. Because for the past dozen years or so it appears to have been decided that Irish soccer is officially a bad news story and can be flayed with impunity.
That's not to say the team haven't sometimes given cause for disenchantment but the scale and tenor of the criticism has far exceeded the bounds of both common sense and fair play. It all began after the 2002 World Cup finals when a team which had given a performance not far behind those of Charlton's sides at their best was absurdly berated for not winning the tournament. And it went on from there.
Brian Kerr, a good manager who missed out by narrow margins, was roundly berated and Steve Staunton lampooned as a kind of national laughing stock.
Giovanni Trapattoni, who did an excellent job before losing his way towards the end, got little credit either as his teams were derided for not matching up to some Platonic ideal of skilful attacking football never actually played by an Irish international side. The knockers even found time to retrospectively denigrate Charlton's achievements so we had to witness the lunacy of people belittling a manager who brought a country which had never in its history qualified for a major tournament to the last eight of one.
Where did all this stuff come from? Some people were obsessed with proving they'd taken the right side over Saipan when in fact this was one of those rare arguments where both sides were wrong. There were others who thought that putting the boot into soccer somehow served the interests of Gaelic games or rugby. They'd been jealous of 1990 knowing that neither the GAA, which doesn't have an international outlet, nor rugby, which will always be something of a niche sport in this country, could have been the vehicle for such magnificent collective delirium. Let's face it, there is only one real World Cup.
There was also the fact that in the Tiger era soccer seemed a bit, well y'know, working class. And if you don't believe this matters to some people, it's worth noting that when keyboard warriors who purport to be fans of other sports denigrate soccer, the snobbish comment is never far away. A game which, in this country, belongs at heart to people who neither wear a suit to the office nor own land was a bit out of step with the national zeitgeist in the great years of patio furniture and the outdoor jacuzzi.
The sheer bitter nuttiness of it all crystallised in the conversion of FAI head man John Delaney into a kind of tabloid hate figure. I have had my differences with Delaney but I've never believed he has anything other than the best interests of the game in this country at heart. Yet slagging off Delaney became the default mode of the pub bore and internet blowhard. If Delaney bought drink for fans, he was a disgrace. If he bought some for himself, he was worse. The fact that he's got it right with the appointment of the last two managers apparently doesn't matter. I heaped an odd log on that bonfire of the inanities too and am ashamed of myself for doing so.
Such was the climate of criticism that even the supporters came in for the lash. It's easy to forget too what a glorious advertisement for the country they were in the Charlton days. Especially compared to their English counterparts who could not leave the country without disgracing themselves, laying waste to town centres and maiming those who got in their way. Which should be food for thought for those prissy little snobs forever advising 'Paddy' to live up to the high standards of our neighbours next door. But, of course, won't be.
The tag 'best supporters in the world' was mockingly reminted as 'best supporters in the wuddeld,' 'wuddeld' being a crude approximation of a Dublin working-class accent. Snobbery again, you see. And when the fans, as has been their wont, did the decent thing at the European Championship finals and cheered the team on though they were losing, they were told this merely displayed their ignorance. A hapless gom of a Labour TD named ó Ríordáin chipped in to accuse fans of disrespecting the Irish flag. It was open season on Irish soccer and every crank in the country was getting his shot in.
And, best of all, when Pat Kenny got cross about criticism of the inflated fees paid by RTé to their 'stars', he countered with the comment that Marian Finucane was surely entitled to be paid as much as John O'Shea. John O'Shea, you see, being who sprung to Pat's mind as the epitome of an undeserving and overpaid ********, a guy not even good enough to hold down a permanent place in the Manchester United team even if he had played well in a Champions League final against Barcelona. If you wanted to slag someone off, an Irish soccer player was a handy butt of the joke. Yuk yuk yuk.
And yet on Tuesday night there was the very same John O'Shea making a last-minute run and thrusting himself in front of the German defence, getting in where it hurts to score a goal of huge significance.
It's so significant because the gallant 1-0 defeat in qualifying matches against quality opposition has practically become proverbial since the Charlton era; 1-0 against Romania in the 1998 World Cup qualifying, 1-0 against Yugoslavia and Croatia in the 2000 European Championships qualifying, 1-0 against France in the 2006 World Cup qualifying, 1-0 against Germany and the Czech Republic in the 2008 European qualifying, 1-0 against France at Croke Park in the first leg of the 2010 World Cup play-off, 1-0 against Austria in the 2014 World Cup qualifying. All those reminders that we weren't quite good enough. All the post-match talk about the positives we could take from the game when we all knew they counted for nothing.
This time round it didn't end 1-0. This time, as we did in 1986, we pushed on and got through the barrier. It is a sign of a team that will find a way to get the job done. The qualifying campaign promises to be both tough and thrilling.
It will undoubtedly, as the 1988 campaign did, have its ups and downs and moments when things look to have gone off the rails. But the least we owe the guys who gave it all for the green last Tuesday is to stick by them. We should all follow the lead of the terrific 3,000 who cheered them every step of the way in Gelsenkirchen.
In our hearts, we know that's the right way, the Irish way. It's time to be the best in the world again. All that bitterness and cynicism has gotten old. As old as Eamon Dunphy.
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