November 15th, 1989. Ireland 2 - 0 Malta.
That was the day football arrived in my school, a staunchly GAA diocesan college with a former All-Star and a future county manager on the staff. A scattering of handball titles too. We were called to an assembly in the basketball hall (the only nod to foreign sports, but it was ball in hand and American so that was OK). We crowded in expecting nothing good – a tedious oration from the bishop, one of the boarders had TB… the rumour mill was in overdrive. Instead, two televisions had been wheeled to the top of the hall, and for the next two hours we roared ourselves hoarse – even lads whose natural instinct was to mitch stayed put. The language of square balls and 45s gave way to talk of channels, Aldo’s chances, the certainty that this was our moment. From time to time, after that, we got to see an odd match here and there, but that first day brought all the magic.
The football was rudimentary, but it was a direct ball with purpose not hopeful punts into channels. And it wasn’t a style of play chosen for a team of no-hopers unworthy of any other style as Trapattoni organised us, or as in the dog days of O’Neill’s tenure. It was the way Jack organised all his teams – maybe it was a compliment to our qualities that Jack persevered with his way of playing, knowing we would produce the results, knowing we were good enough to carry on his success, to meet his standards. We may not have played the prettiest football under Jack, but we played with the strongest mentality and self-belief, the steeliest discipline and ruthlessness, I’ve seen in 30+ years watching Ireland play. He made us fearless and feared, he made us proud. He fitted in. He gave us the nerve to eat at the top table and the gumption to sweep aside the delicacies for a Harry Ramsden’s served up with extra attitude. Jack got us, and we got him.
Thanks, Jack. Rest well, big man.
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