EAMONN SWEENEY – 28 APRIL 2013
There was something special about Tony Grealish, something different. The sight of him in an Irish shirt evoked peculiarly warm feelings of affection and pride in Irish football fans of a certain generation. Last week the memory of those emotions flooded back when we learned of his death at the age of 56 from cancer.
Tony Grealish, you always felt, gave everything for Ireland. His appearance helped. The unruly mop of ginger hair, the bristling beard and russet complexion made Grealish look a bit like a Marvel Comics attempt at creating a Hibernian superhero to rival Captains America and Britain. But describing him as 'iconic,' that contemporary cliché for someone who looks the part and little else, is to gravely under-estimate Tony Grealish. Because he really was a terrific player, one of the finest midfielders ever to represent this country.
Irish fans saw Grealish's best. He belongs to that band of players who rose to the occasion when they pulled on a green shirt, finding ten or 20 per cent extra over their club form. Richard Dunne is like this, so were Shay Given, Mick McCarthy, Don Givens, Dave Langan and the lad from Hammersmith who was 19 when he pulled on the Irish shirt for the first time against Norway in 1976 and was pretty much ever-present for the next 10 years.
For much of that time his midfield partners were Liam Brady and Gerry Daly, the former one of the biggest names in Europe, the latter a consistent top-flight performer whose natural gifts far outweighed Grealish's. Yet Grealish shone in this company and had many days when he was unquestionably the outstanding member of the trio.
He was a classic product of the London Irish community, born in Paddington in the west of the city in 1956 at a time when an economically banjaxed country was exporting its citizens to England in astounding numbers. Grealish's father was from Athenry and his mother was of Irish parentage and as a youngster he played Gaelic football and hurling at underage level for London. I can remember his brother Brian going on to play senior football for the 33rd county.
Amid all the cynicism which came to surround Jack Charlton's exploitation of the parentage rule, a serious point was overlooked. The rule was there for people who felt culturally connected to the country of their parents. Born in England, a part of them would always be Irish. You met them in pubs in London, listened to their stories about growing up, the RC Schools, the Irish Centres, the dancing, the football and hurling, the summers spent 'back home,' and knew that only a very ignorant person would tell them they weren't in some sense Irish.
And sometimes you met them supporting the Irish soccer team. Tony Grealish was one of them, a sporting representative of a resilient emigrant community which maintained its spirit despite discrimination and marginalisation, the community of Shane MacGowan, Kevin Rowland and a horde of great traditional musicians, the likes of John Carty, Mike McGoldrick and Jacqueline McCarthy. If he played like the Irish jersey meant something special to him, maybe that was because it did.
Grealish was never better than during one of the great heroic campaigns of Irish sport, the attempt to qualify for the 1982 World Cup in Spain. The draw placed Ireland in with Holland, runners-up in the previous two World Cups, Belgium who'd just lost the final of the European Championship and France, the most promising team in Europe who had Platini, Tigana, Six, Rocheteau et al poised to explode on to the international stage. It's the equivalent of the current side being thrown in with Italy and, well, Holland and Belgium. Ireland missed out on goal difference. It was a tremendous effort. And a tragic one for reasons we'll come to shortly.
With Brady having become a marked man who didn't always have the necessary freedom, it was often Grealish who came through when the team needed it most. In the very first game in September 1980, Ireland trailed Holland 1-0 12 minutes from time at Lansdowne Road when he picked up the ball, played a one-two with Frank Stapleton and drove into the Dutch box with grim determination etched on his face. As the defenders converged on Grealish, the ball broke loose to Daly who slotted it home. Seven minutes later, Mark Lawrenson scored the winner.
But for some reason my abiding memory is of Grealish flying through the air as the Dutch tackled him en masse, leaving Daly unmarked. It was an image which seemed to epitomise his determination to risk all for the cause. A month later, Ireland were 1-0 down at home against Belgium coming up to half-time and struggling. Grealish came to the rescue once again, beating the normally ultra-efficient Belgian offside trap to latch on to a through ball, calmly rounding 'keeper Jean Marie Pfaff and slotting home.
Later during the campaign Grealish found time to power a Brazilian-style long-range rocket to the top corner of the net in a 6-0 home win over Cyprus, another example of the eye for goal which enabled him to notch eight goals in 45 internationals. In the end Ireland came up just short, largely because of refereeing decisions. The disallowing of a Michael Robinson goal in Paris at a time when Ireland were 1-0 down was a game-changer. Reprieved, France hit Ireland late on the break to win 2-0. But any referee can make one mistake, right?
March 25, 1981, on the other hand, has a fair claim to be the most galling night in the history of Irish sport. Ireland were magnificent against the Belgians. Just before half-time, Frank Stapleton gave us the lead only for Portuguese referee Raul Joaquim Fernandes Nazare to disallow the goal for no reason apparent to man.
Worse was to follow. With three minutes left, Senor Nazare awarded Belgium a free on the edge of the box after a dive by Eric Gerets that Greg Louganis would have been proud of, and any actor would have been ashamed of for its lack of realism. The ball hit the crossbar and as Seamus McDonagh went to claim
the rebound he was blatantly fouled, enabling Jan Ceulemans to score the winner which ultimately meant that Belgium went to the World Cup and we did not.
The mother, who with my father travelled to that match at a time when all the Irish fans fitted comfortably into one plane and one hotel, to this day remembers the huge roar of 'Belgique' which greeted that goal. I'm not sure she's over the trauma yet.
So Eoin Hand's Ireland didn't grace World Cup 1982, a tournament which saw a French team we looked every bit as good as go all the way to the semi-finals where they lost on penalties. We could have done something similar and Tony Grealish could have taken his place on the world stage where I'm sure he'd have done himself proud. He always did.
Meanwhile, the knowledgeable Irish fan has had to endure know-nothings telling him that before 'Jackie's Army' we were no good at all at soccer. Spare me. That 1980-1982 team might well have been the best side we ever put out. All it needed was a bit of luck.
It had Dave O'Leary imperious at the back, Mark Lawrenson flitting between full-back, centre-back and midfield and doing a job in each role, Brady in his pomp, Langan busting a gut, Robinson and Stapleton dovetailing perfectly up front. And it had Tony Grealish, Captain Ireland in his green cape zooming in to save the day against overwhelming odds.
We loved him. Everyone loved Tony Grealish.
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Originally Posted by EastTerracer
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