On June 12th 1988 I was in Co Wicklow with the 47th
Cub Scout troop camping. Before twelve year old had a mobile phone, we pitched
our tents on the floor of a river valley surrounded by the greenest woodland and
with the exception of the occasional plane flying over head the outside world
could not get near us. That was until Ian Corcoran took his contraband
transistor radio out of his rucksack.
We were not supposed to bring such things on camp; it was all
about getting back to basics. Anyone caught with such an illicit item would be
punished by having their mother told. But ‘Corco’ was willing to risk it. He
wanted to hear what was happening in the match.
“What match?” I naively asked.
“We are playing England in the Euros.”
This was news to me although I did twig that by we he meant
Ireland and that by the Euros he meant soccer. I didn’t have much interest in
sport back then. I occasionally played 5 a side football (not very well as I
have mentioned previously,) but I had always assumed that Ireland weren’t very
good.
“They’ll slaughter us,” I said both unpatriotically and insensitively,
considering the violent history of both nations.
“Not necessarily,” his scorn barely concealed. “We’re much
better now that Jack Charlton is the manager.”
I remembered my dad giving out about the disgrace of having
an Englishman as manager. And there were few more English than Jack Charlton;
he’d won the world cup with them and everything. To hear my friend sticking up
and praising this guy now was very confusing. So with a mumbled “so what” I
went about the business of taking down our camp while Ian listened to the match.
He screamed when Ray Houghton put the ball in the English
net. He gasped at every save Packie Bonner made. As the match progressed more
and more scouts, including me gathered around him to listen to what would be a
famous win for the Republic of Ireland.
A victory I didn’t fully comprehend until we were driving back to Dublin
later that day.
As we drove through towns and villages people were dancing on
the street, waving their pints in the air. Cars beeped their horns in
celebration. Irishmen kissed each other on the cheek in an outpouring of
emotion that had never before been seen on Isle of Saints and Scholars. It was
a party.
And so my interest was piqued. I made a point of watching the
next Ireland game against the USSR. They were definitely much better than us,
surely. The England game was a fluke. The Soviets would wipe the floor with us,
wouldn’t they? They didn’t and when Ronnie Whelan scored one of the greatest
goals ever (with his shin) my teenage love affair with football was concreted.
Sadly over the years, as is the way with life, I have allowed
myself to become cynical about soccer. Millionaire footballers running around
the pitch with impeccable hair and sculpted chests mean nothing to me. I have
no connection to someone who just wants the ref to blow so that he can get out
and pick up his latest wannabe WAG.
It didn’t help that Ireland became a horrible team to
support. Poor results matched by poor performances meant that the joy I got
from being a plucky underdog had dissipated. We could barely beat Wales.
Then came Giovanni Trapattoni. The Italian embraced negative
football. If the other team can’t score we can’t lose was his thinking. Not
necessarily the most attractive way to play the beautiful game but it has been
effective.
Today for the first time in ten years, the Republic of
Ireland takes to the field in a major football championship. So for the day
that’s in it I will allow myself to to be the hopeful, cheering pre pubescent
that I was in 1988.
Come On You Boys in Green.
