After a decade, involvement reignites Ireland’s identity

By Amy Eustace, writing from Dublin and ready to fly to Poland.

I have spent the past ten years in international football’s no-man’s land.

It’s been both lonely and frustrating. Ireland’s precarious position at Europe’s western edge, and even more precarious proximity to ol’ Blighty, has meant that we couldn’t possibly ignore the European championships, even when we, ourselves, had not been deigned fit to attend. As our unfortunate neighbours Scotland, Northern Ireland, Wales and indeed perhaps the rest of the world would regretfully agree, the English make a right old stink around international tournaments. For the Irish, watching the English self-combust in a frenzy of obsessive compulsive self-sabotaging media coverage is like watching an annoying older brother get a shiny toy car for Christmas and then ramming it repeatedly into the floor until it’s a crumpled heap. Yes, England, you’re THAT guy. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.

I’ve learned that I don’t much like neutrality. I am no Switzerland. I have an all-consuming need to get involved. For ten years I’ve wanted to hang the tricolour from my bedroom window. I’ve wanted to sing ‘We All Dream of a Team of Gary Breens’ in a pub packed with my countrymen in some far flung host city. I have watched the rugby-heads of my country see the glory of European dominance, when all I wanted was a decent run at the group stages. Was that really so much to ask?

The football gods seemed to think so. 2004’s Grecian triumph gave me the sort of hope only a historically weak country soon to have serious bookkeeping issues could give another. A few years later, Spain captivated me with a squad that was so inextricably linked to my Premier League allegiances as to be an equal source of optimism for altogether different reasons. Meanwhile Ireland knocked on the world’s door, but as far as World Cup qualification post-2002 was concerned, one man slammed the door in Ireland’s face, once for insult and twice for injury. Thierry Henry broke Irish hearts in Lansdowne Road in 2005, and dashed them against a stony wall in 2009.

The sickener of the 2010 World Cup was not only not being there, it was watching France go all Anglais on us and throw it all away with in-fighting, and by making mountains out of managerial issues. After all the pain and suffering of November 2009, the least they could have done would have been to have made the most out of their tainted gift, but karma kicked them in the proverbial couilles and no tears were shed over their spectacular crash and burn west of the Irish Sea.

Ireland had a lot to prove in qualifying for the upcoming Euros. We’re a small island with a wealth of ambition. Why else would we appoint a man like Giovanni Trapattoni to the helm? Indeed, who on earth convinced Trap to join a motley crue of former managers that would put himself, a league winner in four different countries, shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Mick McCarthy, Eoin Hand, Brian Kerr and Steve Staunton? The deep pockets of business magnate Denis O’Brien surely help – how many casual observers know that the Football Association of Ireland, in these dark economic times, can’t even afford to pay their manager’s salary in full, and rely on our answer to Roman Abramovich (sort of) to supply the funds?

Yet even here, in a country hardly blessed with an abundance of coaching prowess, Il Trap finds his methods readily questioned. With a rag tag selection of Championship misfits, England’s rejects and poached goods from Northern Ireland and Scotland, Trapattoni has moulded a side that rarely plays ‘pretty’ football, but almost always achieves a result. It’s a tricky equilibrium. Winning ugly is fine, most of the time. Anything less is an insult upon the nation. Not to mention his tendency to ignore some of Ireland’s lost gems, like Norwich’s Wes Hoolahan, time and time again. He preached about loyalty to the mainstays of his qualifying campaign, but then unceremoniously dumped Kevin Foley from the squad last week in Ireland’s pre-tournament training camp – in favour of Paul McShane, no less.

Yet despite all of this, the vast majority of Irish fans think very highly of the Italian. He has climbed Croagh Patrick. His birthday is St. Patrick’s Day. Most importantly, he’s booked our tickets to Poland. What more can we possibly ask for? Whether or not Trap can live up to the last foreign manager to sweep us off our feet for Euro 1988, and World Cups 1990 and 1994 is a question only time can answer. For now, he has a catchphrase to rival Jack’s famous ‘put ‘em under pressure’, having taught us not to say ‘cat’ until we have it in the sack. Deep.

Trap has an unenviable task in this tournament. Four points would be an optimistic estimate for Ireland’s tally at the end of the group stage, seeing as our infamous luck ran out when it came to the draw. World Champions Spain, former World Champions Italy and, er, Croatia (I’m sure they’re lovely, really), stand between Ireland and a knockout berth. A draw and a win from that pot would be a dream come true. But even so, four points wasn’t enough in our last – and only – Euro appearance in 1988, although beating England more than softened the blow. We were more fortunate in 1990 in Italy, going through with three draws under our belt. Stateside in 1994, four points were enough, while a decade ago we notched up a personal best with a whopping FIVE. Would you ever imagine that?

Neutrality was never any fun. It’s that gut-clenching anxiety of watching a team whose results you can’t help but care about that makes football so exciting. Watching Spain prance around defences with triangular passes didn’t stir any emotion in me apart from mind-numbing boredom. Had it been Ireland, I would have been rolling around the floor in a state of hyperactive delusional glee. Watching Miroslav Klose tuck his goal neatly into the back of the English net made me weak at the knees with schadenfreude, but I would have passed out if it had been Robbie Keane somersaulting away. I would have happily observed Ian Harte miss a hundred penalties, just as long as it meant we got to play a bigger part aside from actively wishing failure on our noisy neighbours.

Through the sudden ability to ‘back’ any team I deemed fit in international tournaments, I realised how much I loved the certainty of supporting Ireland. Unlike club football, it wasn’t based on a whim, an inheritance, a particular player or a team’s success. It was something I had an indisputable right to, a right I shared with everyone else in the country from Ballymun to Donnybrook, and Mallow to Ballybofey. No one could take it away or minimise it. It was mine, and it was ours, and it linked us all regardless of whether we supported Manchester United, Barcelona or Limerick City. It boiled my blood to see people sacrifice that right they held for their own country to worship the false gods of another. Xavi and Iniesta will do that to the noblest of fans, though.

In Dublin, at least, the tricolours are up, the bunting slung, and tickets have been booked. 15,000 Irish men and women are expected to launch a green, white and orange assault on poor, unsuspecting Poznan and Gdansk. The Green Army’s ranks have swollen and lumbered east onto the continent, while the home front will be propped up by valiant punters in pubs up and down the country.

Neutral? Pfft, not a snowball’s chance in hell. We did that for two whole World Wars, for Christ’s sake. We could have to wait another ten years for something like this to come along, so you had better believe that the Irish have taken this opportunity with both hands – á la Thierry. If he’s taught us anything – and it’s hard to take a pleasant moral from that tale of woe – it’s that you need to take your chances when they come, and while the country is poised for meek submission, deep down we’re all praying for a giant killing.

Who knows? We’ve done it before.