Romantic Ireland Is Dead And Gone
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It’s amazing how vivid some memories can remain despite whatever wealth of time has passed since they were created. It’s as if some inner psychological trait exists which allows the brain to identify what will eventually become a defining moment of one’s life and ensures it captures it frame by frame for posterity. Your first day at school, first kiss, seeing Star Wars for the first time. For me? By no means a critical junction in life but I can remember in forensic detail every moment of the first soccer international I was taken to as if it was yesterday.
Wednesday April 26th 1989, the Republic of Ireland against Spain, a qualifier on the road to what would become the unforgettable summer of 1990. I grew up in what you’d describe as a GAA household. As the son of a passionate Tipperary man trips to sporting events generally consisted of being bundled into the back of my uncle’s car with various cousins to be transported to Thurles to watch the legendary Tipp hurling team of the 80s. Soccer for the most part was a sport to be enjoyed on the telly despite the Dad’s man crush on half of the equally legendary Liverpool team of the time. A rare traipse to Dalymount or Tolka was the extent of my exposure to competitive football in the flesh. When going to a “proper” match materialised it did so with gusto.
I don’t know how it transpired but every moment of it was magical. From the fact that the Republic playing mid afternoons on a Wednesday necessitated a half day from school through to the journey on the DART past unfamiliar train stations, emerging from the carriage before getting sucked up in a crowd of people bigger than any mass gathering I ever felt a part of before.
Then came getting funnelled through turnstiles, underpasses and passages before emerging into the light of the Lansdowne Road. The sense of finally being somewhere you knew existed, had enjoyed from the armchair in your living room but now finally had the chance to witness first hand. But getting there was by no means the culmination, this was an opportunity (and how was I to know at the time that I would get others) to see up close and personal the men who had managed to lift a nation. It might sound like a stretch but bear in mind I’m talking about an 8-year-old in 1989 for whom seeing the Irish soccer team was akin to a screaming Liverpudlian teenager in the 60s managing to sneak into The Cavern to catch a glimpse of The Beatles. Forget your Zubizarretas, your Michels or your Butraguenos, I was a child wearing a borrowed adult's Euro '88 jersey on a pilgrimage to see the boys in green.
And what a team they were, the Liverpool contingent of Staunton, Whelan and Houghton bravely in action just days after the horror of Hillsborough, Pat Bonner winning his 30th cap, Kevin Sheedy his 20th, Chris Hughton marauding the touchline, Mick McCarthy and Kevin Moran solid at the back, the marvel that was Paul McGrath with the line led by Frank Stapleton and Tony Cascarino. I’m even probably the only soccer fan in the world in whose mind referee Horst Brummeier is remembered fondly such is the impact the game had.
I don’t mean to be overly romantic but the relationship between the international soccer team and its public back then was unique, one unimaginable today. These truly were our players, they frequented the same pubs and nightclubs in town that their fans did, they were accessible, you could meet them, interact with them, talk with them, get their autographs and unlike today we had realistic expectations of them.
The Irish people appreciated their effort and what they did on the field knowing that for them the Irish jersey meant so much. I was in the Aviva for the game against Croatia last night and while I can't call into the question the commitment the modern squad have for the playing for their country there’s no doubting that the magic of international football is nowhere close to what it once was.
In May of 1989, part of what made the day so special was the fact that seeing Ireland was literally the hottest ticket in town. Tickets were like hen’s teeth. Even a jersey in the run up to Euro '88 was impossible to source. The unveiling of another new kit last night serves as a reminder that the business of soccer is truly business in the modern era. I went back over the statistics from 1989 campaign last night, bear in mind the fact that the old Lansdowne Road was devoid of floodlights and staged games when, presumably, most people were meant to be at work. Game four of qualifying, our first at home, 49,600 present in a stadium whose capacity was officially listed at 48,000. The follow up against the whipping boys Malta 48,928. Hungary 48,600. Northern Ireland the lowest, presumably amid a sense of apprehension from fans, 48,600.
The other night's Reeling In The Years broadcast its recap on 1990, as I recounted my memories of going to see Ireland play on the road to the finals a colleague recounted his memories of queuing from an ungodly hour to secure tickets to games at the time. It’s unfathomable 21 years on that you’d have to scramble for tickets in a similar way. Fans are quick to point to the cost of going to game which undoubtedly is a factor. So too is the fact that we don’t get the same sense of magic about seeing big stars line out in Dublin, we’ve become accustomed to expecting it.
Cross channel travel to games is a regular undertaking with football reaching saturation point due to its media coverage. There’s no doubting that international football has fallen down the list of priorities, especially a pre-season friendly such as the Croatia game. Robbie Keane quite admirably admitted avoiding injury in advance of the English Premier League campaign. All have combined to leave the love affair between fans and the international team a shadow of days gone by. Despite this the level of expectation hasn’t diminished, there is still an expectation that the Irish soccer team will qualify for major tournaments despite the fact that doing so is much harder considering the allocation Europe garners at a World Cup and the massive growth in member nations of UEFA competing for them.
In a time when economists and commentators draw comparisons with the Ireland of the 80s, perhaps the soccer landscape is the only memory we’d welcome in 2011 with opened arms.
Wednesday April 26th 1989, the Republic of Ireland against Spain, a qualifier on the road to what would become the unforgettable summer of 1990. I grew up in what you’d describe as a GAA household. As the son of a passionate Tipperary man trips to sporting events generally consisted of being bundled into the back of my uncle’s car with various cousins to be transported to Thurles to watch the legendary Tipp hurling team of the 80s. Soccer for the most part was a sport to be enjoyed on the telly despite the Dad’s man crush on half of the equally legendary Liverpool team of the time. A rare traipse to Dalymount or Tolka was the extent of my exposure to competitive football in the flesh. When going to a “proper” match materialised it did so with gusto.
I don’t know how it transpired but every moment of it was magical. From the fact that the Republic playing mid afternoons on a Wednesday necessitated a half day from school through to the journey on the DART past unfamiliar train stations, emerging from the carriage before getting sucked up in a crowd of people bigger than any mass gathering I ever felt a part of before.
Then came getting funnelled through turnstiles, underpasses and passages before emerging into the light of the Lansdowne Road. The sense of finally being somewhere you knew existed, had enjoyed from the armchair in your living room but now finally had the chance to witness first hand. But getting there was by no means the culmination, this was an opportunity (and how was I to know at the time that I would get others) to see up close and personal the men who had managed to lift a nation. It might sound like a stretch but bear in mind I’m talking about an 8-year-old in 1989 for whom seeing the Irish soccer team was akin to a screaming Liverpudlian teenager in the 60s managing to sneak into The Cavern to catch a glimpse of The Beatles. Forget your Zubizarretas, your Michels or your Butraguenos, I was a child wearing a borrowed adult's Euro '88 jersey on a pilgrimage to see the boys in green.
And what a team they were, the Liverpool contingent of Staunton, Whelan and Houghton bravely in action just days after the horror of Hillsborough, Pat Bonner winning his 30th cap, Kevin Sheedy his 20th, Chris Hughton marauding the touchline, Mick McCarthy and Kevin Moran solid at the back, the marvel that was Paul McGrath with the line led by Frank Stapleton and Tony Cascarino. I’m even probably the only soccer fan in the world in whose mind referee Horst Brummeier is remembered fondly such is the impact the game had.
I don’t mean to be overly romantic but the relationship between the international soccer team and its public back then was unique, one unimaginable today. These truly were our players, they frequented the same pubs and nightclubs in town that their fans did, they were accessible, you could meet them, interact with them, talk with them, get their autographs and unlike today we had realistic expectations of them.
The Irish people appreciated their effort and what they did on the field knowing that for them the Irish jersey meant so much. I was in the Aviva for the game against Croatia last night and while I can't call into the question the commitment the modern squad have for the playing for their country there’s no doubting that the magic of international football is nowhere close to what it once was.
In May of 1989, part of what made the day so special was the fact that seeing Ireland was literally the hottest ticket in town. Tickets were like hen’s teeth. Even a jersey in the run up to Euro '88 was impossible to source. The unveiling of another new kit last night serves as a reminder that the business of soccer is truly business in the modern era. I went back over the statistics from 1989 campaign last night, bear in mind the fact that the old Lansdowne Road was devoid of floodlights and staged games when, presumably, most people were meant to be at work. Game four of qualifying, our first at home, 49,600 present in a stadium whose capacity was officially listed at 48,000. The follow up against the whipping boys Malta 48,928. Hungary 48,600. Northern Ireland the lowest, presumably amid a sense of apprehension from fans, 48,600.
The other night's Reeling In The Years broadcast its recap on 1990, as I recounted my memories of going to see Ireland play on the road to the finals a colleague recounted his memories of queuing from an ungodly hour to secure tickets to games at the time. It’s unfathomable 21 years on that you’d have to scramble for tickets in a similar way. Fans are quick to point to the cost of going to game which undoubtedly is a factor. So too is the fact that we don’t get the same sense of magic about seeing big stars line out in Dublin, we’ve become accustomed to expecting it.
Cross channel travel to games is a regular undertaking with football reaching saturation point due to its media coverage. There’s no doubting that international football has fallen down the list of priorities, especially a pre-season friendly such as the Croatia game. Robbie Keane quite admirably admitted avoiding injury in advance of the English Premier League campaign. All have combined to leave the love affair between fans and the international team a shadow of days gone by. Despite this the level of expectation hasn’t diminished, there is still an expectation that the Irish soccer team will qualify for major tournaments despite the fact that doing so is much harder considering the allocation Europe garners at a World Cup and the massive growth in member nations of UEFA competing for them.
In a time when economists and commentators draw comparisons with the Ireland of the 80s, perhaps the soccer landscape is the only memory we’d welcome in 2011 with opened arms.
