Modric leaves Irish dreams in tatters

He jovially glided across the field, like a creation of Pyotr Tchaikovsky. Pass after wonderful pass met its target as the green shirts were left to chase shadows across the slick Poznan surface. An olé sounded in the red and white corner of the ground every time he sprayed it around; left, right and centre.

This, in all its pain-staking glory, was a lesson. In a cruel, harsh and unrelenting manner, Luka Modric exploited all of Ireland’s deficiencies. Croatia rejoiced at the sight of their creative lynchpin unmercifully tearing the opposition apart with a careful, precise and most of all productive display of footballing beauty.

Glenn Whelan and Keith Andrews, for all their running, spirit and perseverance were metaphorically left outside in the Polish rain. They had been shown up by a superior being. The blueprint of our conservative and basic brand of much-criticised, but up to now successful, football employed by Trapattoni had been ripped to shreds by a dynamic orchestrator; the type of player this country has never been able to coax off the conveyor belt.

Modric is what Croatians call poseban. To you and me, he’s special. We all knew this before the game but the hope had been that we’d stifle him, close him down and nullify his ability to cut defences apart with one of his trademark magnificent passes. From early on, it was clear that Ireland wouldn’t succeed.

As the Irish footballing family converged on the city over the weekend, the sense of anticipation peaked at kick-off. One of the most passionate renditions of Amhrán na bhFiann perked the hairs on our backs. The scene had been set. Now all we needed was for the team to deliver. Excitement had reached giddy heights that weren’t witnessed in a decade.

Within two and a half minutes though, our dreams had been shattered. Solidity and dogged defending was the primary ingredient to the country’s qualification. Where were those traits when uncharacteristically shoddy marking allowed Mario Mandzukic the opportunity to steer a weak header past a reluctantly reacting Shay Given? Sadly for everyone in a green kit, nowhere to be seen.

The Vatreni looked good going forward, despite brief appearances of lacklustre defending but our hope was rekindled when Aiden McGeady fizzed in a beauty from the left and Sean St. Ledger bundled home. A phantom whistler in the crowd caused a moment of uncertainty – Had it gone in? Was he offside? – but the goal stood and we were level. The Fields of Athenry broke out, we had arrived.

Clichéd as it might sound, it’s that hope that kills you. Ireland fell deeper and deeper, not only towards goal but also into a sleep. The second arrived two minutes before the break. Nikica Jelavic, the man who lit up Everton’s season in the Premier League; we all knew what he was capable of. Stephen Ward fumbled his clearance, albeit under pressure, the striker nipped unmarked despite being in an offside position when the move began, and coolly slotted over Given’s outstretched arms.

Then the fatal blow arrived, like an express train intent on destroying the flailing greenery on the tracks ahead, Mandzukic added his second and all hope had been destroyed. From the restart McGeady – shorn of all the promise shown in the send-off game against Bosnia and Herzegovina at the Aviva last month – gifted the ball back to Croatia.

They could have easily scored a fourth and despite being hauled off moments later for a bizarre switch which saw the frustratingly pedestrian Simon Cox move onto the wing, McGeady’s careless play was typified Ireland’s frustratingly inept performance.

We’re still not out of it but having witnessed the standard set by both Spain and Italy in the earlier game, our worst fears have been confirmed. Ireland could easily be sent home pointless, bottom of the group with the hopes of an entire nation in tatters.