I WAS sitting on a grassy bank at Dromantine Sunday, admiring the ladies of Newry supergroup Luv Bug when all this started.
I’d been accused of a crime I didn’t commit by my soon to be ex girlfriend when the uncomfortable silence between us was broken by the guy on the tannoy system.
“It’s 1-0 to Ireland,” he roared, letting everyone know that Ray Houghton had just scored against England at Euro 88.
Yes, there were smiles and applause, but at that stage Republic of Ireland fever hadn’t infected most of us. Ireland won the game and, three days later, we were smitten and it doesn’t look like there’s a cure.
When Ronnie Whelan scored against Russia we went delirious and it just built from there. A couple of years later I was in a nightclub in Salthill when Niall Quinn scored against Holland at Italia 90. The place went bananas.
I remember the Alan McLoughlin goal at Windsor Park that got Ireland to the USA final in ’94 and Houghton’s goal against Italy in New Jersey when we were there.
I lost the rag when Robbie Keane scored against Germany in Japan in 2002 and I was there for Robbie Brady’s goal in Lille last year.
Lots of highlights and some lowlights, but you forget the bad and remember the good and yesterday was the (forgettable) latest chapter in the story.
Just after we’d hit the road for Dublin we got a call from a friend of a friend telling us that one of those last minute tickets had been sourced for his brother who is a builder and works down south.
There was a quick negotiation over the phone.
Brother 1: Well.
Brother 2: Well.
Brother 1: Liam got you a ticket.
Brother 2: You’re winding me up.
Brother 1: Do you want it?
Brother 2: F***in sures I do. Will you get me something to change into?
And so we hit the anchors and did a u-turn back to base, got him a jersey and a jacket and, after we picked him up at a roundabout outside Ashbourne in county Meath and got him kitted out, he looked like he’d just come out of some imaginary Republic of Ireland or Us superstore. From the waist up that is.
From the waist down he was sporting well-worn, ripped builders trousers with the pockets on the outside and a pair of steel toe-capped boots that had kicked down a few walls in their day.
“Is there a Pennys near the ground,” he says. “I’ll never get in like this.”
But there wasn’t a problem. It hasn’t gone that corporate and lets hope it never does.
He was in there when the teams stood for the anthems and Amhran na bhfiann was belted out. It has never heard it sung with so much passion and it carried Ireland early on as they swept in an emerald green wave.
Six minutes had gone when Shane Duffy scored but, typically, Ireland went into a holding pattern instead of kicking on.
Denmark equalized thanks to a Cyrus Christie OG and then Eriksen sent a shot crashing in off the bar.
“Where are you heading next summer?” I asked my colleague Brendan Crossan.
“Westport,” he answered with a worried look on his face.
“The score at half-time is Ireland 1, Denmark 2,” said the stadium announcer completely unnecessarily at the break and, while the Republic of Ireland had it all to do in the second half, the scene set for another classic moment, one of those moments that turns young lads into lifelong fans.
The supporters, still hanging on to the Russia dream, sang: “And we’ll really shake them up when we win the World Cup… Ole, ole, ole…” as the second half began, but there was a nervous, hollow ring to it.
Eriksen picked a spot in the right of Randolph’s goal midway through the half and sent a left foot shot curling into it in front of his adoring fans. 3-1. So Ireland needed three more to win it and that was never going to happen. Ward’s tired clearance set up another and Nicklas Bendnter lashed in a penalty to complete the humiliation. The Denmark players and fans celebrated as the stands emptied.
There’ll be no reports from Ireland matches at Dromantine Sunday next summer.
