It was the illustrious Con Houlihan who uttered the
best line about the stirring events of 1990. “I missed the World Cup”, he
wrote, “I was in Italy at the time.”
Anyone who was alive and in
Ireland in those heady summer weeks knows exactly what Con meant: the fevered
excitement was all happening at home, unbeknownst to those football fans and
media folk who were following the boys in green through the sun-baked cities
and stadia of Italy where the games were being played.
But where were you when Packie Bonner saved? Everyone of a certain age can remember where they were when the man from Donegal stopped the penalty kick from Romania’s Daniel Timofte.
Me? I was in France actually.
Away from it all. But it was on the quayside at Le Havre
(of all places) that I witnessed a scene that revealed the transformative
effect on Ireland
of Packie’s momentous save.
The drama had been building
slowly over the fortnight of our family camping holiday in France. As we toured
with our trailer tent from one campsite to another, I was following – with a
somewhat detached interest – the progress of our team, thinking that they would
exit at an early stage, glorious in defeat as was the custom. Somehow, we became aware that Kevin Sheedy had suffered a
leg injury, and that this diminished our chances even further.
On an outdoor screen in one
campsite, Ireland was playing Holland, and the only team colours being worn by
those around the screen were orange. The Irish – ourselves and one other family
– were keeping very quiet as the all-star Dutch team dominated the game from
start to finish. Not quite the finish of course, because in the dying minutes,
Packie lobbed a long ball all the way up to Niall Quinn who somehow scrambled
it into the back of the net. Cue sudden loud Irish cheers and surprise on the
faces of the Dutch who hadn't suspected we were amongst them.
On the homeward leg of our
journey, we were still some miles from Le Havre when the car radio began to
pick up RTE Radio’s coverage of the match against Romania. Tension mounted as
the minutes passed and it began to seem
possible that it would go to penalties.
Listening intently as we
drove, we somehow found the quayside in Le Havre. There was no ship yet in
sight, and the place seemed remarkably quiet. In front of us there was a line
of cars parked along the quay, some with Irish registrations and others with
various continental plates. The ferry was late: we learned later that it had
stayed out at sea so as not to lose the television signal carrying the match
broadcast.
Ashore, on our crackly radio
the shootout started. One all. Two all. Three all. Four all. Then Timofte let fly – and
Packie saved! Suppressed bedlam in our car. Still all was quiet outside.
Dave O’Leary lined up. Kicked. And scored. What followed on that quayside was
astonishing. Car horns sounded. Car doors burst open. Grown men and women
jumped out and began to dance and hug each other. Small boys in green appeared
as if from nowhere, waving large inflated shamrock balloons and kicking plastic
footballs up in the air and against the warehouse walls.
Inside other cars, the foreigners cowered, puzzled no doubt at this sudden wild display.
And then the ferry arrived. Ramps crashed down and out poured a cavalcade of cars and trucks, all blowing their horns. People leaned out of the windows and waved to us waiting to board. Our lot waved back and blew our own horns.
The occupants of the other cars had by now got out and stood there scratching their heads. Perhaps they told each other this was a traditional ceremony every time the ferry arrived – the wild offshore islanders exchanging greetings with each other as they departed or arrived home.
The man who guided us into
our parking place on the car deck was beaming with delight. “You’re going home
to a very happy country”, he told us with a choke in his voice. “I’ve just been
on the phone to the wife and she said the whole place is six feet up out of the
water!”
I was working for The Sunday
Press at the time. I turned up I in the office next morning to be greeted by
the editor and told to pack my bags. I was to go to Rome. For the match against
Italy. “But”, I whimpered, “I know nothing about soccer. I’ve never even been
to Dollier.”
“Dalier”, said the editor
patiently. My further protestations were brushed aside. “We don’t need
expertise, we need colour. And all our other people over there are exhausted.”
the editor explained, adding kindly “You’re all we have left.”
With this endorsement ringing
in my ears I packed my bags again (adding the Boys’ Guide to the Rules of
Association Football) and set off for Italy, where I was greeted by a tattered,
sun-roasted, red-eyed bunch of barely recognisable colleagues who greeted me
with an enthusiastic cry of “What the f… are you doing here?”
I tried hard to convey to
them how things had changed back home. But it was a seasoned sports writer from
another paper who told it best. He had been writing about football for 40 years
to the complete indifference of his wife. “But I rang home the other night”, he
exclaimed, “and the very first thing she asked was ‘How is Kevin Sheedy’s leg?’
”
And so, just two nights after
getting off the ferry in Rosslare, I found myself standing behind the Irish
goal, where I had a perfect view of our
new national hero, Packie Bonner. And a view, too, of his nemesis, the man
whose name would for years rank alongside that of Cromwell in the hearts of
Irishmen everywhere.
Effin Scillachi.
ENDS
© Éanna Brophy
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