Tuesday, 5 June 2012

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN PACKIE SAVED?

A MEMORY OF ITALIA 1990

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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