TV view: Late Late Troy Show sends nation dancing around the living room
Ireland could do with a rallying point these days and nothing acts as a rallying point for the nation like the Boys in Green. Pic: ©INPHO/Stephen Gormley
And so to the fine and handsome city of Budapest where for the first time since the Pleistocene age Ireland enter the final fixture of the qualifiers for a major international tournament with something to play for. There is no need to implore the Lord to make us truly thankful. We already are.
Truly thankful not merely to have somehow and suddenly wound up in a position we’d happily have grabbed at the outset of hostilities but also because a narrative that obtained for the past 10 years has been thoroughly upended. Terrible for so long, Ireland are now modestly competent. They no longer stink the place out. They defend well. No fewer than five of today’s starters are Premier League regulars, which seems like four more than usual.
In short they may actually, bless them, be half-decent. Oh the relief.
Today it will be death or glory – under the moon or healthy as a Parrott - but that’s not necessarily a thing. Patience and clear heads are called for, yet not much more besides. Ireland don’t have to transmogrify themselves into Holland 1974 overnight. They don't have to go baldheaded for goals from the off. They don’t absolutely have to score the first goal although naturally that would help. They don’t have to be winning at half-time. They don’t have to be winning with 10 minutes left.
The later they can leave it, indeed, the better because they’re not the ones here with the crowd on their backs. That’s Hungary, or at any rate it may be Hungary, and not being required to win there’s always the chance the hosts may overthink matters. Ireland on the other hand will not, because they cannot, fall between two stools. Just think back, if you’re old enough, to Scotland and Bulgaria in Sofia in 1987. Gary Mackay and all that. Softly softly catchee Magyar.
Listen hard and you may even hear a faint whisper. “Victor Orban! Ferenc Puskas! Rubik! Franz Liszt! Bela Lugosi! Zsa Zsa Gabor! Attila the Hun! Your boys etc…” Okay, too early to go there. But we can dream.
Ray Houghton, on co-comms with Darragh Maloney, pronounces himself nervous and the events of the fourth minute demonstrate why he’s right to be. Hungary force a corner, then another corner after Liam Scales shanks the ball behind when he ought to have hoofed it away for a throw 30 yards downfield. From the third corner Daniel Lukacs finds the net at the near post.
It looks borderline offside. Ray and Darragh convince themselves it is. Turns out it isn’t. If a constitutes half the obair, what implications does a contain?
There’s no time to ponder this weighty topic because it’s not too long before Ireland equalise, Troy Parrott converting from the spot after Chiedozie Ogbene is clipped in the box. Back in the ball game.
A chap called Willi Orban is number six for Hungary. “Orban is on the right-hand side,” Darragh says helpfully. Thanks, Darragh, but where on the pitch is he?
Dominik Szoboszlai has been prominent from the start – Darragh likens him to a quarter-back in American football – and after 37 minutes a period of Hungarian pressure concludes with a cracking goal from Barnabas Vargas. Nathan Collins, who stood off him, looks particularly culpable. What was that about Ireland defending well?
At half-time Didi Hamann, ever the Teuton, observes that “details decide games”, illustrating his point by adding that Scales used the wrong foot when giving away the corner and Dara O’Shea shared the blame with Collins for the second goal. “Both of them thought the other one was going for it.”
Into the second half and Hungary refuse to sit on their lead. Their opponents, thanks largely to Caoimhín Kelleher, hang in there. The clock, however, is ticking. “Ireland need inspiration,” Darragh intones. “Twice.”
Seventy-nine minutes and Finn Azaz six-irons the ball over the home defence for Parrott to take down and lob home. Now that’s inspiration. Ireland are not winning with 10 minutes left but they’re not losing either and the trek up the mountainside has been halved. What the hell was Yeats on about? No Second Troy? Nonsense.
Darragh: “How nervous will Hungary be?”
Ray: “Very!”
He’s right. Well into the five minutes of injury time the Hungarian goalkeeper, instead of going long with his kickout and making the Ireland defenders turn, scutters the ball out for a throw-in. That’s nerves.
Ireland have possession and make optimum use of it. Kelleher with the garryowen, Scales – all previous transgressions forgiven – with the header down and before you can say "Gary Mackay" there's Parrott, who began his run from the far edge of the box, ghosting in to apply the killer finish. The late late Troy show.
Darragh shouts. Ray screams. A nation dances around the living room. In Budapest it is, in the words of a celebrated compatriot of Hallgrimsson’s, oh so quiet, the visiting end of the stadium apart. Victor Orban, Ferenc Puskas, Rubik etc etc.
Back to Montrose where Didi, not unfairly, avers that Ireland “probably didn’t deserve to win but sometimes you just have to grind results out”. Kevin Doyle is almost as thrilled with the change in narrative arc as he is with the result. At long last there’s something cheerful to talk about, he exults. The junior Doyles – ages 12, ten and eight – will now know there’s more to the Ireland team than Ronaldo visiting the Aviva (and making an arse of himself there).
Back to Budapest where Tony O’Donoghue announces he’s “lost for words” (he most certainly isn’t) before interviewing the hero of the hour who, unusually for a Dubbalin man, genuinely lost for words.
It’s the first time Troy Parrott has cried in years. “This is why we love football,” he eventually manages. “Because things like this can happen.” Exactly.
Without getting all sociopolitical about it the nation could do with a rallying point these days and nothing acts as a rallying point for the nation like the Boys in Green. So now there’s a playoff draw on Thursday to look forward to. And a playoff, or hopefully two playoffs, to look forward to in March.
And next June and July there’s – Okay, far too early to go there. But we can, for the first time in years, allow ourselves to dream again. And that, you’ll agree, is quite enough for one week.
