FANS-tastic

They were the biggest off-pitch World Cup story, and officially recognized as such by FIFA. Caroline O’Doherty spent a month with the colourful and charismatic boys (and gals) in green, aka the best fans in the world.

ALTOGETHER now to the tune of My Darling Clementine.

"Ari-gato, ari-gato, ari-gaaaato, Robbie Keane."

Bored with that? How about "Ooh-ah konnichi-wa, say ooh-ah konnichi-wa."

Any other nation would have caused a diplomatic incident by taking expressions of gratitude and polite greetings from the revered and expansive lexicon of Japanese civility and working them into football songs. But the Irish got away with it.

Within seconds of the final whistle in Yokohama, the chorus went up. We’re all going to the pub tonight, doo-da, doo-da. Who’s all going to Korea, we are, we are.

Yokohama (against the Saudis) was the one venue where the Japanese obsession with organisation - the type that almost dictates when one should inhale and to which capacity the lungs should inflate on said inhalation - finally lost the run of itself.

To avoid traffic chaos and a clamour for seats on trains and buses, there was a 40 minute walk from transport depot to stadium. To prevent after-match crowds of thousands spilling simultaneously onto the streets, fans were filtered slowly through too-narrow exits.

The resulting logjam back towards the stands could have been foul-humoured and dangerous. A person can only be expected to take so much of a strange elbow wedged in their ear and a bodhran ramming the small of their back.

But the Irish treated the occasion like they’d been crammed into a wardrobe with the cast of Baywatch.

Roars of ‘Ireland, Ireland’ turned to ‘Nippon, Nippon’ out of appreciation for the many startled Japanese fans who had donned tricolours for the match but didn’t really expect to be smacked playfully over the head with an inflated hammer or hugged by a sweating green-bearded giant with a pythonesque grip.

A Mexican fan in a sombrero was spotted. The cheer changed to Mekeeko, Mekeeko. The Japanese were urged to sing it. Heheeko, Heheeko, they managed before the tune

somersaulted again.

The surrealism of Yellow Submarine was eclipsed by the happy lunacy of its new lyrics. We all dream of a team of Gary Breens, a team of Gary Breens, a team of Gary Breens.

And number one is Gary Breen, and number two is Gary Breen, and number three…. By 22 and no nearer the exits, tongues were being swallowed in laughter and the Japanese, still practicing their Heheekos, were completely, delightedly, lost.

Gary Breen-ius is a genius, doo-da, doo-da. The small man from Clare who’d been trying to see beyond the tall lad in the leprechaun hat in front of him all evening had leapt in the air at the second goal, waved his arms wildly, threw back his head and yelped with delight. “Robbie, ye boy ye!”.

No, no, it wasn’t Robbie. No honestly, it wasn’t. It was Gary Breen. Clareman stood stock still for a moment, mouth open wide enough to swallow a fevernova. He looked to the pitch and back, and to the pitch and back again, then leapt in the air once more and laughed uproariously.

Gary Breen wouldn’t be first in line for a FIFA player of the tournament nomination but to the fans he provided one of the magic moments of the World Cup. Lanky, wide-eyed, soft-spoken evidence that in sport, anything can happen; proof that in the World Cup, heroes can come from unexpected quarters.

The fans came to the Orient to cheer their heroes but ended up sharing the laurels with their on-pitch idols. Vast in numbers, good-natured in temperament, ridiculous in song and dress, unshakeable in loyalty and endlessly optimistic, they won the hearts of their hosts in Japan and were out-fanned in Korea only by the red army themselves.

FIFA in Japan declared them the tournament’s best supporters. The signature of their praiser, tournament director Junji Ogwa, is now sought on letters pleading understanding from bank managers all over Ireland. It is impossible to know exactly how many followed the team to Asia but it was more than anyone expected. The 5,000 or so who bought FAI tickets were matched by thousands more who came from the United States, Australia and Asia.

Some were living abroad for years. Others were on short-term work contracts. Many of the younger set were at the beginning or end of their year away. Next stop Sydney or Sixmilebridge.

It was one giant, gleeful reunion. Mates who hadn’t seen each other in years were meeting up in the stands of sports arenas via the miracle of e-mail and the madness of soccer.

Together, they embarked on an adventure so packed with excitement and emotion it needs to be diced up into neat portions and consumed in small portions with chopsticks before it can be digested properly.

They came in all sorts, probably 99% male, but diverse in every other respect. The package group travellers with 30 years of internationals under their strained belts, the go-it-aloners with their DIY itineraries and self-secured accommodation, the last-minute, last-penny blokes with the two-man tents, half-man budgets and five-day-old B.O. from green jerseys that needed changing six hundred miles back.

Banners from Kilkelly to Killarney, Leixlip to Limerick, Ballincollig to the Barr an Chaladh.

They got lost. The sight of a Japanese tourist camcording the hieroglyphical horror that is the Tokyo subway map hanging on the wall of an subterranean station was enough to have them waving the white flag of surrender.

They got found. There was always another green shirt around who’d been around the block already and came with the reassuring voice of experience. Don’t worry, you see one exit is 1.8 km from the other - that’s why you’ve been walking for three hours without seeing daylight. You’re almost there now.

They got lucky. Young Japanese males were going through a phase of keeping their faces pale, dying their hair red and backcombing it to a wiry tangle to take the natural sleekness out of it. Young Irish males came with the ready-made look and instant appeal.

“They’re so... obliging,” said one, eyeing uneasily the pretty Japanese teenager beaming back at him and secretly admitting he’d be more comfortable if she’d say her name was Bernadette, demand a bag of chips and insult his manhood before telling him to go back to his mammy ‘cos only a mother could love him.

They went hungry. Oh it was alright in the start. They found eat-all-you-can, drink-all-you-want happy hours and enthusiastically put entire chains of Japanese hostelries out of business. But then they got a craving for steak, forked out half their travellers’ cheques for one slap-up meal and spent the next week scavenging for the end bits out of pals’ noodle bowls and the dregs of discarded beer cans.

Then they went to Seoul and everything went red. Their sun-burnt noses, their bank accounts, the faces of their spouses, girlfriends and bosses; the Korean fans, those damn Spanish shirts.

But even amid the sea of scarlet, the green glowed. The team paid tribute repeatedly to their faithful following. When things went well, they raised the roof. When things went wrong, they sang louder. When the dream slipped away, they cheered through their tears.

The dictionary will soon change to Russian, Portugese, then German. Until then, there’s a worthy anthem to sum up World Cup 2002.

Arigato, arigato, arigato, fans in green.