Fear and loathing on the football trail
Which is only as it should be. Like every other team in their qualifying group, the Israelis are entitled to play their home games on their own turf. Only where the security of players or fans on both sides is deemed to be seriously at risk should the game be deferred or moved. And, while even one bomb blast is one too many, the belief seems to be for now that a period of relative calm has taken hold at least in so far as one can ever be sure of anything in such a politically sensitive and volatile place.
Irish football has been here before, of course, and in a situation much closer to home. Back in 1993, there was quite a vigorous debate about whether the World Cup qualifier between the Republic and Northern Ireland should take place in Windsor Park. The football and police authorities in the north insisted the match should go ahead but south of the border there were anxious voices in the media and elsewhere arguing that the game should be moved. Their fears were understandable: the terrible weeks leading up to the game had seen the Shankhill bombing and the Greysteel attack, and the first IRA ceasefire was still 10 months away.
In the end, the match went ahead but with support for the Republic restricted to a small group of semi-official observers from the south and a number of hardy nationalist souls from the north who'd managed to get tickets but were wisely keeping a low profile.
Covering the game for the late, lamented Sunday Press, I remember being approached on the way into the ground by a local whose low speaking tones couldn't quite conceal a bubbling glee.
"San Marino have gone one up against England," he confided with a chuckle, before dissolving into the throng. No matter that England would go on to score seven sometimes, you have to take your light relief where you can.
Inside the ground, security demanded that those of us in the press overspill area in the stand had to take our seats a good hour before kick-off. Soon enough we would be cordoned off for our own protection by the then RUC, but at that early stage in proceedings there was nothing separating us from the seats below where a couple of very early arrivals were already taking up position.
To my amazement, I noticed that one supporter had a Union Jack painted on one side of his face and a tricolour on the other, while from one wrist there dangled a red, white and blue scarf and from the other, a scarf in green and white. After all the apocalyptic hype, here was an example of sporting ecumenism as startling as it was brave.
Notebook in hand, I was just about to walk down the steps to talk to the guy when he suddenly spotted some of the Republic backroom staff stepping out onto the pitch whereupon he and his mate stood up and began howling a barrage of abuse in which the words "Fenian" and "bastard" featured prominently.
It was only then that I realised I had been deceived by the lighting his "tricolour" was actually in red, white and blue. Quickly returning to my seat, I informed a colleague beside me that, if anyone asked, for the remainder of the evening I was going to be answering to the name of the Rev William McKay.
Another colleague had an even closer shave: the legendary Con Houlihan was inadvertently slow in standing up for the start of 'God Save The Queen', and received a dig in the back from a fan who'd managed to stretch an arm through the police lines. Afterwards, I remember thinking that there was no little consolation to be had in imagining what must have gone through his assailant's mind, as the great Con rose slowly to his feet, first blocking out the floodlights and then the moon.
For the players, it was an atmosphere of unprecedented hostility or at least for those who had never seen action in an Old Firm game. Andy Townsend would later recall that, as he came out for the warm-up, one man in the crowd screamed at him to "f*** off back to England", adding, for good measure, "I hope your mother dies of cancer."
Yet, it's a fact that the infamous 'night in November' actually passed off peacefully enough, and will ultimately be remembered mainly for the football, including Jimmy Quinn's stunning opening goal, Alan McLoughlin's wonderful equaliser, and the players' agonising wait for the result from the Spain-Denmark game which would confirm that the Republic were on their way to US '94.
At the whistle, a distraught Roy Keane had actually thought that the Republic were out. "I went from the worst moment of my career to the best in about five minutes flat," he would later tell me at Belfast airport, as we awaited the flight back.
In truth, there have been much worse nights to be at an Irish international game. The Lansdowne riot, the tenth anniversary of which has just passed, is one obvious low point, but often overlooked is the European Championship qualifier against Turkey in Istanbul in 1991, when local fans battled with riot police, the lights went out in the crowed tunnel taking Irish supporters from the ground, visiting supporters' coaches were stoned and, atop a wooded hill overlooking the Inonu stadium, the Irish team's hotel began to resemble a field hospital, as bloodied fans staggered into the lobby.
Istanbul is a beautiful city and the Turkish people uncommonly hospitable but the city's big clubs attract a violent hardcore element which can make it a genuinely intimidating place to attend a football match.
Israel, one hopes, will prove a very different experience for the Green Army. Quite properly, the FAI and the Department of Foreign Affairs, in conjunction with their Israeli counterparts, continue to monitor the situation, fully aware that it would take only one more act of violent extremism to throw the fixture into doubt.
But for many good reasons, the least of which are footballing ones, it is to be dearly hoped that Ireland and Israel will be playing in Tel Aviv, when Easter Saturday comes.
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