Shels shock makes for dynamite year
The implied criticism is clear enough - we’re all moon-eyed invertebrates incapable of taking a tough stance on anything (and, by the way, if you say that to me again, I’ll tell the Sports Editor) - but the phrase still contains the seeds of its own downfall.
Put it this way, if you’re not enthusiastic about the stage how could you ever be a theatre critic? And if you don’t love music, how are you going to write a record view with any passion? Similarly, the question has to be asked: if you’re not a football fan to begin with, what the hell are you doing in the press box?
Of course, it’s not as if we behave like all the other foot soldiers on active duty. Oh no. We refrain from wearing the jersey for example. As a rule, we tend not to stand up and shout obscenities at the ref. And you’ll never see us take part in the Mexican wave - round and round the ground it goes but when it hits the press box, it crashes as if upon a rock, and breaks in two before joining up again on the other side. We are professionals, after all.
We do have our moments though. As tension mounted in the game between Ireland and Germany in the World Cup in Japan, I suddenly found myself saying out loud, “G’wan Duffer, skin ‘im” before the disapproving glance of a colleague brought me to my senses and I had to look down with a serious expression and pretend to write some brilliant tactical insight into my notebook. (When it was actually something like, “If get to Korea remember to buy ginseng”).
But then, when hope seemed to have evaporated, Robbie Keane finally rewarded a great Irish performance with that 11th hour equaliser - and, suddenly, the whole Irish section of the press box was on its feet, roaring like lunatics, locked in manly embraces, and with even the odd tear wiped from a thought-he’d-seen-it-all-before veteran’s eye.
Then we all abruptly sat down as if nothing had happened, chewed thoughtfully on our biros and tried to come up with alternative expressions for “stuck it wide of the advancing keeper.”
Don’t get me wrong - I’m not complaining about the gig. I’d be the last to whinge about tight deadlines, technology meltdowns, the stress, the strain, the always urgent need to come up with an alternative expression for “and the wall did its job.”
Anyway, I know only too well that the inevitable reaction to the news that you’re a soccer writer is an arched eyebrow, a thin smile and the words: “Right, and, don’t tell me, you get paid for this too, yeah?”
Which is true, and looking back on the year just ending, you couldn’t wish for a better professional posting than that which allowed you a privileged position in the Stade de France when the Republic of Ireland’s players and supporters combined to create one of those unforgettable nights of sporting drama and celebration.
It’s just that, sometimes, you can’t help but envy the pure, uncomplicated condition of being a fan, with all its acute pleasures and pains. And in that mood you can find yourself hankering for a passport back to that time of ultimate innocence, when you first fell head over heels in love with the grand old game.
Which is at least in part why my highlight of 2004 has to be Shelbourne’s victory over Hajduk Split in the Champions League qualifying game at Tolka Park on August 4. I went to that one as a civilian, in the cheery company of a bunch of like-minded souls. There was the English guy who has been living in Ireland for years and has developed a keen interest in domestic football but whose real love remains Everton FC. (If you look up these days, you’ll see him floating above the rooftops). There was the Northside Dub who is ‘Bow-ez’ ‘till he dies. There was the AUL centre-half who won’t hear a bad word said about tough, no-nonsense stoppers. (And imagine how he felt when Dave Rogers popped up with his sensational goal).
As such, my gang was a reasonably representative sample of the attendance on a night when football fans in general, and the Shels hardcore in particular, turned out to swell Tolka to bursting point, as the evening sun bathed the green turf andthe teams walked out to a riotof noise and colour and an electric mood of great and nervous expectation.
Great, because having managed a creditable 2-3 defeat in the first leg in Croatia, Shelbourne needed just a one goal lead to advance to the third qualifying stage of the Champions League.
Nervous, because tradition dictates that, at this level in Europe, Irish sides are invariably condemned to the role of plucky losers.
What turned an exciting evening into a sensational one was the way Shelbourne proceeded to tear up the script.
This wasn’t just one of those time-honoured gritty, battling jobs - though there was plenty of that too. But Pat Fenlon’s team also got the ball down and, at times, gave their exalted European opponents a bit of a lesson in the finer points of football. Unwisely, a somewhat complacent Split appeared to have come mainly to defend their first leg lead, and by the time Dave Rogers hit a screaming volley that nearly burst the net at the Ballybough end, the visitors suddenly found themselves with less than 20 minutes to retrieve the tie.
With the crowd on its feet and roaring itself hoarse, the final period was heart-in-the-mouth stuff - Split piled on the pressure knowing one goal would be enough to win it back for them. As close shaves mounted around the home penalty area, you feared this was going to be another of those so-near-but-yet-so-far nights for Irish football.
But, again, Shels refused to stick to the script. In the dying moments, substitute Joseph Ndo, declining to run out time, worked a bit of magic in the Hajduk box, squared the ball across the front of goal to Alan Moore, and when his tap-in hit the net, I swear the whole of Tolka Park rose about six inches off the ground.
Months later, some of us are still coming down. And my AUL mate now likes to push up a bit.
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