Proof football really is a global game
Fair play to Branko though, no bluff here. He could delve deep into the game’s innards too, describing how Bray had gone a man down, then two goals down before scoring a consolation goal late on.
Branko’s beaming smile when imparting this info betrayed the fact that, while he is a part-time receptionist, he is a full-time bookmaker and one with a web of contacts around Europe feeding him information on the most unlikely of footballing outposts.
If only everyone at home possessed his intimate knowledge of the League of Ireland, eh?
His scouts came up trumps at the weekend. Branko had Cork in a double with French Ligue 2 side LB Chateuroux and the winnings were put to good use in the bars of Podgorica on Saturday before he made for the Italian game.
It was no surprise to see the lad was nowhere to be found come check-out yesterday morning.
While on the subject of the global game, Giovanni Trapattoni and Marcello Lippi will be able to commiserate with one another over a mutual bugbear this week as it seems that they have more than their passports in common.
The Irish manager has spent more time than he would like batting away criticism of Andy Reid’s absence from his squad and his Italian counterpart suffered the same fate last week over his refusal to crook a finger towards Antonio Cassano.
The Sampdoria forward is a Bari boy, born and bred, and the Italian newspapers made great play last Friday of rumours that the local tifosi would make the coach pay for that snub with a hostile reception in two day’s time.
Cassano is a journalist’s delight and not always because of his actions on the pitch. Euphemistically labelled as a ‘temperamental’ player, he has cultivated a colourful reputation for himself with claims that he has bedded between 600-700 women (give or take).
A guy like that would have been like a kid in a sweet shop in Podgorica. When the Irish visited the Montenegrin capital last September, the pasty hordes were taken aback by the volume of beauties that seemed to call the capital home.
The city centre is a compact block of no more than four or five streets and the chief pastime among the locals seemed to be one of getting dolled up to the nines and strolling languidly around the circuit.
It is a typical eastern Europe town, one where old and new clash incessantly. The new shopping centres may boast Swarovski and Zara but the refuelling truck on the airport runway is still pulled by a beat-up Soviet tractor and a 20-minute taxi ride costs about e1.80.
The City Stadium manages the unique trick of looking ancient though much of it is brand new. The north and south stands behind the goals were only built three years ago but they look like Tito himself might have laid the first ceremonial stone.
The venue can only hold 12,000 punters but the atmosphere makes Croke Park or Lansdowne Road seem like a funeral parlour. Even the journalists wore red and orange scarves and gave their side a standing ovation as they took to the field.
They couldn’t have cared less about events in Dublin but Richard Dunne’s first-minute goal was passed on dutifully by one colleague who seemed to think it his duty to look after the one Irish reporter in the press box.
Updates were sketchier from there on in.
Colleagues in Dublin kept the lines of communication open in the opening quarter while soliciting news from the other end but the volume of texts trickled away completely by the time the second-half had begun.
Still, no news is apparently good news so it was with a sinking sense of the inevitable when the friendly Montenegrin reporter turned his head from his laptop deep into the second half and said “Kilbane, own goal, 1-1.”
Wonder if Branko had any money on that.
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