Giving the fans something to cheer about

IT WAS day two of the occupation of the beachhead which the Green Army had established for themselves in the outdoor bar in front of the Radisson Hotel in central Sofia.

The takeover had been entirely peaceful if overwhelming, beginning on the Friday afternoon and continuing long into the night. Where they slept, or even if they slept, I have no idea, but by the following morning, match day, there they were there again, gearing up for the big night ahead by, as The Clash would have it, drinking brew for breakfast.

And for lunch and afternoon tea. The temperatures soared and the shade receded but the revellers were not for moving, their only concession to the blistering sun the removal of green shirts so that pale white skin was soon turning a radioactive red. Viewed from afar, they must have looked, appropriately, like a huge, slightly tattered Bulgarian flag.

In the lobby, a colleague related a little cameo he’d witnessed on the way in. A big lump of a lad had gulped down the remains of his pint before screwing up his face in disgust and loudly proclaiming “Jaysus, the beer’s gone warm.” Then a curious, sort of mystified expression formed on his face, followed by one of urgent alarm — whereupon he quickly lifted the glass towards his mouth again and, with a guttural roar, deposited the entire day’s takings back into it. Then, after composing himself for a moment, he called for another pint. As you do.

That the average Irish football fan (if there is such a thing) drinks more than is good for him (and, yes, it’s a predominantly male pastime) goes without saying (and those of us in the inky trade probably have no right to say it anyway). But then Shane MacGowan drinks more than is good for him too, and he’s written ‘Fairytale Of New York’ and ‘Rainy Night In Soho’, so go figure (I’ve now used up my allocation of brackets, by the way — cutbacks, don’t you know).

As it happens, The Pogues were a popular slice of the soundtrack blasting out of the open doors of the hotel all day last Saturday. The Sawdoctors too and, the lord between us and all harm, The Wolfe Tones. Since I can’t imagine that ‘Come Out Ye Black And Tans’ is top of the pops in downtown Sofia, I have to assume the Green Army brought a tape of their own battle-hymns with them and made the Radisson an offer they couldn’t refuse.

Anyway, dodgy Irish rebel-rousers notwithstanding, the whole thing made for a surreal and pleasing tableau, with unemployed robocop-style riot police leaning against an armoured van and looking on bemused, as a bunch of mad Paddies, who were utterly oblivious to their presence, waved flags and pints and danced about the tables to The Pogues’ ‘Fiesta’.

Somehow, they all made it to the Vassil Levski Stadium in time for kick off too and somehow they remained upright and singing in their wedge-shaped corner of the ground, outnumbered by about 22 to one in a venue which is infamous for the sometimes ferocious hostility of the home support.

That the whole night passed off peacefully last week was, in good measure, a testament to the impeccable behaviour of the Irish support. We almost take this stuff for granted now but we shouldn’t. Last October I was in the same stadium to see the Bulgarians host Italy, and the mood was distinctly nasty, the Italian supporters provoking the home support by giving fascist salutes during the national anthems and the local ultras responding by pelting their own riot police with bottles and firecrackers — and fighting amongst themselves — when they couldn’t cross the no-man zone to get at the tifosi.

By contrast, last Saturday night, while lacking nothing in electric atmosphere, ended with the Bulgarian support departing in a mood of nothing worse than sullen despondency, bequeathing their national stadium to the two and half thousand visitors who stayed on to acclaim their heroes. Little wonder that there were reliable reports of tears in Giovanni Trapattoni’s eyes when, coming back out to conduct a post-match interview on the running track, he was greeted by a rapturous visiting supporters chanting: “Oh, Trapattoni, he used to be Italian but he’s Irish now.”

Of course, the players and the management had given the fans something to cheer about in Sofia — which is worth bearing in mind when the talk turns, as it increasingly does, to the perceived failings of Croke Park as a home from home for the national team. There’s no doubt that Croker hasn’t delivered the same kind of atmosphere as Lansdowne Road used to in the glory days, but then the fact is that there hasn’t been a whole lot of glory on offer since the soccer boys moved into GAA headquarters. Despite the odd decent night — the 1-0 win against Slovakia, the scoreless draw with Germany — the Steve Staunton era was simply too relentlessly downbeat to allow any real green shoots of optimism to take root. And even under Trapattoni, probably the best night at home so far was when Ireland came back from the concession of a first minute goal to beat Georgia 2-1. But still, Georgia? The big test of Croker, therefore, will be one of the last. Were Ireland to beat Italy in October then you can rest assured that it will be written up as a night fit for the sporting ages, and this magnificent stadium will finally take a revered place in the honour roll of Irish football.

But, first, there’s the small matter of another outing to Cyprus in September. The word in the travel business is that there won’t be a big take up of tickets for the trip, the familiar exodus of recent years falling foul of the recession. Either that, or after Nicosia 2006, even the most hardened Green Army footsoldiers would rather lock themselves in a darkened room at home and not emerge until the final whistle has blown on an island far, far away.

With the international season having finally drawn to a close, there are many good reasons to hope that, after eight years of disappointment, Ireland will indeed qualify for South Africa 2010. And not the least of them is that the committed Irish football supporter — mad but not bad and rarely dangerous to know — deserves nothing less.

Just ask Sophia. When she’s finally recovered.