Trap will have the last word

ON Tuesday evening in the Aviva, a couple of us were toying with the idea of writing up our match reports before the game kicked-off, just to see if second-guessing Trapattoni’s Ireland is as easy as many folk think.

You know, something along the lines of: “Ireland began brightly...achieved early breakthrough, going one-up after a deflected shot found the back of the net...but home side failed to build on supremacy...instead retreated into shell...repeatedly yielded possession to opposition...opposition proceeded to run rings around us...green shirts incapable of holding onto ball...only desperate last-ditch defending and poor Armenian finishing kept Ireland’s lead intact...resistance crumbled 20 minutes from the end when Armenia deservedly equalised...backs to the wall for remainder of game...penalty appeals waved down...anxiety in the stands...two vital saves by Given...nerve-jangling finish...agony prolonged through four minutes of time added-on...referee’s final whistle greeted by wave of relief all around the ground...afterwards Trapattoni praised his side’s “attitude” and “mentality”...out in RTE, Eamon Dunphy stabbed himself in the eye with biro...”

Well, if it wasn’t quite like that, it was mainly down to events, dear boy, specifically a refereeing howler and horrible mistakes by a visiting goalkeeper and defender. Yet, even when they were down to ten men, there were still periods when Armenia were the top dogs, though afterwards Trapattoni was within his rights to point out that Shay Given was rarely troubled on the night. And there were also passages of play when Ireland actually passed the ball quite well, with Keith Andrews getting a rare opportunity to be creative rather than disruptive – though, admittedly, this was mainly during the period when the home side held the numerical advantage.

In short, but for circumstances largely outside their own control on the night, this was once again Trapattoni’s Ireland as we’ve come to endure rather more than we can enjoy. And yet, and yet... there was an outpouring of genuine joy at the final whistle, the eruption of ‘Ole, ole’ all around the ground making the Aviva feel like Lansdowne in the good old days and confirming that, when it comes to the supremacy of the result, the people and the manager are singing from the same hymn-sheet.

But not everyone is happy to go along with the celebration, Eamon Dunphy, as ever, the party-pooper in chief. Anyone who loves Barcelona or Arsenal, he said this week, must hate watching the “rubbish” Ireland play. Certainly, it’s hard to imagine neutrals across Europe salivating at the prospect of watching the boys in green in action, given that it’s hard enough for those of us with an emotional attachment to them to take the glass half-full view much of the time.

Bringing Barcelona into the equation, though, is hardly fair – there aren’t many football teams in the whole world who would come out smelling of roses in a direct comparison with the planet earth’s current custodians of the beautiful game.

But the Arsenal comparison is more interesting, although not, perhaps, for the reasons the Dunph intended. They’re almost always a pleasure to watch, for sure, but even the most committed Gooners have had their faith shaken in Arsene Wenger by a trophy drought which shows no sign of abating. I’m not suggesting, for one moment, that they would welcome the introduction of Route One to the Emirates but, nor, I suspect, would they complain too much if Arsenal opted for something that was less pretty but altogether more effective in the successful pursuit of silverware.

Which is to say that, in more ways than the most obvious one, Trap’s Ireland are indeed the anti-Arsenal, because, unlike the Gunners, they continue to achieve results.

In some respects, the criticism of Trapattoni is slipping into caricature, overlooking some impressively positive performances under his reign in places like Sofia, Bari and Liege, as well as Dublin. Yet, Paris 2009 remains the stand-out game, precisely because it was the only one in which Ireland fully took a match by the scruff of the neck and were thoroughly convincing from first whistle to last.

And yet, at the end of all that inspiring action in the Stade de France, the players in white shirts were the ones left sitting on their backsides on the pitch while the French prepared to head to the travel agents.

Now, one year on, we have a chance to make amends, indeed the best chance — given the relatively ordinary nature of Estonia – that Ireland have had in ten years to qualify for a major finals.

It takes more than luck to get to such a position twice in succession, and Giovanni Trapattoni deserves his share of the congratulations for that. Whether Ireland could have done better or worse employing a different manager or a different style of football is great for the pundit wars but, at this late stage in the day, of precious little relevance to the make-or-break reality now facing the national football team.

Bouquets or brickbats, one suspects it’s all the same to Trapattoni, just as long as he keeps getting the results. An aggregate win over Estonia won’t end the debate in bar-rooms and studios but it would settle it decisively in the manager’s favour in the only place in football that really counts: the pitch.

There’ll still be plenty of time for heated debate through the long, dark nights of winter but it would be coldest comfort indeed if it was all about what might have been.