Postcards from the edge

With colleagues A and B, I avail of a day off at the team camp in Montecatini to hop on a train and visit one of the great cities of the world. We are not disappointed. We do the Duomo. (Awesome). We cross the Ponte Vecchio. (Magical). We have pizza for lunch. (Tasty).

We have almost made it through the afternoon intact when, on passing Giotto’s Tower on our way back to the train station, we notice that the lengthy queues of earlier in the day have shortened. Colleagues A and B, both sporty types, decide that nothing will do but we should ascend the great tower to the top terrace. Your correspondent, not a sporty type, ponders the famed 414 steps of its narrow, spiral stone staircase, and inwardly recalls that the last time I exerted myself to such an extent was almost exactly four years ago during Euro 2008 when, in sprinting for a tram in Zurich, I “tweaked a hammer”, in the immortal words of Mick Byrne. It was bad enough that an old lady offered me a seat when I finally hobbled on board, worse that I took it.

So, of course, not wanting to lose face and being a big eejit to boot, I agree that, yes, it would be a capital idea to climb Giotto’s Tower, thinking, sure if it all gets too much for me, I can always stop now and again for a cigarette break.

By about a third of the way up — no, I tell a lie, at about the fourteenth of the four hundred and fourteen steps — I am in abject agony and, by all objective medical standards, possibly very close to death. My heart is hammering, my lungs are bursting, both my calf muscles are going into cramp and sweat is running off the tip of my nose like a little waterfall. “Eh, lads, I’m going a bit slow here so what say I let ye go on without me,” I croak good-naturedly.

Colleague A is having none of it. He suggests a tactic whereby I put one foot on the step above me and then bring the other alongside, alternating every ten or so steps. Amazingly, it works and I am able to make halting progress, the only downside of which is that a stream of protesting old ladies are backed up behind me, itching to pass.

Still, I finally make it to the top and, once I have recovered my vision, hearing and basic ability to stand upright, am able to savour one of the great urban panoramas of Europe. It is at this very moment, however, that Colleague B reveals an interesting fact about himself — he suffers from vertigo. And even though the terrace is entirely enclosed in a protective cage, he spends some moments effectively superglued to the inner wall before he summons up the courage to peel himself off for long enough to step an inch forward and take a picture of the people waving across to us from the dome of the cathedral.

You will be pleased to know that we all finally made it down again and also that a plaque commemorating our heroic achievement is due to be affixed to the tower so that future generations will know of the great things done here by Irish men who have gone before them.

The ATM machine in the metro station accepts my card and asks me to follow a series of complicated instructions. I diligently press all the right buttons in the right order and then wait for technology to take its course. After a series of disconcerting whirrs, clicks and bleeps, the following legend appears on the screen. “Your card has been consumed. Please notify your bank.” I stand frozen to the spot in disbelief. Consumed!?! In the screen’s reflection I can see that my face resembles my passport photo i.e. like a man who has been surprised by the dull blow of a mallet to the back of his head. Moments, perhaps hours, perhaps even years pass. Then, without any warning, the machine suddenly and silently regurgitates my card. I yank it out before the thing has a chance to reconsider its options and leg it, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to make sure the malevolent ATM isn’t clanking along behind me.

And sometime soon, I have no doubt, I will be a source of great amusement to many on the Hungarian version of You’ve Been Framed.

The man from Al Jazeera asks to interview me. I waffle away for the camera outside the media hotel, secure in the knowledge that while millions across the Middle East might be forced to digest me on their breakfast TV, no-one who knows me is ever likely to see the result. The very next day, after team training in Gdynia, I am hailed cheerily as follows: “Alright! Saw your interview on Al Jazeera.” This from Jason McAteer who, it turns out, is working for the television company at Euro 2012. The station is also indirectly responsible for — if I may say so — one of my better bon mots of the tournament. At Ireland’s pre-Croatia press conference in Poznan, Croatian, Italian and even German journalists are hogging the floor. Finally, a question from the Al Jazeera man spurs Robbie Keane into action. In an act of moving solidarity with us lowly hacks, the skipper points out that the country has waited ten years for a trip to the Euros and it might be nice to let the Irish journos mark the occasion by asking a question or two. Result! One which, I suggest, should be written up as: Tallaght 1 Allah 0. (Here, I’ve just thought of another one. Give me a good name for an unusually witty and eloquent football commentator: Bon Motson?).

At the room in the local rugby club which doubles as our training base media centre, Miguel Delaney announces that Marca have printed nine reasons for “Spain to believe”. Someone shoots back: “Only nine?” Another suggests that they could have saved space by simply printing “Ireland” nine times.

Ah, black humour. It’s almost all we have left to sustain us now.

We haven’t abandoned all hope, of course, but still, the lyric that I can’t get out of my head right now is the Bob Dylan line that goes: “It’s not dark yet — but it’s getting there.”

Yep, barring a miracle in Gdansk tomorrow evening, it’s likely that we’ll be back home before that postcard arrives.