Come on Ireland!

What a weekend. A mesmerising, mouth-watering masterclass of electrifying pace, bewitching close control, intuitive passing, breathtaking trickery and devastating firepower that had to be seen to be believed, and which yielded richly-deserved silverware, with the illustrious winners cracking open the champagne and proceeding to party well into the night, while onlookers marvelled and wondered if they’d ever witnessed anything as close to footballing perfection.

Yep, Ireland’s 1-0 triumph over Scotland was an occasion to savour all right, with the Boys in Green claiming their first international trophy since the Icelandic Triangular Tournament of 1986 (at the time, also slightly overshadowed by a little Argentinian who could play a bit). Thus concluded the inaugural Carling Nations Cup, which is already shaping up as one of humanity’s less inspired inventions.
The arse-end of the tournament featured perhaps the least appetising contest in the history of international football, a joust between Wales and the Six Counties which was attended by a grand total of 529 spectators, leaving the 51,700-capacity Aviva looking a sorry sight indeed, while giants of the game such as Crusaders’ Colin Coates slugged it out manfully in a manner which thoroughly belied Pele’s description of ‘The Beautiful Game’. I actually watched this match — not because I’m a sad no-lifer with little to fill my Friday nights, but because I was working on a daily paper’s sports desk — and it was so far removed from the riches on offer in the following night’s Champions League Final that it resembled a different sport.
The crowd was so skeletal and sparse that you could hear the players shouting to one another; you could hear one or two of the North’s players clapping as the mellifluous strains of ‘God Save The Queen’ faded out; you could hear Gerry Armstrong in the commentary booth doing his level-best to search for chinks of light in the darkness which has come to engulf Northern Irish football since King Billy Bingham’s magic touch wore off round about 1986.
The thought occurred, not for the first time, that if they’d bite the bullet and actually join forces with their southern brethren in a 32-county national team, they — we — would probably win a lot more games than we’d lose. It works in a rugby context, and it certainly hasn’t deterred many thousands of obviously Unionist fans from whole-heartedly supporting the team. To paraphrase Charlie Haughey, the North is a failed footballing entity, and its footballing community would do very well to realise it, give up the ghost, and unite with us. The invitation remains open...
All that said, beating them 5-0 was certainly enjoyable, and it was surely a worthwhile exercise insofar as it visibly restored Robbie Keane’s confidence after a pretty horrendous 18 months or so. Suitably reborn, he then hit the winning goal against Scotland, provided for him by an unlikely moment of magic from the much-derided Paul McShane, who temporarily seemed to be touched by genius as he showcased astonishingly assured touch to skip away from a Scots challenge in the centre-circle, then laid it off for Robbinho to gallop towards the opposing goal before applying the killer touch. McShane’s flourish was described by Sky analyst Jason McAteer as ‘Messi-esque’, which was no exaggeration. The doughty Scots proceeded to monopolise possession for the remainder of the match, but one penalty shout from Kenny Miller and a Phil Bardsley bullet aside, there was little to lose sleep over. And we won. And finished the tournament with a 100% record, having fired in nine goals and kept three clean sheets. And lifted the trophy.
It is easy to sneer at the Carling Nations Cup. Certainly, it fits every one of the criteria that would be used to define a ‘Mickey Mouse’ competition. And yet, as we limber up to tackle the treacherous trip to mysterious Macedonia, the thought occurs that it certainly can’t hurt to have got the squad together for a couple of morale-boosting workouts.
There were a couple of lads who couldn’t be arsed turning up, obviously feeling that the unpaid inconvenience of international football is beneath them after a hard nine-month slog for whoever pays their ample wages at club level. And there were clear hints — from Trap and from many of the players — that the absentees’ absenteeism has been noted, that a bond has been forged between those players who did feel it right to make the effort, that the squad is perhaps beginning to fall back in love with playing for Ireland in a way that clearly hasn’t been the case for the most of the last decade.
You may have wondered why I am yammering on about the international scene, and glossing over the astonishing spectacle at Wembley where an utterly wonderful Barcelona emphatically cemented their status as the best team ever to play football.
The answer is: because it matters more to me, and always will. International football’s prestige has taken a severe pounding in the last decade or so, largely as a result of the crazy wages now on offer in the club game, and the resulting perception (which has more than a grain of truth in it) that, increasingly, top footballers no longer give a flying fuck about representing their countries, and will absent themselves from national service given the flimsiest excuse.
Nothing is more damaging for a sport’s spectator appeal than the perception that the participants aren’t too bothered, and these days, even genuine football fans can come across as disinterested in the fate of the national side. I recently overheard a thoroughly depressing conversation between two of my esteemed colleagues — very nice fellows in all other regards — who freely, almost proudly admitted that they couldn’t give a toss what happens in Ireland matches unless they stood to win a few quid. These same people can be witnessed leaping around like lunatics when Manchester United PLC’s latest expensively-assembled collection of players, almost entirely developed at places other than Old Trafford and then purchased for several million as a result of impressive shirt sales in the Far East, bag another 97th-minute winner against Blackburn or Birmingham. They clearly feel that this team is in some way representing them as people, that the PLC’s latest triumph is a glorious reflection of their personal brilliance in choosing to support them as opposed to Blackburn. No, I can’t understand it either.
Whatever floats your boat, I suppose. I enjoy club football as much as anyone, and freely admit that all the sentiments of the preceding sentence could just as easily be applied to Manchester City, or Liverpool or Celtic or any other genuinely huge club with a large support base. I don’t deny anyone’s right to enjoy watching their club of choice, or to feel that the outcome matters more to their lives than whether or not Ireland reach the World Cup. But I do find that attitude utterly sad, pathetic and incomprehensible.
Sure, I accept that club football offers a permanent running narrative, week-on-week, the intensity and frequency of which renders it inherently gripping, while international football is frustratingly staccato and stop-start in nature, with gaps of several months between competitive fixtures.
But speaking as someone who can remember a time when the concept of Ireland even qualifying for a major Finals seemed a pipe-dream — and who looked on in wide-eyed wonder over the late Eighties as the dream came true in front of our eyes — I can’t in a million years see how the ‘my English club has bought better players than your English club’ merry-go-round could ever begin to compare to the sheer knot-in-the-stomach thrill of watching one’s own nation line up with a place in the Euros or World Cup at stake. Of course, there’s no guarantee that we’ll make it, and even if we do, the prospect of winning a major tournament is so remote we must accept it’s unlikely to happen within our lifetimes (though I’m sure the Greeks thought the same thing before 2004). We aren’t overflowing with quality players, and we can’t buy them. Which is the whole beauty of it: neither can Spain, or Brazil or Germany. We must make the most of what we have — and so must everyone else. It’s what you call a level playing field, a concept that disappeared from the club game decades ago. Macedonia, here we come.