The Cup Is Already Ours

Happy New Year, ladies and gentlemen. Since we last convened, the world has changed completely. Well, not quite, but we’ve learned which three lucky nations will have the misfortune to act as cannon-fodder for Trap’s unstoppable green goal-machine this summer, as we prepare for the minor formality of the six games which will inevitably lead to our coronation as European champions on July 1.

I can’t claim to have jumped for joy at seeing the dreaded word ‘Spain’ placed in immediate proximity to our good selves with a view to engaging in an actual real live competitive match to establish which team has the better footballers, but having had a good few weeks to adjust to the shock, I am now facing it with some equanimity.
The consensus among the bunch of miserable pessimists with whom I work on a daily basis is that we’re completely fucked and it’s a simple question of keeping the scoreline respectable. But I don’t subscribe to that theory at all. Spain have, indisputably, earned the right over the last four or five years to be regarded as the planet’s top dogs, but this notion of them as an unstoppable, irresistible force is simply waiting to be shot down in flames.
En route to winning the last World Cup, I seem to recall that the only game in which they triumphed by more than a one-goal margin was against Honduras (2-0). The rest was hard work, with even Paraguay making them sweat buckets; they annexed sole control of the football in almost every match, monopolising possession completely, but the goals didn’t flow all that freely.
Even more encouragingly, you may recall that in Spain’s opening match, the Swiss – a profoundly limited crew with countless similarities to Ireland in our current incarnation – actually beat them 1-0 with a method which will almost certainly be strongly echoed by the Boys in Green on the big day: sitting back, keeping the door locked at all times, piling nine or ten men behind the ball and stinging them on the counter with what, if I recall rightly, was effectively their only attack of their match.
There is no reason to suspect that Ireland are in any way inferior to the Swiss side who pulled off this particular coup (they subsequently limped out in round one with flaccid performances against Chile and Honduras); the point is that, irrespective of Spain’s subsequent recovery to win the tournament, they proved themselves to be perfectly beatable. And it may not be strictly necessary for us to beat Spain in order to progress. A reprise of the Moscow experience, where we got completely eviscerated, rode our luck on occasion and got out of jail with a 0-0 draw, would probably be gratefully accepted by most Ireland fans at this point.
Obviously, a whole lot depends on whether we are going into the Spanish match in dire need of a result or in the happy position of building upon a solid start. Before then, we will face off against Croatia on June 10 in a game which will surely have a colossal bearing on whether or not we can progress. Indeed, if one accepts the (in my view dubious) proposition that the Spanish will win every first-round match, it becomes a mini-tournament between ourselves, Italy and Croatia for second place.
Certainly the Croats are more than capable of turning it on, and in Luka Modric, they have a midfield orchestrator who is probably worth 20 Keith Andrewses and Glenn Whelans rolled into one, if you get my drift. Nonetheless, they have to be fallible, having been beaten to first place in their qualifying group by the Greeks, and if we can dictate the terms of engagement, this one is definitely winnable, although enthusiasm is tempered by the nagging fact that we haven’t actually beaten a top nation in competitive combat since (if we’re honest) Holland in 2001. We have become massively adept at not being beaten, but the harsh truth is that three 0-0 draws are unlikely to do the trick this summertime, and at some point, we’ll need to actually outscore somebody to justify our presence on the big stage.
Could we do so against the Italians? Why not? It appears that they were genuinely horrified to be drawn against Ireland, a reaction which may be partially attributable to Signor Trapattoni’s status as a living legend on his home soil, having won more trophies than most managers have ever seen, a viewpoint not at all dented by his failures in charge of the Italian national team at the 2002 World Cup and Euro 2004. (That said, it should be pointed out that there is also a minority school of thought in Italy that the man is at least two decades past his peak in tactical terms, clinging to a rigid 4-4-2 and appearing loath to shuffle his favoured personnel).
It’s difficult to accurately assess the current Italian vintage; their qualifying group was something of a joke, so utterly uncompetitive that the pretty shocking Estonians managed to finish a distant second. Italy accounted for them by a 5-1 margin over two legs (as, of course, did Ireland in the recent play-offs) but the Azzurri have been known to stutter and stumble on the big stage, and a glance at their current personnel would demand respect rather than abject terror. All but three of the squad ply their trade in a Serie A which is diminished beyond recognition from the footballing paradise it was throughout the ‘90s, and the side’s abject showing at the last World Cup ensures it simply isn’t accurate to regard them as a genuine superpower any more.
It must be recalled that several of these players won the World Cup in 2006, and there are a few reasons to be fearful. Keeper Buffon will still be a formidable obstacle, Roma’s bullet-hard midfield enforcer Daniele De Rossi is one of the toughest players alive, Andrea Pirlo’s dead-ball capabilities should caution us against giving away too many frees in vulnerable areas, and Mario Balotelli in full flight can certainly cause Messrs. Dunne and St. Ledger sleepless nights. But their reputation for unparalleled savvy in tight contests has taken a considerable hit since the team’s 2006 peak, and we recently savaged them 2-0 in a friendly while fielding what can only be described as our second-choice starting XI.
I will suspend judgement on what lies ahead until the next few months have taken their course. If pushed to predict the outcome, I suspect that we’ll succumb 1-0 to Spain and draw the other two, an eventuality which would probably (though not definitely) see us exit the stage at the end of round one.
Nonetheless, I’ve booked my flights. The decision was a total no-brainer. I’ve wanted to go to a major tournament for the last thirty years, have never quite been in a financial position to do so until pretty recently, and am looking forward to this one like a child on Christmas Eve. For the next five months, every single fitness bulletin of the ‘Andy Keogh Strains His Left Toenail’ variety will be devoured with near-psychotic intensity.
I beseech you all, lads: stay fit and look after yourselves. The adventure of a lifetime lies ahead.