Foul Play: The Trap Door Beckons

Kazakhstan, here we come. It seems like a lifetime ago that we were drowning our sorrows in Gdansk and Poznan, wondering whether it had all been worth it, cheerfully singing verse after verse of ‘We’re the Worst Team In the World’ and hoping against hope that Trap might do the decent thing and pass on the torch to somebody a little less set in their ways.

Or at least that, having inspected the damage on DVD re-runs of the three matches, he’d accept the basic need to fundamentally alter an approach which led us into the flames of Hell in front of an audience of millions. But here we are, three months on, and the old man clearly isn’t going anywhere, unless results force his hand. A humiliating defeat in Kazakhstan against the world’s 145th-ranked team might suffice to persuade the FAI that an immediate change of manager has become a matter of urgent public interest, but obviously, the last thing we want is the nightmare scenario of a stillborn World Cup qualifying campaign, with the merciless Germans lying in wait next month. There is an inescapable air of crisis surrounding the team, with the strong suspicion that the players have basically lost faith in the gaffer’s antiquated approach seemingly confirmed by a recent rash of withdrawals.
It may well be that we had completely deluded ourselves about the true level of the talent available to Trapattoni, that a squad of Championship-standard journeymen bolstered by four or five fading stars a good few years past their best was never really likely to cause Croatia, Spain and Italy too many problems. But the extent of the meltdown was still horrifying and shocking. Teams such as the Greeks and Czechs managed to gatecrash the quarter-finals with squads realistically no better than our own, which surely gives the lie to suggestions that damage-limitation ought to have been our main objective.
Those who don’t learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them, but there’s also little to be gained by looking back. Though the Kazakh expedition is undoubtedly a nightmare assignment in geographical terms, the opposition’s atrocious track record speaks for itself, and for all the justifiable gnashing of teeth about the current regime, it must be pointed out that Trap’s spartan approach has generally done an adequate job of hoovering up points in our assignments away from home against the pygmy nations of international football. Having won 4-0 in Estonia ten months ago, there is surely no compelling reason why we can’t put our hosts to the sword on Friday, even shorn of the talents of Darron Gibson. Shay Given has sailed off into that good night, after fifteen years of superhuman brilliance between the sticks were unfortunately postscripted by 270 minutes of embarrassing black comedy this summer. Kieron Westwood now takes over the gloves: he looked perfectly capable in the recent Belgrade friendly, is a fine goalkeeper, and the transition shouldn’t cause Ireland fans any undue concern.
Foul Play will be in sunny Warsaw by the time this battle kicks off, and it is desperately to be hoped that I can locate an Irish bar somewhere that will show the thing. I have missed a grand total of three competitive Ireland matches since 1983, and the consequences have always been catastrophic: a 3-1 collapse at home to the Spanish in late 1993 while I was in New Orleans, on an occasion when victory would have sealed our progress to the World Cup; a 0-0 draw in Liechtenstein a couple of years later, when Ireland managed to miss at least fifty open goals against the second-worst team in Europe; and finally a 2-1 win in San Marino in 2007, when my grandmother’s funeral in Edinburgh coincided with a Staunton-inspired Republic’s trek to take on the undisputed worst team in Europe. There is a pattern here, and it isn’t an encouraging one. I may be 37 and hopelessly unfit, but my country needs me.
If said Irish bar can’t be found, I also look like missing out on the imminent All-Ireland hurling final between Galway and Kilkenny, a combination that seems incapable of serving up a dull encounter. Their 2005 semi-final remains probably the greatest hurling match ever, with the enigmatic Tribesmen coming out on top by a preposterous 5-18 to 4-18 scoreline. Their Leinster final earlier this year wasn’t exactly dreary either, Galway racing into an absolutely gobsmacking 2-12 to 0-1 lead against the greatest team in sporting history: it was one of those occasions when the scoreboard looked so frankly unbelievable you had to rub your eyes repeatedly to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.
So stunningly uncharacteristic was the Cats’ implosion that day, the temptation is to dismiss that game as a freak storm, an impression heightened by the chilling efficiency of thir subsequent march to the Final. They have arguably never looked quite so ferocious as they did in the second half of the semi-final against Tipp (winning the second half by a ridiculous 19 points): Galway’s display against Cork meanwhile was impressive but hardly superhuman.
The heart votes for Galway, who have long been my favourite of the non-Dub counties: mercurial, terminally unpredictable and, on those days when it all comes together, nigh unbeatable. They skinned the Cats a mere two months ago, and will see no reason why they can’t repeat the dose on the biggest stage of all. But Kilkenny are Kilkenny: sinister, bloodthirsty, almost psychotic. By this stage, you would need to be an idiot to bet against them.
If both sides bring their A-game to the party, this may well be one of the all-time great Finals. Galway are a fantastic side, and I am certainly not expecting a whitewash. Every once in a blue moon, when you least expect it, Kilkenny actually confirm their mortality by losing a match: they’ve got plenty of mileage on the clock, and will need to devise a way of containing Joe Canning. But I don’t see them falling at this stage. Somehow or other, they will find a way. I hope I’m wrong.