This was his column day after we beat England in Euro 88
ONE day when I was a small boy, I ventured far beyond the approved limits with my greyhound and my terriers and for a little while had the alarming and exciting experience of being lost.
I found myself in what at seven winters and six summers I thought was a forest. Now I know it was only a wood.
And when I came back home, I tried to tell my elders about the wonders I had experienced but I couldn’t find the right words.
Long after that marvellous day I read a passage in the letters of Vincent Van Gogh in which he expressed his frustration at experiencing visions which he couldn’t depict. The great painter spoke about the wall between what you can see and what you can express. I understood.
In Stuttgart yesterday as I came across the yellow river called the Neckar, I recalled his trauma. I had experienced a momentous occasion but I knew that nothing short of an epic symphony could capture it.
There have been better games of football but never in our sporting history has there been such an occasion and such a fallout of emotions.
Ron Delany’s gold nugget was sweet but less widely celebrated. The Communications are infinitely better now.
The country rejoiced when Barry McGuigan won the world title but it was expected. Yesterday’s result was all the more heart-expanding because few if any foresaw it.
In time people will ask one another: “Where were you when Ray Houghton scored the goal that gave us victory over England in the Euro Cup?”
And otherwise honest people will persuade themselves that they were in the Neckar Stadium: it will replace the G.P.O. of 1916 as a palace of harmless dreams.
Word came to us here last night that in Dublin they were dancing in the streets: I wouldn’t be surprised that in Donegal they were dancing on the water.
The All-Ireland has never gone to Tir Chonaill but yesterday provided a huge compensation; our especial heroes have deep roots in that fair county.
Ray Houghton, whose father is from Buncrana, scored that precious goal. Paddy Bonner from the Rosses prevented several.
In a way it was Goodison Park in 1949 all over again: England had far more chances but a mixture of bad finishing and superb goal-minding cost them the day.
Pat has gone into folklore with Tommy Godwin. It was his day, so much so that his only mistake led to his best save.
A swallow would have been hard put to it to fly through his goal space: so big an object as a football would have needed a mind and a will of its own to elude him.
Before this tournament began the experts were saying that the three best keepers were in our group – Peter Shilton, Rinat Dasayev and Hans van Breukelen. Now they can make it four.
And if ever you say to Peter Beardsley and John Barnes that a goalkeeper can destroy you, they will surely agree; for them it was like the recent Cup final all over again.
The difference was that England had far more time to recover; this game could be divided into two parts – the first six minutes and the remainder.
The Irish began with a confidence and a creativity that belied their status as 7/2 outsiders: their goal came after six minutes of bold and intelligent tactics.
From the moment that England restarted play, we witnessed a new game: more and more the Irish conceded midfield until at times only Frank Stapleton and John Aldridge looked like attackers and even then only remotely so.
inevitable
For long periods in the first-half the English stroked the ball around in movements that contained a dozen or more passes – goals seemed inevitable.
Bryan Robson was dictating play – and in those multi-pass movements he often figured two or three or four times.
The Irish defenders looked vulnerable, especially Mick McCarthy; he was wonderful in the air but dangerously impulsive when the ball was on the ground.
Both he and Kevin Moran were often beaten for speed but always there was someone to come to their assistance.
And yet at the end of the day the two mid-backs could be proud; their fierce courage and their will to win inspired their colleagues.
It was a harrowing day for the Irish supporters; the ecstasy engendered by that marvellous goal soon turned to gnawing apprehension as wave after wave flowed toward Bonner’s posts.
Chris Waddle was exuding ideas; Gary Stevens and Kenny Sansom were making deep inroads; you felt that Gary Lineker would surely get a few of those chances which usually he ravenously snaps up. But for this brilliant goal-smith it was to be a tragic day: he snatched at some great opportunities – and when it was on target he saw Bonner had seemed to shrink the goal space.
The Irish supporters were mightily relieved to hear the half-time whistle or at least to see the referee’s signal. This game was played in a soundstorm.
And those I met during the interval shared my fears that our warriors couldn’t hold out – it needed only one slip for our lead to be wiped away.
Bobby Robson at the press conference said that one score might have brought several: It was hard to disagree.
But he must take some of the blame; the English attacks recalled a famous dictum beloved of Irish navvies: “It isn’t how high you raise the pick – it’s how deep you sink it.”
graceful
Their movements were pretty but predictable: the ball was being stroked gracefully in short passes but more often than not going back and across rather than forward.
Paul McGrath and Ronnie Whelan powerfully augmented the mid-backs; Houghton scurried here and there like a little Dutch boy with several leaking dam walls to mend.
In the frenetic excitement you had little time for analysis but I believe that a video would show how effective were Chris Morris and Chris Hughton. Both kept house quietly and tidely.
Barnes gave Morris a relentless examination but the young Celt passed with honours.
Hughton is generally deemed one of yesterday’s men but he played with a mixture of dash and wisdom: this was the Chris of five years ago.
As England’s multi-pass movements began to look more and more like misguided tours, Bobby Robson must have felt the need for a public confession. It took the form of calling Neil Webb ashore and sending in Glenn Hoddle.
And thus the last half hour became more and more agonising for the Irish supporters: the reprieved man played brilliantly.
Before his advent the greatest danger to the Republic had come from the ball played into the space behind the back four. Hoddle is famous for the long lifted pass; he excelled at it yesterday in his little stint.
As time went by and England’s score stood at zero, Bobby Robson’s mind seemed to be on the blink; eventually he sent in Mark Hateley for Beardsley and thus took out the greatest menace to the Irish.
Despite England’s territorial dominance this game could have ended with the same scoreline as that at Goodison Park on that famous day long ago. Twice in the second half the Irish almost went two up. Aldridge risked life and limb to get in a flying header that went just over. And Whelan with a close range shot grazed the bar with Shilton stranded.
And yet but for Bonner’s brilliance we might have had to be content with a draw or discontent with worse. He was great all through – in the last ten minutes he brought off two miracles.
When Lineker got inside the back four and closed in from a little to the keeper’s left Bonner kept the shot out with his legs. Then in the 88th minute he made his only mistake in this tumultuous day.
From a free kick on the left and near the corner flag Hoddle curled the ball in the direction of the penalty spot: Bonner advanced but knew he couldn’t get to it – and as he backpedalled, Lineker got in a powerful header; somehow the keeper got a touch and turned the bell over the bar.
About 90 seconds remained – they gave the Irish camp a sample of infinity. And when at last Siegfried Kirschen signalled full stop, the supporters were so exhausted that they could hardly express their joy.
It had seemed an eternity since that header had found the net. It was a goal worthy of this historic victory.
Tony Galvin hooked the ball so that it came down about ten years from the goal. England defender Kenny Sansom made a mess of his attempted clearance and Aldridge salmoned up and knocked it into Houghton’s flight-path as he came in from the right: his angled header put the ball between Shilton and the far post.
Once again a goal from Jack Charlton’s team had come from a player outside the front runners but you couldn’t fault Aldridge or Stapleton. They were isolated so much at times and could hardly have played better. And Galvin silenced his critics with a brave and skilful display.
Stapleton and he were replaced late in the battle by Niall Quinn and Kevin Sheedy.
lady luck
Jack Charlton was remarkably quiet at the press conference; he knew better than most that Lady Luck had taken us by the hand.
Bobby Robson looked almost serene; he recalled the old mother in ‘Riders To The Sea’ after her last son had been drowned; the worst had happened him – the future could bring no greater disaster.
In the aftermath of this marvellous victory; I heard many wild and whirling words. One eminently sensible man said that our inferiority complex had been buried for ever – and he was talking about more than football.
My colleague, Chris Dooley, was working at his first big assignment of this kind and I said: “You brought us luck.” Chris is from Offaly – he said: “It makes up for Seamus Darby”.
And someone else said: “Jack has landed his biggest fish.”
I will leave the last words to Kevin Moran, they were uttered in a hotel deep in the forest: “I’d love to be down in Kerry tonight.”
