Good article by Vincent Hogan in today’s Indo.
No point looking for heads to roll
By Vincent Hogan
Saturday November 21 2009
You know it’s time to worry when grief escalates to that eccentric condition of invoking a moral imperative. We had travelled that far by Thursday lunchtime. FIFA, having already pulled the stroke of play-off seedings, surely couldn’t be seen to screw the little man over any further. Even the French were coming over misty-eyed and wistful, as if they’d been found jimmying a church collection box.
L’Equipe’s ‘La Main De Dieu’ headline all but wallpapered the bars and cafes of Charles de Gaulle airport.
Their national mood had curdled from relief to mortification then. A crime had been committed in the French name. There was no glory, therefore no victory. So we pressed our noses against the departure gate window, peering at the crippled, green bird outside, and ached to be free of all this Parisian sun and immersed back home, in our stone, grey valley of principle.
Journalists often joke that the worst place to be when a big story erupts is trapped at the scene. Once it gathers legs, the story slips beyond you. So Liam Brady, we heard, had been on Pat Kenny’s radio show calling for a rematch. Next, the FAI gave that call a formal status. By the time we got to board (six hours late), the Taoiseach was supposedly suspending all other business to appeal personally to Nicolas Sarkozy.
It was extraordinary. Our bankrupt, flooded, mixed-up nation had finally located a sense of outrage. And it was directed at someone else’s footballer.
So, the pieties flowed from the usual suspects and beyond. People, who should have known better, couldn’t resist the rumble of uproar. Thierry Henry pushed Seanie FitzPatrick back to the cheap seats of Irish revulsion. He handled the ball. He cheated. He broke our children’s hearts. Va-va-vomit.
It wasn’t a good week to be rational then. The players had simply been too heroic in Stade de France on Wednesday evening for every jumped-up patriot not to now need a piece of the action.
In time, an illusion was being spun. People started believing in the possibility of a rematch. Sepp and FIFA would look into their gentle hearts and deduce that, regardless of logistical stresses, impervious to the potential discomfiting of giant commercial partners, a referee had erred in Paris and – thereby – fairness must prevail.
So Abbotstown waited for the Tooth Fairy to call.
The single mature gesture came from Richard Dunne, a simple pat of Henry’s arm on the pitch afterwards as the pantomime villain feigned remorse. Henry, at that moment, looked pathetic. A man just looking for shade from his guilt. Dunne could have responded with contempt, of course. He could have invited him to take his commiserations and toss them on the compost heap where they belonged.
But what exactly would that have articulated? That the notion of a professional footballer cheating shocked Dunne? That, after more than a decade of baulking the runs of Premier League strikers, he was grievously affronted that Henry might somehow be unscrupulous in pursuit of victory?
REality
Dunne’s was a grown-up gesture. An acknowledgement of reality as distinct from populist fantasy.
Thursday night’s Prime Time, rather theatrically, posed the question of whether the greed of professionalism might have created an ethos of cheating. What planet had they been living on? Some of the biggest names in football impart more art to a dive than Greg Louganis ever did. And there is an extraordinarily high acceptance of defenders fouling (tugging the striker’s shirt, nudging him off balance under a dropping ball, holding his arm and toppling as if it is he who is holding yours, are all plat du jour).
Managers, meanwhile, play games with the truth. The blind eye is endemic.
Yesterday, within hours of FIFA’s declaration that there couldn’t be one, Arsenal’s French manager – Arsene Wenger – called for a rematch. Miraculously, Henry himself soon followed suit. The gestures spun a mirage of selflessness.
Wenger was quoted as saying that he was “not content, because France shouldn’t gain qualification with these things. All the stadium has seen the handball, but the referee hasn’t. This isn’t the French way and football should learn from this.”
This is Wenger who, historically, has never seen an Arsenal player commit a foul. Who once oversaw a period of virtual lawlessness from his team with the TV mantra, “I did not see the incident”.
In this, he is the norm, not the exception. Pick through the Premier League managers, one by one, and you won’t find any for whom the notion of fair play tugs at a higher instinct. Wenger, Alex Ferguson, Rafa Benitez: all programmed to slip into denial when an unflattering light falls the way of their dressing-room.
So the kids of the nation were never going to be corrupted by Henry’s handball. The corrupting is already done.
You don’t have to dip into the little shops of horror that are track and field or professional cycling to see sport with dirt under its fingernails. Look at rugby’s spring pantomime with fake blood or the discovery of choreographed crashing in Formula One. See tennis squirm at Andre Agassi’s crystal meth confessions.
Look at boxing, still selling snake oil. It is nearly three decades since Larry Holmes declared: “If you stay in a room with Don King for an hour, he’ll con you into anything. That’s why I talk to him over the phone. So I can hang up.” Yet, the man known for electric hair and a couple of homicides, still wheels and deals at the heavyweight table.
What happened on Wednesday in Paris was a long way down sport’s league table of dirty tricks. It was unjust and heartbreaking, no question. For 22 years, we have deified the men who went and won a competitive international against Scotland at Hampden Park. Yet, to beat France over 90 minutes at Stade de France, in the psychological kiln of a World Cup play-off, simply flew to another stratosphere.
It was natural then to feel deep emotion for the players. They played wonderfully, only to be evicted by a goal that should never have stood.
Yet, we were, essentially, two months late with our anger. The hand in our pockets wasn’t Henry’s. FIFA’s decision to seed the play-offs had been an unambiguous declaration of who they wanted in South Africa. Henry or Dunne? They changed the rules mid-stream to leave us in little doubt about the answer. That was when the little man got screwed over.
Henry himself? He just did what footballers do. He took a chance on fooling an unsighted ref. All night long, Mr Hansson had looked strong and objective. Had he been at the bidding of FIFA and big business, Nicolas Anelka’s dive would have offered the perfect convenience.
Yet, Hansson rejected it. He stayed strong. He did what he could to deliver a fair victor from the bedlam of Saint Denis and, ultimately, got swindled.
FIFA, as is their way, are likely to make an example of him. He probably won’t get to the World Cup and the formality of someone paying for Ireland’s pain will – thus – be delivered. (Thank you kind Mr Blatter). In time, the French and Henry (after, maybe, a one-match ban) will forget their discomfort too and ‘La Marseillaise’ will ring out from the dark continent next summer.
And, soon, maybe a penny will begin to drop here. It’s not the thief we should fixate upon, but the culture that creates him.