Fond memories of truly magical journey
It seemed like the whole country took their place on emotional rollercoaster
‘WE’RE ALL part of Jackie’s Army, We’re all off to Italy,
And we’ll really shake them up,
When we win the World Cup,
Cause Ireland are the greatest football team’
Those were the days my friends. Heady times when the likes of McGrath, Moran, Staunton, Townsend and Aldridge donned the green of Ireland with distinction and we dared to dream of landing the biggest prize of them all.
Okay, we may not have actually believed we were good enough to lift the famous little glittering gold trophy, but boy were we going to have a hell of a lot of fun trying.
Thirty years ago this week, Ireland embarked on possibly the greatest sporting story in this small country’s rich history, a journey that took just about everybody along for the remarkable ride.
Did I say possibly? I meant certainly, as there hasn’t been another event, before or since, that has so entranced the entire nation, man, woman and child.
For myself, as a scrawny 14-year-old, barely out of short pants at the time, it was wonderful to witness the dawn of a new age, not just for football but the country as a whole. Some might say it was just a soccer tournament, but it was so much more than that.
The exploits of the Boys in Green heightened our sense of place by not only qualifying for the tournament, but going on to reach the quarter-finals, allowing us as a nation to walk tall, with heads up and chests out, into a decade that saw a huge upturn in fortunes for the country.
It may have been kick-started two years earlier in Germany, when Ray Houghton’s goal toppled the auld enemy England in Stuttgart, but by 1990 it no longer felt like a fluke and we knew we deserved our place among the elite footballing nations, rightfully believing that we could make the rest of the world sit up and take notice.
In the glorious summer of 1990 the nation was completely in the grip of World Cup fever. Houses, cars and people were painted in forty shades of green, while every kid in the country opened packets manically, hoping to get their hands on the stickers that would complete their prized Italia ‘90 collection.
Having been drawn in a group with England, Egypt and Holland, it wasn’t going to be easy, but hey, we had already shown we were capable of seeing off the former, confidence was high that we would dispose of the North African side, while a result against the Dutch was difficult, but achievable.
With the Holy Grail of gracing a World Cup achieved, after a number of near misses, the nation was ready to enjoy it - whether it be fans that cleaned out the Credit Union to go on the trip of a lifetime, supporters that packed hostelries the length and breadth of the country, or those that were on the edge of sofas in their living rooms.
Being in my mid-teens at the time, it was the latter for me and I was glued to the chunky Philip’s television in the corner of the flowery wallpapered sitting room for the duration of the tournament. Like the rest of the good people of Ireland, I was giddy and as excited as a young child in a sweet shop, and ready to walk side by side with our heroes every single step of the way.
The first step was taken in earnest when the Republic faced England in Cagliari on June 11. Bobby Robson’s side were looking to avenge the shock defeat of two years earlier in Stuttgart, and this time it was England who took an early lead, with George Hamilton crying out ‘danger here’ as ace poacher Gary Lineker ghosted in to chest the ball over the line.
It was a disastrous opening for a side that, under a rigid Charlton system, were never going to go all gung-ho and lose their shape, and thankfully the sticking in there approach paid dividends in the end.
The words of the hit song rang true as Ireland did put them under pressure, pressing hard in search of an equaliser that looked crucial to their chances of progressing from the tough group, even at such an early stage of the tournament.
The goal came with less than 20 minutes remaining, when Steve McMahon failed to control the ball on the edge of the box and Kevin Sheedy was on it like a flash, driving a left-footed shot past Peter Shilton to instantly rise to the status of a national hero. The people of Ireland erupted as one and we were on our way.
If Sheedy’s goal brought the country to their feet, the second game against Egypt in Palermo six days later certainly brought everybody back down to earth with a thud, as it was so poor that it made the prospect of watching paint dry seem like an attractive alternative.
Having drawn 1-1 against the Netherlands in their opening clash, the supposed minnows certainly weren’t going to be push-overs, but with a game under our belts to settle into the tournament we were quietly confident that we would have enough to earn the win that would leave us in pole position to reach the knockout stages.
In the end it felt like a missed opportunity as Ireland huffed and puffed, before having to settle for a 0-0 stalemate, instead of celebrating what promised to be our first-ever victory at a World Cup finals.
Jack Charlton’s side created a few chances to win the game, but in the main were too predictable in their approach against an Egyptian outfit that was set up to frustrate, and the Irish simply ran out of ideas against their tight-marking opponents.
That grim game is probably best forgotten, and most watching on television will remember it more for the antics of Eamon Dunphy afterwards, rather than anything that happened on the pitch.
The pundit said he was ‘embarrassed and ashamed’ of the Irish performance as he lamented just how a country that has a rich history of producing skilful footballers could subject us all to such absolute muck, pelting his pen on to the desk in disgust to emphasise the point during an extraordinary meltdown, even by Dunphy’s standards.
Needing something from the match against European champions Holland certainly wasn’t where we wanted to be going into the final group game, as Gullit, Rijkaard, Koeman, van Basten and co. had knocked us out of the Euros on the way to winning the tournament two years previous, but that’s the way the cookie crumbled and we had to continue believing despite our confidence being dented by the performance in the Egyptian game, a contest which was as dull as the dullest of dishwater.
With that dire match firmly consigned to the rubbish bin of history, with other such sporting monstrosities, the nation picked itself up, dusted itself down, and readied itself for the crunch game against the Netherlands four days later.
After his infamous strop, Eamon Dunphy had made his way out to Italy, but he was denied an interview with the disgruntled Irish manager as back home the late Bill O’Herlihy continued to expertly steer the ship in his inimitable fashion.
Charlton’s Ireland answered their critics in style with a superb 1-1 draw against the Dutch to reach the last 16 of the competition, with every player on the pitch giving their all.
An early Ruud Gullit goal left Ireland with it all to do, and things were looking increasingly bleak as they still trailed with 70 minutes on the clock, but Ireland managed to pull it out of the fire in the most route one way possible.
Goalkeeper Packie Bonner gritted his teeth before launching the ball forward. When Berry van Aerle attempted to play a cushioned volley back to Hans van Breukelen, the netminder allowed the ball to slip from his grasp and the alert Niall Quinn was there to sweep it home.
With England leading 1-0 against Egypt, a bizarre ending ensued as Ireland and Holland knew that a draw suited them both, as the pair would go through along with Bobby Robson’s side, so they simply ran the clock down, passing the ball back and forth in the middle third, with more back passes on show than in a rugby international.
There was still a brief nervous wait after the final whistle to see if Egypt could snatch a point against England that would force a lottery to decide the qualifying places, a scenario which thankfully didn’t materialise.
A drawing of lots was still needed though and it went in Ireland’s favour, meaning we finished second in the group, ahead of the Netherlands, and faced Romania, instead of the daunting task of taking on West Germany, a test which Holland were handed and failed, with the Germans going on to win the tournament.
The jolly green carnival then moved on to Genoa and if we thought our nerves had been jangled up to this point, we really hadn’t seen anything yet as the penalty shoot-out win over Romania ensured that every fingernail in the country was bitten down to the quick.
When Packie Bonner dived to his right to thwart Daniel Timofte, we all joined the Donegal man in his little hop, skip and jump for joy.
‘A nation holds its breath,’ George Hamilton told us as David O’Leary stepped up, and it was the sweetest feeling ever when he fired the ball home and we all exhaled as one, as the realisation that we were in the last eight of the World Cup began to sink in.
There’s no denying that what had gone on in the previous 120 or so minutes was far from balletic and about as uninspiring as a Donald Trump speech, but it didn’t matter one jot as the Irish team kept the crazy hopes of a country alive.
Jack’s ever-swelling army marched on to Rome with the prospect of knocking out hosts Italy a distinct possibility in the minds of the disciples. Divine inspiration was even sought as the squad met Pope John Paul II in the Vatican, and there was no disguising this blessing.
When the Irish gladiators took their place in Stadio Olimpico, with the prize a place in the World Cup semi-final, the people of Ireland couldn’t have been any prouder. Whatever the outcome, we were with them all the way – win or lose they were returning to the Emerald Isle as heroes.
Sadly it wasn’t to be as Ireland were unable to penetrate a water-tight Italian defence, and a 37th-minute goal from Toto Schillaci, a name that will be forever etched in Irish minds, proved to be the difference.
Ireland tried hard to reply, but breaking down a rearguard which included the likes of Franco Baresi, Paolo Maldini and Giuseppe Bergomi was never going to be easy, and ultimately their brave effort fell just short.
The great adventure was over, but for many back home it was only beginning as the team won the hearts and minds of the people, a love affair that would continue four years later at the World Cup in America.
We might not have played the most aesthetically pleasing football, and, in hindsight, given the players at our disposal, maybe we should have played a bit more on the turf instead of the over-reliance on the long-ball game.
However, apart from the country’s football purists, few complained as results were all that mattered. And there’s no denying that Charlton delivered, where others failed on that front, before and since.
A bit like ‘Put ‘Em Under Pressure’, Jack Charlton’s gruff Geordie tones set to music may not make the hairs stand on the back of your neck in quite the same way as the late, great Luciano Pavarotti singing the Italia ‘90 anthem ‘Nessun Dorma’, but it does ignite passion in Irish fans.
Also, would the famous Italian tenor have been able to set up a rigid 4-4-2 formation that could frustrate even the most skilful of teams? I think not.
When you clinically analyse each game and performance, the Irish team may not have pulled up trees and set the tournament alight in terms of the football on view, but it was so, so much more than that.
It was a truly magical journey for those of us looking on, with practically the whole country taking their place on a thrilling emotional rollercoaster.
The crowds that lined the streets of Dublin for the team’s homecoming to show their appreciation illustrated perfectly just what the tournament meant to the people of Ireland.
We had finally arrived at the party and we were determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted. What we wouldn’t give for a return to those sort of heights once again.
‘Olé, olé, olé, olé, Ireland, Ireland’