Compelling, spiky, principled and determined – there aren’t too many men like McClean
TO THE end, James McClean was a study in resistance. On this last appearance in an Irish jersey, he tried to withstand the crafty probing of Sarpreet Singh, New Zealand’s playmaker who got better and better as the match wore.
It was a mixed effort, with the visitors playing the ball to Singh as often as they could.
McClean was up against the shadows of his own past, too.
Mikey Johnston was playing in front of him on the left side of the Irish team, and he is a lively winger like McClean once was.
There was a more forceful, blunter edge to McClean’s wing-craft – Johnston tries to pull more intricate shapes. But like McClean a decade ago, he has enough about him to cause fans in the stands to stir. Some even oblige the old cliché and get out of their seats in excitement.
That was James McClean once upon a time. The Aviva Stadium stood as one over 11 years ago when he came on for his debut, and thereafter, while the levels of his performances fluctuated wildly, he was a compelling figure in the national side.
His final press conference ahead of the match was dutifully spiky, too, as he talked honestly about his disappointment at not getting selected, his belief that he was still good enough to justify his place, and the realisation that concluding this part of his career made most sense now.
That willingness to not so much explain himself, as stand up for himself, was what distinguished him most as a high-profile Irish sportsperson.
He wasn’t always convincing, and he made some significant missteps on social media in particular, but that determination to be heard, which seems unflagging, was an admirable trait – not least because the modern sporting environment sees athletes in all codes, and at most levels, choose silence.
The most obvious issue on which McClean spoke was the poppy madness that seizes parts of the UK every year.
It is apt that McClean’s last Irish flourish came in November, the month which saw him targeted for over a decade by bigots for his refusal to wear a poppy.
His explanation for it was concise, convincing, and often made, but it didn’t prevent him being coursed by some vile characters on social media, with death threats made against him and his family.
He remained unflinching and stayed true to his principles. Few of his peers in Irish sport have had to deal with the levels of toxicity McClean did.
His goodbye on Tuesday night was moving, and at the same time deeply odd. He was taken off in the 65th minute, six minutes after New Zealand capitalised and over half an hour into their near-complete control of the contest.
As he came off, he was embraced by every one of his team-mates, while the half-empty ground stood to applaud him, as well.
All involved understood the significance of the moment, while also recognising, perhaps, that the circumstances were hopelessly ordinary.
There was no sense of theatre or even importance at the last international act of one of the most intriguing men to represent his country.
That came before the match, when he had an extended conversation with President Michael D Higgins as the dignitaries met the teams.
The player’s three older children stood alongside him, and the seeming warmth of the exchange between the first citizen and McClean was touching.
Then came the plodding, wearying reality of life in a declining team, and in a game overseen by a manager who everyone involved knew was taking charge of his final match.
Players don’t get to choreograph their farewells, as Johnny Sexton could attest. Departures of the sort enjoyed by Brian O’Driscoll are vanishingly rare in sport.
Maybe it was of a piece with a career defined by struggle – against unconvinced managers, hostile opponents, sometimes toxic rival fans, and the limits of his own talents – that James McClean’s last match for Ireland happened this way, on a dank November night, with the odd boo at mention of the manager’s name, and against an ostensibly modest opposition who could, and probably should, have won the game.
He has enjoyed a decade at some decent clubs, with the jaw-dropping remuneration that comes with it, and he should have earned enough to make the rest of his life, and that of his family, a comfortable one.
He is determined to play on at club level, but even in its final seasons, the Hollywood backdrop at Wrexham makes the artisan McClean seem an odd fit.
That won’t perturb him.
He’s dealt with bigger, uglier challenges.