I lived the dream with our army of charmers
HOW many times can you stand up for the Boys in Green? How many ‘olé, olé, olé’s can you sing before you’re tempted to sing ‘oh, no’ instead? How many tyres can you change, how many lullabies can you deliver, how many open windows can you try to kick a football through?
For Ireland’s travelling fans, the answer to all the above is simple: their appetite for it all is boundless. Little more than children themselves in many cases, they looked like they got the key to the sweet shop, even if the shop was actually an off-licence. Where they find the energy – to drink, to sing, to dance – is the greatest mystery of all, but when it comes to charm... well, the birds on the trees are putty in their hands.
Yesterday, the dream that was kept alive when Robbie Brady scored against Italy in Lille on Wednesday night hit the buffers like a runaway TGV, but for 57 glorious minutes, it seemed that anything was possible.
The early penalty hammered home, again by Brady – now officially Ireland’s SecondBest Robbie – lit up the stadium and sent the French into a sulk, but two goals within three minutes saw them resuscitated with ferocity. They outnumbered the Irish fans by at least five to one, and when they sing, they can intimidate like no others (especially when they strike up endless choruses of their astonishingly bloodthirsty national anthem).
The past two weeks have seen France come alive in a way it hasn’t been since the November attacks in Paris, and every city and town has embraced the tournament and the fans, especially the Irish ones. There are many at home who find it all just a little bit hokey, a little bit mawkish, and endlessly corny, but it’s very easy to be the hurler on the ditch.
You have to be here to see just how warmly the French embraced all the young men and women who travelled to the matches, and a few of the older ones as well. I had drinks bought for me, I had people stop me to ask for photos, and I watched yesterday near the Lyon Fanzone as young French fans joined their Irish counterparts to perform the whole ‘stand up, sit down, shoes off’ routine. As always, there was no hint of aggression, no hint of menace. On the Metro to the stadium, the French looked bemused when all the Irish sang Frère Jacques, probably the only French song they know,
having learned it at school, but they applauded anyway.
And yet a lot of our fans looked battleweary: no-one wanted to see the team lose, but many confessed they were looking forward to going home.
One guy told me that on the campsite in Bordeaux, he and his pals were drinking bottles of wine for breakfast. Last Saturday morning, before the Belgium game, he said he actually thought he was going to die.
What will stay with me was the visibility of this small but dedicated army. On every street corner, there was an Irish shirt. On the quay in Lyon, a van was covered in graffiti, but in bigger letters it bore the legend: ‘It’s hard to beat a good Mass.’ A quick peep inside revealed two lads fast asleep on the floor.
Over at Johnny’s Kitchen, an Irish bar in Vieux Lyon, the old town, owner Adrian Walsh, originally from Rathfarnham in Dublin, closed his basement restaurant for the weekend and piled it high with 250 kegs, each of which contains 60 pints.
He was confident he would sell all 15,000, usually two months’ supply, in two days.
At least, being Irish, he was prepared. In Bordeaux last weekend, a friend reported that a Carrefour hypermarket was stripped bare of everything but paint thinner.
On the Boulevard de Clichy in Paris – just two weeks ago, though it feels like about two years – thousands of fans also cleaned out an off-licence rather than pay €6.90 for a pint in the pub.
In Tournai in Belgium, where I stayed for the match against Italy on Wednesday, as it’s only 30 minutes from Lille, the pubs closed at one in the morning, but we managed to join a lock-in on the condition that we sang The Wild Rover, the owner’s favourite song, it seems.
So, yes, the dream died yesterday, but we had our best run in a major tournament for 14 years and, as always, the grit and spirit on the pitch was matched by the spirit of the supporters.
In a Europe that feels exposed to all sorts of malign influences after the shock result of the Brexit vote, it was nice to see everyone coming together and celebrating the best of our shared identity. What politicians cannot do, football manages with ease.
For now, though, all anyone really wants is sleep – no lullaby necessary. And if perchance we dream, then it will be of days like these, when the Irish presented their best side to the world, on and off the field.