Little men stand tall for Gordon
BLOODY bedlam and chaotic carnage, interrupted by one glorious moment of almost transcendent beauty. Oh, Shaun Maloney, you absolute superstar.
Trust you to produce something so sublime amid the thunderous f ury of a match that rarely threatened to be elevated beyond the brutality of a bare-knuckle fight.
Debate over where the wee man’s winner at Celtic Park — not his first — ranks in the list of Scotland goals are for another day. Let no one doubt its importance.
And try telling anyone who was here that there has ever been a strike celebrated with such a riotous release of joyous emotion.
On a night when I reland’s performance was missing only the sight of Roy Keane running on to tackle one of Gordon Strachan’s boys, the home side found the one moment of quality needed to take all three points from a must-win fixture.
For long enough, it looked as if it wouldn’t happen. The Irish, marshalled to within an inch of their lives by the tactically astute Martin O’Neill, had played a blinder, turning this qualifier into a domestic scrap destined to end in a stalemate that suited the visitors far better than their hosts.
When it mattered, though, the wee men — Maloney, Ikechi Anya and even Scott Brown, the skipper who admittedly battles way out of his weight division — combined to produce something spellbinding. And, for effort as much as anything, well deserved.
In previous games, Strachan’s Scotland had displayed an almost continental swagger, pinging the ball about and looking equally comfortable either in possession or hitting hard with those lightning counter-attacks. Aye, well. This was never going to be the night for anything so subtle.
Oh, they were pretty enough in passages, especially in and around the Ireland box. We’ve got some really fine attacking footballers who know how to tease and torment opponents into leaving a fatal gap in their lines.
In order to get anywhere near Irish territory, though, they had to overcome the sheer physicality, athleticism and doggedness of a visiting side capable of running the legs off almost any opposition. If you want to play the tippy-tappy stuff, you’ve got to survive an arm wrestle, a tug- of-war and a few vegetarian-unfriendly challenges first.
That would have pleased the couple of thousand — at least — Ireland fans in among the home support in the main stand at Celtic Park, the away punters arriving in fine fettle and desperate to outsing their hosts.
Oh and, i n case you were wondering, Aiden McGeady was booed from his first touch out on the right wing. In the same way that Diego Costa was given pelters by all of Brazil as he turned out for Spain during last summer’s World Cup — something overlooked amid all the hand-wringing and artificial posturing s ur r o unding t he reception afforded one footballer.
As for the action, once it began, Scotland quickly found themselves involved in exactly what many had predicted. On a night when thousands were l eft stranded outside the stadium well into the first half, raising serious questions about organisation, the early exchanges set the tone.
There were three bookings in the first half and, in all honesty, referee Milorad Mazic couldn’t be said to have been holding back. The Serb understands that feelings can get heated during international der- bies. Amid the mayhem, the two Stevens — Fletcher and Naismith — showed some excellent moments of understanding, invention and ambition. With Maloney always on hand to supply a deft touch or quick pass, it’s not hard to see where the opportunities will come from.
That is, of course, if Anya and Andy Robertson, the l atter a graduate of the same Glasgow high school as Ireland’s own McGeady, don’t get there first.
There is width and pace — and t hen t he t ouchline - hugging, defender-destroying speed of foot and thought that these two bring to the party.
It quickly became clear, though, that Ireland’s top tactic was to reduce the match to a series of free- kicks only occasionally interrupted by football. Scotland, unable to rise above the melee, responded in kind. Bodies littered the field, the atmosphere grew more febrile — and flirted with outright exultation as the hosts came close to scoring twice before the break.
Charlie Mulgrew gets enormous credit for taking out everyone between him and Maloney’s teasing cross with a bloody-minded charge for the ball. If only he hadn’t sent the header wide.
As for how Fletcher completely missed a Maloney cut-back with the goal gaping five minutes before the break? More than a few in the home crowd must have wondered, fearfully, if that would be the decisive moment of this match. And, by extension, the entire campaign.
By the hour mark, it was obvious that Ireland were content to just ping-pong the ball around the Scottish box when they got a chance, while retreating in numbers once possession had been lost; if you gave O’Neill an extra man on the night, he would have played 12 behind the ball.
Against a team playing for nil-nil, it was always going to take something special. Something quite extraordinary from wee Shaun, the artist amid so much aggro.
There were more horrors to endure before the finish, more terrors to survive before Scotland could celebrate. And, oh my, how we celebrated.
In our biggest match for years, our boys had triumphed. What a night. What a goal. What, exactly, can we expect by way of an encore in Dublin next June?