Points of consolation are scarce on the ground and verging on non-existent. But it is worth stating, that for a few hours at least, there was magic in the air in Poznan. Over this past week in Poland, I’ve repeatedly found myself half-remembering an adage, something vaguely along the lines of quality over quantity; that it’s not about the years in the life, but the life in the years. Day to day, it’s a philosophy that is difficult to adhere to under the ceaseless deluge of work and economic woe and responsibility. But on Sunday in Poznan, 25,000 Irish fans cast off the shackles of obligation and indulged in some very deliberate living.
It was hard not get swept away by it all. Having spent the past week with the team in the serene confines of lovely Sopot, it was an assault on the senses to arrive into a rocking Poznan at lunchtime. The Croatian fans were already out in force, the Irish were beginning to surface from the depths of the night before. By all accounts, Saturday night in Poznan will go down in the annals of Irish fandom as one of the great nights of the decade, up there with Tallinn and Pigalle.
The main square of Poznan, approximately 500 metres south of the official fanzone, became the focal point for both sets of supporters. Chants were exchanged, drinks were downed and the anticipation built. We outnumbered the Croats two to one. From all corners and demographics we’d been compelled to travel. Music blared in the distance. All the while, we reassured ourselves that victory was possible. We’d only conceded 3 goals in 14 games. We were a team built for tournament football. The air was full of possibility. We could feel it.
Wandering around, I bumped into faces from my hometown. We laughed about the madness of it all. I also spoke with a group who’d been together for Euro ’88 and Italia ’90. Here they were, older and greyer but reunited for another hurrah. My generation gulped it all in. We’ve waited an eternity for our chance to make this trek. In a country which clings to history, we’ve grown up with Joxer and campervans and tales of Genoa. We watched 2002 on television. We’ve approached Euro 2012 aware of its significance, conscious that these are days to be lived and remembered.
Stepping inside the Municipal Stadium on the outskirts of Poznan for the first time will forever remain a highlight of my life. It was a sensory overload; a heady orgy of green and noise and floodlights. There was a heat inside. As Amhránn Na Bfhiann reached a crescendo, I was delirious. We were unstoppable. An irresistible force; the fans and team united. Right before kick-off the Irish players gathered in a huddle. The Croatian players waited. The Croatian fans clapped. We went ballistic. Primal roars reminded us that we still care about this country. It’s not a banana republic. It’s defined by its people. The power-brokers in society who’ve betrayed us were nowhere to be seen. This wasn’t their party (ed --- bar Seanie and PJ Mara).
Game on. Three minutes gone. Keith Andrews left it and Shay stretched for it. Talk about a body blow.
But the players rallied. We cheered every interception. When Sean St Ledger headed himself into Irish football history, the stadium shook. How could we have ever doubted? This was destiny at work. We can’t be beaten. The Croats were stunned.
But there was always fear. Luka Modric was like a ballerina in the flesh, full of poise and balance and killer passes. They were a team of giants and technicians. Every time they entered our half, there was tension. Meanwhile we were struggling to advance with possession. O’Shea and Ward refused to push forward. Duff and McGeady were isolated. Passes inside were snuffed out and crosses headed away. We were being outclassed but found ourselves powerless to turn the tide.
The last 20 minutes of the game fizzled out. Croatia were comfortable winners. We departed with some talking points; a dodgy second goal, a decent shout for a penalty and Cox on the left wing. There’ll be gripes about the system, Robbie Keane and Shay Given. But ultimately, this team and these players have reached their level. We were too blinded by hope and excitement to fully accept it beforehand, but deep down we knew.
The five-hour journey north to Sopot was a grim affair. The Newstalk team sat on a bus for over an hour waiting for Ken Early to attend the press conference. Trap said he wasn’t giving up hope. Keane apologised to the fans. And on we went. Daylight only served to sharpen the grimness. We fell into our beds at 5.30am after the longest 24 hours I can remember.
At lunchtime on Monday, I bumped into John O’Shea, Stephen Hunt, Stephen Ward and Glenn Whelan. They had been walking the beach behind their hotel. I shook Glenn Whelan’s hand. ‘Hard luck last night’ I said. He stopped for a moment. ‘Thank you very much’, he said. And he meant it. And so did I.
To castigate these players would be shameful. They’ve represented us to the best of their abilities. They’ve taken us on this wild, wonderful adventure. But they’re just not good enough to take us much further. Trapattoni is not the man to blame either. Blame shouldn’t be on the agenda.
Come Thursday we’ll dare to believe in the impossible for a few hours at least. Right now though, reality has a hold of us.
Joe Molloy is the Producer Of Newstalk Sports Saturday and Sunday - Follow him on twitter
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