From ‘Union Jack’ to the uncrowned King of Ireland
Even those who knew me well at the time failed to answer my recent annoying question as to where I watched Jack Charlton’s first competitive match in charge of the Republic of Ireland, away to Belgium on September 10, 1986, writes Gerry Buckley.
And, yes – as the ad says – “there’s always one”, and Pedantic Pat could argue that the Icelandic tournament a couple of months earlier (the one that Dave O’Leary opted out of, thereby earning a few years of self-isolation – does that term ring a bell?) was competitive, but the match in Brussels a day after yours truly turned the small three-oh was the first in an eight-match quest to go where no Irish team had ever gone before by qualifying for either the European Championship or the World Cup finals.
The answer to the question was in a splendid house in the beautiful village of Annacotty. An accounting role in nearby Limerick city saw a new workmate of mine recommend digs in a house owned by a detective garda in Henry Street station called Liam Holohan.
The latter, a gentleman to the fingertips, and his wife Brigid, a lady to the fingertips (fingers which produced restaurant-standard food every evening for this very fussy eater) were renting out a room vacated from Monday to Friday by their medical student son Tony.
The latter has become a household name in recent weeks, a time we will never forget (assuming, please God, that we live through it and get a chance to remember it in more ‘normal’ times), his calm daily authority in relation to the greatest invisible enemy of our lifetimes, Covid-19, helping us all to summon up the necessary strength and willpower to get through what are incredibly difficult times.
I was just a little over a week in Holohan’s when the Boys in Green set off on their remarkable journey to West Germany. A Frank Stapleton diving header and a late, late penalty conversion by his former Arsenal colleague Liam Brady after Stapleton (hugely underrated, in my opinion) had been unnecessarily fouled, earned a 2-2 draw against a side which had been World Cup semi-finalists in Mexico a few months earlier.
My post-match celebrations were relatively muted (certainly not viral – oops – a la June 28, 2015 in Croke Park), but they flashed back to me when watching the tremendously enjoyable and tear-jerking (literally) two-part documentary re the Big Jack years on RTÉ a few weeks back. Boy, could we do with reliving such memories in this sport-less and joyless period in our history.
Like most sports fanatics, I get some predictions right and some wrong, but I can honestly say that I danced a jig the night that the gruff Geordie was appointed by the FAI in February 1986. And a clumsy appointment it was - surprise, surprise! Having attended virtually every home game, and several away, since the magnificent Brady produced what I consider to be the greatest ever debut in a green shirt in the 3-0 win (Don Givens’ hat-trick) against the USSR on October 30, 1974, I had no doubt that the 1966 World Cup winner would come up with a win-at-the-top-table style of play (not pretty, but pretty effective) for a very talented bunch of players, soon to be augmented by a few ‘Granny Rule’ imports – all committed to the cause, let me hasten to add.
Yes, the best twelfth man/woman, Lady Luck (why isn’t there a Lord Luck in these PC times?) any team could have, played a part. An improvised dance in the middle of a busy street in the aforementioned Limerick followed within minutes of Gary Mackay’s winning goal in Sofia on November 11, 1987, and almost meant yours truly’s extinction there and then. Thankfully, cars swerved and eight months later came a never-to-be-forgotten eight days in Stuttgart, Hanover and Gelsenkirchen – or ‘Scuttered, Hungover and Belch ’n’ burpin’ as per the tee-shirts doing the rounds. Wim Kieft’s incredibly lucky goal ended the dream with champions-elect, Holland, scraping their way to the knockout stages.
Everybody of a certain age fortunate enough to have witnessed the Jack years (and the documentary reminded us of his far-from-Céad Míle Fáilte welcome from some ‘fans’, with a ‘Go Home Union Jack’ banner flying in the terraces at Lansdowne Road during a dour loss in his first friendly match in charge against Wales in April 1986) will have their own favourite memories of Euro ’88, and two ensuing World Cup adventures in 1990 in Italy and the USA four years later. Personally – and I thought after attending the 1-0 win v England that it could not be surpassed – recalling the emotion of the penalty shootout from behind the relevant goalposts in Genoa v Romania still generates goose bumps.
As various speakers said in the documentary, all the signs were there in 1995 that the wheels were falling off the Jack wagon. The worse wetting of my entire life on a day trip to Lisbon that November, and a 3-0 hammering for good measure, preceded Jack’s farewell in Anfield against our nemesis in orange. However, rerunning the video of the Boys in Green will help shorten these long, long days. As will the Pavlov-like anticipation of one of Brigid Holohan’s roast dinners in Kilkenny (they have run a B & B for many years in Liam’s home county and have invited my partner and I down when ‘normality’ returns).
Big Jack’s team selections were not everybody’s choice, but I decided to pick my own team of players who passed through his hands in that glorious ten-year (almost) period from the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s. This XI would take a bit of beating (with a bench of Alan Kelly, Dave O’Leary, Mick McCarthy, Kevin Moran, Tony Galvin, Andy Townsend, Niall Quinn, Chris Hughton, Steve Staunton, John Sheridan, Tony Cascarino et al – wow, subs of that calibre who would walk on to the current team). This is assuming that Roy Keane didn’t sulk and walk away, of course – but I suspect that the Mayfield man would know better than to cross Jack!
Gerry’s Jack Charlton era Ireland selection