Magical memories of Irish soccer's golden era

I was in Aiden O’Hora’s in the middle of the afternoon. At aged 13 that was - let me assure you - a rare occurrence. But this was the day Ireland played Romania for a place in the quarter-finals of Italia 90. Packie Bonner dived left; David O’Leary kicked it the same side. The two lads did their job. George Hamilton did his: indeed we held our breath. Olé Olé Olé.

Pandemonium ensued. In their exuberance, the patrons of Aiden’s - your correspondent among them - spilled out into the street. What followed can only be described as a spontaneous demonstration. The good people of Kiltimagh, full of joy, marched up and down their street. There were wild scenes. Some may see us as a modest place but we rivalled New Orleans and Rio that day. Olé Olé Olé indeed. Memories.

Euro’88, Italia ’90, USA ’94 – the achievements of Irish teams at those tournaments make for some of my happiest memories of growing up in Mayo. Stuttgart. Genoa. Giants’ Stadium. Will more be made in Prague this week? We all hope so.

I was only a gasúr for Euro ‘88 but how I remember it. The first match - against England - was on a Sunday, and we watched it at home. We had qualified in a fortunate rather than impressive way, and so the excitement of the Jack Charlton era was still ahead of us.

We had therefore no expectation going into it, not even the lads in fifth class in a west of Ireland school where there wasn’t too much excitement generally, outside of the East Mayo championship of course. It was great to be there but surely that would be the height of it.

But we were well wrong. What we and many others forgot to do was look at the team sheet. The Irish side was weighed down with fellas playing for big clubs with loads of medals. The fifth class lads really had no excuse for not appreciating that because we - quite literally - had the stickers.

As for the match, everyone of course remembers Ray Houghton. But my most powerful memory is just how long the second half took. It felt like it would never end. It finally did, and when it did, only Ray had put the ball in the - English - net.

We drew with the Soviets and then it was all set up for a showdown with the flying Dutchmen. At that time, community life halted for no international soccer tournament, so the good people of Kiltimagh had their Community Games in a direct clash with the match.

The Games may have been on, but down at the GAA pitch that day our minds were elsewhere. How Michael Cusack would have cried to see us desperate for news of foreign games emanating from the radio owned by one of the fathers. We missed hearing the decisive moment, but we saw it on his face. The Dutch scored with less than ten minutes left. Poxy. A fluke. Frustrated, but we were proud. And in 1988 Ireland, pride in our achievements was a rare enough commodity.

For the World Cup in Italy in 1990, we drew the English and the Dutch again. Playing the English - in Sardinia! - in the World Cup. Who could miss that? Well, we could, because that was the day that was set for us for making the silage. Those readers who remember the silage-making day will require no explanation of how that clash worked out. It wasn’t quite the approach of Bull McCabe, but fair to say there could only be one winner in the contest between soccer and silage.

Never did a young fella more reluctantly hold a hay fork. The only source of information we had about the progress of the match was the cab radio in the tractor. Noting that detail, and recalling what life was like in the west in 1990, eagle-eyed observers will have concluded that this was a very serious tractor.

Serious and all a machine as it was, we poor souls with the hayforks could hardly hear a word, as the machine continued coming with fresh grass. We relied for updates - as in 1988 - on body language from the tractor driver. An understated man, he communicated the news of Kevin Sheedy’s equaliser by slowing raising one thumb. It required no translation, only the filling in of the detail. Ball falls to Sheedy, who hits it sweetly and true. I can see it as I write, even though I didn’t see it when it happened. Memories.

We got through the group and played Romania in the knock outs. This time - being all of 13 and a veteran hay forker - it was deemed okay for me to join everyone else in town for the match. And that is how I found myself on the street in Kiltimagh, swept up in the delirium, singing Olé Olé Olé.

The tournament ended with Italy beating us 1-0. My memory of that match is of an 8pm kick off on a Saturday, and a 7.30pm Mass that evening which concluded at 7.52pm, and which still had a sermon. The Lord can move in mysteriously speedy ways.

The summer I left the west was the last hurrah of that era. Beating Italy in Giants Stadium in 1994 was as good as that tournament got, but not bad as a highlight. The most indelible memory from that tournament is of Paul McGrath. Some years later, when he was on the verge of retirement, I joined in with the crowd chanting his name at Lansdowne Road. The crowd were remembering and acknowledging the greatness of the man, and paying tribute to him for all those great memories he left us. He wasn’t even playing that evening and you got the sense that this understated man was a little embarrassed by it all. But as he just carried on warming up with the subs, the crowd got louder and the cheering more intense. It was clear it would not stop until he acknowledged it. How did he do it? He slowly raised one thumb. Memories.

So, in Prague this week, will more great memories be made? In the circle of life, there will again be little girls and boys crowded around the telly, and we all dream that by the end of the game they will be joining in with the oldies singing Olé Olé Olé. Though we’d need to win the following week and actually qualify for the World Cup for it to spill out into the street. In the pursuit of that joyful result, here’s hoping that the boys this week will give it a lash.