If you had wandered into an Irish pub on Thursday you may have had something of a surprise. It would have been packed - admittedly not much of a shock in these parts - with local football fans, screaming support for the team in green on the television. When they scored the pub would have erupted with noise and celebration, a scene reminiscent of the summers of 1990, 1994 and 2002, the glory years of Irish international football. On Thursday, when our boys in greens got a second goal, the celebrations increased in volume, helped partly due to the shouted orders of many celebratory pints. A typical World Cup scene.
Or maybe not.
The Republic of Ireland, of course, did not qualify for this summer’s World Cup. The team we were cheering for was not our national side, despite their familiar shade of emerald. Indeed, most of those watching the game would have been unable to name a single player on the squad we furiously backed for the previous 90 minutes. That’s because, for one night only, the Irish had become Mexican.
This unusual metamorphism wasn’t a once-off. Twice already this tournament we had collectively, as a nation, adopted other sides to support (Uruguay on the 11th, the USA on the 12th), and the day following the Mexico game we would all cheer Algeria on with the same passion as if the players hailed from Dublin, Cork and Galway. Why? Because this summer, while we don’t have our own national teams to support, we have two – England and France – that we really, really hate. Welcome to the absurd world of the Irish football fan.
I should start off by saying that we’re not a very good footballing nation. Sure, we’ve had our moments – beating England in Euro ’88, victory over Italy at USA ’94 – but, for the large part, the good times have been sparse. Since 1930 we’ve failed to qualify for 29 major tournaments. We’ve therefore taken to adopting teams as our own – not for the whole tournament, but solely for the games that they play against our fiercest rivals – immature, perhaps, but always entertaining – especially this summer.
England is, of course, the ‘auld enemy’, and Irish disdain for their sporting teams is nothing new. Whether it be due to the way the EPL scoops up all our best players, strangling and limiting the potential of our national league, the arrogant manner in which the English media have approached games with our boys in the past, or the simple matter of 800 years of British oppression, the Three Lions’ repeated underachievements have always been a source of joy for us. Rob Green’s howler was watched with ecstasy in the States, understandably, but also in our tiny island across the Atlantic. Ireland is, possibly, the only nation in the world to have enjoyed their dour 0-0 draw with Algeria.
While our anti-English bias is a powerful, if stationary constant, France is the new enemy, the boo-boys of the moment, for which our feelings are red raw. The freshness of the hand-shaped wound means that emotions are still as high as they were in November. Mexico’s defeat of France on Thursday provoked an outburst of taunting in the Irish media. IrelandAM, a morning television show, took great delight in collecting a list of that morning’s French newspaper headlines (my favourite: “Sombres heroes” - sombreros), while the footage of the Mexican goals was played at the start of every news broadcast for the next 24 hours.
What really sums up the nation’s feelings, I believe, is the following reworking of an Irish anti-Britain rebel tune (giving you some idea of the severity of Henry’s ‘crime’) which I stumbled upon on Ireland’s largest football messageboard, www.YouBoysInGreen.ie.
And did they believe when they robbed us so blind
Did they really believe the football Gods would be kind?
Oh the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The cheating, the lying wasn't all done in vain
For the Mexican Boys in Green won, and we cheered once again
And again and again and again and again....
Towards the end of France’s game on Thursday the television cut to a figure sitting on the French bench, wrapped in a comfort blanket. He had played in total just over 20 minutes of football over a two game span, and his team were looking down the abyss. Over the following few days Nicholas Anelka would be sent home for verbally abusing manager Raymond Domenech, and the players would refuse to train, with rumours claiming that some members of the squad were going to boycott their final game. I hope it was worth it, Thierry.
Yes, I would rather Ireland were playing in the World Cup and, yes, I would rather that our nation’s main emotions during these games wasn’t hatred and gloating - but I can think of no better way to end this article than by wishing South Africa (and Slovenia, for old times’ sake) the best of luck in their matches next week.
