I was standing in Ceannt Station, waiting. Not for a train or a bus but for the bloody wi-fi to connect. I was trying to figure out what time the pre-match meet up was going down. My concentration and growing frustration at, what is usually a decent service, failing to connect was interrupted by a steward. Tapping me on the shoulder, he asked if I was getting the soon to be departing train to Heuston Station. His concern was sparked by my attire; I was decked in FAI Ireland gear with a YBIG scarf. Noticing this, he thought I was about to miss the train to Dublin before I reassured him I was grand, I was getting a later bus. Before he left, he proceeded to ask me about the upcoming Ireland game that night, wondering would we do it. I shook my head despondently, to which he expressed surprise, laced with genuine optimism.
That Thursday, I travelled to the Aviva Stadium with little hope or expectation, in my heart or mind. My thoughts were split between 90 minutes of football in Dublin and another 90 in Glasgow. Republic of Ireland, 4 points clear of Scotland in 3rd place, were to play a crucial Group D qualifier. It wasn’t just any qualifier. It was against the reigning World Champions and occupants of 1st place, Germany. It was to be a decisive night in the group, as Scotland faced a win or bust showdown with 2nd placed Poland.
It would turn out to be one of the most memorable nights in Irish football history.
Of course, the possibility of history being made barely crossed my mind. The situation in the group was finely poised, we had the advantage but in my mind, our qualification hopes would be determined in Warsaw 4 days later. While Ireland did have a 4 point lead over Scotland, their remaining game after tonight, would be a guaranteed three points against Gibraltar. If we matched or bettered their result on Thursday night, it would not matter how many goals they put past the Rock. However, it was quite possible they could better our result and leave us needing to beat Poland in Warsaw. A task almost as daunting as facing the World Champions.
The ideal scenario in my mind was to be able to go to Poland and have a go at automatic qualification, not having to worry about the play-off. A draw in both games would guarantee that and was a likely outcome. At the same time, I did not prefer Poland to secure 2nd place by way of beating Scotland, even if it did give us a play-off spot. I didn’t want to travel to Warsaw for a damp squib of a game, I wanted something to play for, even if the odds were against us and the prize was a play-off. Naturally, my fellow fans in Galway abhorred at this prospect, wanting to bite my hands and their own for a play-off spot if it was handed to us right there and then.
It was a relaxed atmosphere at that early meet up. Some were hopeful, optimistic but we were all in no doubt at the challenge facing us as a country that night. Three years previously, Ireland hosted Germany in another qualifier in Dublin. It was the first Irish game I had attended since a memorable trip to the Euros that summer. Arriving in the capital that night, I knew once and for all, that following Ireland was something I had to do for the rest of my life, no matter what becomes of it or where it takes me. And that desire was somehow still intact at the end of the night, despite witnessing what was a truly atrocious display from Ireland. On a cold dark October night, Germany ruthlessly dispatched of Ireland 6 goals to one. The fact that Germany went on to win the World Cup 20 months later did little to comfort me. And memories of that night came to mind at various times through the day, reminding me to be careful with my expectations.
There was reason to be extremely fearful, but also reason to believe. 2 years after that encounter, in 2014, we managed to secure a 1-1 draw with the final kick of the game. John O’Shea’s memorable equaliser was well recounted in the previous 12 months, much to my dismay. The reason for this was because instead of being in the away end in Gelsenkirchen, I was watching it at home in a pub. I would be lying to myself and to you, the reader, if I said Ii wasn’t extremely jealous of the lads who were there that night. It was one of those rare Irish football moments you cherish to witness in person. It hurt all the more that I would now see myself as one of the away fans, one of the die-hards. Unfortunately I cannot get to every game.
Even despite that result, I found it hard to summon genuine hope and belief. I felt we had played our stroke of luck that night, it was too much to expect the Germans would let us away with a result again. The hangover from their World Cup was over, there was business to attend to. They needed a result, preferably a win to secure qualification themselves. There would be no favours tonight. I expected to see an efficient ruthless display on par to 2012 more than a lethargic by the numbers account seen in 2014. Aside from all of that, Ireland were missing key players. Seamus Coleman was ruled out. Glenn Whelan, a polarising figure amongst Irish fans, was suspended, his defensive presence would be missed in Germany. I was sounding very defeatist, but I was sure the best we could hope for is another miraculous draw. My heart wanted to believe. My head told it to shut up.
It was only 12 in the afternoon, there was no need to get worked up over permutations and flight details to Warsaw just yet. We got some much needed food into us and the first orders of the day were made. As the hours go on, and volume of alcohol in my body increases, I start to relax and get ever so giddy about the game. The tension disappears. I had great joy telling people I was off to Poland that weekend for the final qualifier. We all felt that was going to be the decider so naturally those who weren’t going, were jealous. Poland was very good to us during the Euros. Despite the fact, were in direct competition with them in our group, we never really treated them as fierce rivals. We even got on well with the Scots back in June, although their gloating at full-time having secured a draw left a bitter taste in our mouths. As the pendulum swung our way again in the Group, we took great in signing this little chant
Fuck off Tartan Army
Irelands having a party
We’re gonna qualify!
We’re gonna qualify!
The question remained though, were we gonna qualify?
Instead of talking about the game that night, the bus journey up consisted of weighing up potential play-off opponents and the travel logistics of each opponent. It was a huge night elsewhere in other groups. The Dutch were hanging by their fingertips, we needed Turkey to do well, we were sure we couldn’t get the Best Third Placed finish. I was adamant there was only team I wanted in the playoffs, Israel. And I would travel to the away game, and I would smuggle a Palestine flag in and wave it defiantly! Maybe the alcohol was beginning to take effect! Arriving in Dublin, we had good 2 and a half hours til kick-off. A huge crowd of Irish and German fans had converged on the Ballsbridge Hotel for pre-match festivities. The queues for the bar and the bathrooms presented different challenges of their own to the game at 7:45pm. But rather than let these challenges get to me, I immersed myself in the build-up.
The build-up to an Ireland game is usually the most enjoyable time for an Irish fan, especially when facing superior opposition. We are on even footing, we can start to believe, and as it gets ever closer to kick-off, the excitement continues to grow. It is also a good opportunity to talk to the opposition supporters. I had one good such conversation with a couple of German fans. They have been in nothing but awe in appreciation of Irish fans. The away trip to Dublin was one they had to make. And then, to my surprise, they genuinely thought the Irish had a good chance. Once I realised they were being serious, I expressed my own doubt to them, explaining that we might be lucky if we keep it tight. I have great time for German football fans, they love and understand the game from different perspectives. They were no reaping the benefits of an overhaul of their football development philosophy in 2002. Whatever about wishing for a good result that night, it was laughable to expect a similar revolution in Irish football. However, on a massive night for Irish football, all aggro towards the FAI and John Delaney was temporarily suspended. We were all united in our support of the team.
Speaking of the team, I completely missed the announcement of the starting eleven. And had it not been for a delay in the kick-off time, I would have missed the start of the game. While I left it late to make the five minute walk to the Aviva, one of my group last her ticket, embedded deep within her handbag. That hold-up resulted in missing the anthems, but I did make the kick-off. The game was on, the nail biting could begin. A measure of tension was released when we heard Robert Lewandowski had already put Poland one up in Glasgow. And minutes later, that measure of tension was restored and doubled when Jerome Boateng directed a bullet header just over the bar. Sitting in my usual spot in the Singing Section of the South Stand, I seen every German attack in a slow motion state of fear and premonition. John O’Shea makes a vital block to deflect a shot wide. Mat Hummels roars for a penalty from the resulting corner, thinking he was fouled by O’Shea. We all roar directly back at him that it was never a penalty! Every close shave brings a shout of relief and defiance of from the fans. They were going to have to break down Irish lads on the pitch and the thousands in the stand. The atmosphere was as good as I have ever felt in the stadium.
Our hearts were temporarily punctured when Mesut Ozil found the net, only for it to be given a boost of resuscitated proportions when the linesman ruled it to be offside. Not long after that we mounted our first attack with Cyrus Christie bursting down the flank before crossing inside for Walters. Neuer made light work of it, but it was encouraging. Instead of bombing it long all the time we tried to pass and move the ball on the deck. Wes Hoolahan was a major influence in this and his retention of possession was excellent so far. While we mounted a few attacks that were snuffed out, our chances to work something with the ball were few and far between in that first half as Germany dominated possession and territory.
That being said, apart from the opening stages, Shay Given was rarely troubled. In fact the most trouble he got all night was taking one of his own kick-outs, injuring his knee. His night was over. I never agreed with Givens return to the first team, supplanting a fellow Galway native of mine, David Forde. Forde had his faults as a keeper but he had not let Ireland down over the last 2 years. When he was dropped against Poland back in March 2015. I naturally assumed he would replace Given however, I and many others were surprised to see Darren Randolph entering the fray. One of the Galway crew with me was furious. I just hoped Randolph would give a good account of himself.
His first act was to take possession from a high ball and boot it out. The referee signalled the end of the first half.
One down, one to go.
We made it through the first half unscathed. The opening periods were nervy but at times we had got on the ball and linked up well. We struggled to find an end product however. And even if we were to engineer an opening, Manuel Neuer still stood in our way. We had negated the German attacks but the same effort and more was required for another 45 minutes. As it stood, Ireland were going to qualify. Scotland had since equalised against Poland. However, if I felt the first 45 minutes were an eternity, the second would be even worse. The longer it stayed level in Dublin, the greater sense of foreboding that would overcome me. Ireland but historically had been on the wrong side of last minute goals. Something was going to happen, and in keeping with my pessimistic attitude, I feared it would not be in our favour. I spent half-time chatting with lads I had met in the Algarve previously, we were hoping against hope we felt but what Ireland also had a habit of doing was defying expectations.
Defensively, we were solid. Since I started going to Ireland games full time in late 2011, the defence was always a reason to worry, even with our first choice selection. Euro 2012 was a disaster, the World Cup qualifiers after that not much better as Giovanni Trappatoni’s system fell apart over 12 months. In this campaign however, Ireland went into the Germany game with the best defensive record. In Germany the year before, they held the World Champions to a single goal. It was desperate at times, but also resilient, defiant and organised. The second half started the same. They were working tirelessly to close off the space in front of Germany.
Yet in one move, Germany reminded us of their devastating efficiency on the counter attack. Ireland won a free kick and Robbie Brady overhit his effort. Neuer claimed it and launched a monstrous throw in one fell swoop out towards Marco Reus. Reus tore off down the left wing with Irish players chasing back after going forward. Christie held him up momentarily before Reus got past him and delivered a sublime cross for the oncoming Andreas Schurrle. Schurrle somehow side-footed his effort over the ball with the goal and Randolph at his mercy. The move must have taken less than 10 seconds to materialise from Neuer catching it and Schurrle blazing it. It served as a severe warning of leaving space in our own half when we broke forward.
Meanwhile in Glasgow, Scotland had taken the lead. This meant they would go within one point of us with their guaranteed win against Gibraltar to follow. We would have to go to Warsaw and win. That awful sense of foreboding was beginning to grow. Germany were now banging on the door and as much as I could hope we could hold out for a draw, that would still leave us needing something huge in Poland a few days later. A substitution was announced, it was then I noticed Daryl Murphy was actually on the pitch as he came off to be replaced by Shane Long. We needed his pace, we needed something huge now, never mind in Warsaw. If it came in Glasgow or here, I didn’t care, talking to the person beside me. I didn’t want to witness the same bloody heartbreak I’m used to seeing with Ireland, heartbreak that was being teed up to follow as the scorelines stood.
As I turned my eyes to the pitch, a long ball was in transit. And it landed at the feet of Shane Long. Expectation and excitement rose. This was a chance. Next thing I saw was the ball flash past Neuer, rattling the net.
Cue pandemonium.
Absolute pandemonium.
I lost my jacket, my scarf, my voice, and my balance numerous times as the Aviva erupted.
By the time I got everything I lost and regained some sense of composure, I let out a roar that had been brimming inside me and every other Irish fan who had waited for such a moment for so Long ;) The emotion got the better of me, there were tears in my eyes with at least 20 minutes to go. And I didn’t care. What I had just witnessed was an absolutely stunning strike from Shane Long to put Ireland 1-0 up against Germany, reigning World Champions. It came from a long ball delivery, courtesy of the feet of Darren Randolph, the keeper I hoped would do himself justice as he came on. It fell nicely for the onrushing Long who outpaced Boateng and Hummels to the ball. His first touch off his knee opened it up and he hammered it past Neuer before he could react. It preceded a spell of pressure for Ireland, who didn’t fear taking the game to Germany when the chance presented itself. Now armed with a one goal lead, they could now fight for a historic result with renewed belief in themselves.
The atmosphere in the stadium was electric. The Aviva Stadium has never experienced something like it. Never! My voice was going hoarse as we sang as loud as we ever have.
COME! ON! YOU! BOYS IN GREEN!
COME ON YOU BOYS IN GREEN!
The players responded in kind, all three substitutions had been made, with David Meyler replacing the injured Stephen Ward. Ward receives plenty of criticism but for a man who only played one club game this season, he was superb. It typified the extraordinary performance levels every Irish player was stepping up to. And if they could hold out for another 20 minutes, they were going to experience something an Irish football player had not felt since 2001. Beating an elite nation in a competitive fixture. They believed. We believed. For all the sense of foreboding and pessimism had now blossomed into a crazed sense of desire and passion.
The job was not done yet. Germany still enjoyed plenty of territory and now needed to carve out an equaliser. They pushed forward in a collective in search of it. And they should have got it when the ball fell to Thomas Muller 12 yards out from goal. A cutback from the edge of the box found its way to Muller, in time and space and a clear sight of goal. Time seemed to slow down. He struck it first time, past Randolph, and past the post by a matter of inches. The huge sigh of relief, mixed with agonising groans from the Germans behind that goal temporarily quelled the passion from the stands. Minutes later Ilkay Gundogan had a pop from 25 yards that required Randolph to acrobatically punch it away for a corner.
Muller’s chance aside, Germany were finding it hard to find any space inside the Irish penalty area. And Randolph was adept to reading the intentions of long range efforts. Instead of thumping the ball clear at every opportunity we tried to work it out, Hoolahan and McCarthy the key to this. Jon Walters was giving a masterclass at ball retention. Ever since the goal was scored, I never looked up at the scoreboard. I was too engrossed in the atmosphere and our efforts. By the time I finally looked at it again, it read 87 minutes played. Strangely it didn’t feel like an eternity from when the goal was scored til then. The passion emanating from the fans in the singing section and all around the Stadium defined the reason why Irish football fans are so revered across the World. Instead of biting what was left of my nails and looking away, I was waving my scarf and jumping up and down. Our hearts were bursting with pride. If Germany were to score, god knows what would happen to those hearts.
As the game went into the injury time and the agonising cries for the final whistle to be blown, it came through to us that Poland had equalised in Glasgow. Scotland were going out, we would be guaranteed a play-off spot even if Germany equalised. In a matter of fact, Lewandowski’s second goal was actually a bad thing for us but we celebrated it joyously, it temporarily took our minds off the four minutes of injury time that was added on. However, Walters was tormenting the German full backs and midfield with his ability to hold onto the ball in the German corner of the field. We won a corner from his skill and it resumed again. It ate a good chunk of injury time. By the time Germany did get the ball again, there was seconds left.
The final whistle went. It was confirmed.
A roar of cathartic proportions went up across the Aviva, a roar of delight and relief. For the first time since we had beaten Holland in 2001, Ireland had beaten a much higher ranked team in a competitive fixture. To hear friends of mine who were there in Lansdowne Road that day, say this result was better meant everything to me. I had witnessed my famous Irish football moment at last. Against the World Champions no less. Three years previously we lost by five goals, our only solace a last minute goal. The contrast in situations could not be any greater. Indeed there had not been a greater result in Irish football history arguably, certainly not in Dublin anyways. I shed tears again, hugging everyone around me. Those I knew, those I never met before. It was emotional, I didn’t leave the stadium for a good half hour, and it was half two in the morning before I got back to Galway city. I triumphantly posted on Facebook that it justified everything I did to support Ireland. All the years spent travelling home and away, the many different currencies spent, the awful displays and results that never diluted the sense of pride or belief in the team, and the ridicule we as fans got from other Irish people for following that shite. That shite had delivered a massive upset that only Irish football could manage, produced a display that would inspire any underdog in the face of adversity, and had reminded everyone in the country that when the Irish football team performs on that stage, it is the only game that matters.
In the days after, I would watch the goal on constant repeat, travel to Warsaw, immerse myself in another great Irish atmosphere on Polish soil, and watch us put in a disappointing display that would send Poland to Euro 2016, and Ireland to the play-offs. We face Bosnia in November in a two legged showdown. We are hopeful once more, we have no reason to doubt ourselves anymore, now that we have shown what we are capable of. The result in Warsaw hasn’t taken away from what happened the Thursday night before that. Only defeat to Bosnia could do that but for now, it remains a famous moment in Irish football history.
I keep closing my eyes and the sight of the ball rattling the net is being replayed over and over again. The hairs on my body stand up when I remember the chaos that ensued in celebration. And that’s a feeling, that only sport could create, it’s a moment I have lived for going to sporting events. It’s why I follow the Irish national football team.
And why I always will.
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