Well now, when did you last see the like? Those of you (okay, us) who suspected Thursday evening would see a World Cup qualifying campaign that began with a whimper fail to produce even a hint of a bang? Oh ye (we) of little faith. We got the mother, father, auntie and uncle of all bangs.
A 2-0 win over Portugal - repeat, lest you don’t believe it: a 2-0 win over Portugal - means the Republic of Ireland’s hopes of a trip to United States/Canada/Mexico next summer are alive and kicking.
True, a win is still required against Hungary in Budapest on Sunday, in the final group game, and that’s not quite a gimme. But after a campaign that offered little to hearten us until Thursday night, you’d take that chance and give it a big hug.
Some night.
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The teams emerged from the tunnel. Anthems. Spaniard Roberto Martínez belted out the Portuguese tune, Icelander Heimir Hallgrímsson did the same with Amhrán na bhFiann. Truly, it is an international game.
The opening 15-ish minutes were nervy enough, Portugal tapping the ball about the place like, as Ossie Ardiles once put it, the ball was their “lubber’. Lover, that is.
Cristiano Ronaldo had expressed the hope before the game that the home crowd wouldn’t boo him too much. The smattering of youngsters holding up ‘Ronaldo - Can I Have Your Shirt?’ signs certainly bowed to his wish, but a few rowdy pockets didn’t. Which probably wasn’t wise. Do you want to raise the hackles of a fella with 143 goals in 225 international appearances who is targeting a record sixth World Cup?
Still, the jeers mounted when he lined up an early free-kick, the guffaws soaring when he sent a shot over the bar much like a pin-point Jack Crowley conversion.
Some relief, then, but apart from the occasional - and brief - Irish visits in to the opposition’s half in those early stages, Portugal were bossing it.
“IF ANYTHING MAKES YOU FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE, REPORT,” read the advice on the stadium’s digital ad-thingie, so the sell-out crowd might have been tempted to declare their discomfort to the authorities about the visitors’ lording it about the place.
But. And it’s a humongous one. Troy Parrott only went and scored, nodding home from a corner. If there had been a roof on the place, it would have ended up in Rosslare.
By then, Ireland had just 30-ish per cent of the possession, so there was a slight sense of this being September 2001 all over again, when Ireland, as your Granny will tell you, did unto the Dutch what they were now threatening to do unto Portugal.
This was a bit different, though, because, after Chiedozie Ogbene hit the post, the Troy man scored again. Repeat: The Troy man scored again. The ‘Ronaldo sick as a Parrott’ headlines were writing themselves.
We had, then, officially entered ‘pinch me’ territory, the old stadium not seeing a night quite like it in a decade or more. A team that had appeared to adopt a ‘hold on for dear life’ approach to their campaign thus far, had suddenly discovered that they’re half decent when they test out the opposition’s rearguard.
Half-time, the roar cacophonous, the stadium a sea of swirling scarves. Ronaldo ashen-faced as he headed for the tunnel. But you know what they say: 2-0 is a dangerous lead in football. You’d imagine 1-0 would be trickier still, but no matter, you knew Portugal would throw the kitchen sink, dishwasher, tumble dryer and microwave at it in the second half.
That they did, with no effect in the first 15 minutes, at which point Ronaldo’s pre-match promise to be “a good boy” during the game came a touch unstuck.
A yellow for a barge in to Dara O’Shea. A VAR check. An upgrade to red. The crowd bellowed. Unadulterated glee. Except, maybe, from the ‘Ronaldo - Can I Have Your Shirt?’ contingent. Now wasn’t a good time to ask.
He applauded the euphoric crowd and gave them a thumbs up as he departed the scene. The lad has always done sarcasm well. And then he had words with Heimir Hallgrímsson who he had suggested pre-match was playing mind games when he accused the Portuguese captain of trying to control referees. ‘Yap, yap, yap,’ he suggested with his blinking hand in Hallgrímsson’s direction, but after they had a frank exchange of views, they shook hands.
So, 2-0 against 10 men, Portugal opting for a bit of a Kamikaze approach to rescue their evening. The swirling scarves went a little limp with the nerves, Caoimhin Kelleher doing Caoimhin Kelleher things to ease them.
Full-time. It’s possible that when the Irish team bus left the stadium, it was surrounded with kids holding up ‘Troy - Can I Have Your Shirt?’ signs.
Oh what a night. Magical.
