Dallas With Knobs On

"The fans went away happy," is a well-worn catch-all phrase often employed by the hackery to describe an eventful sporting occasion. That, in a nutshell (another favourite), was the critical reaction to the recent European Championship match against Spain. A critic without a newspaper to write in, I walked away from Lansdowne that evening far from happy. Having listened to the boys in the press box immediately after this "3-3 thriller" I knew that another major stroke was about to be pulled on the soccer-loving public.

What had in reality been an outrageously bad game by international standards, charactered by the kind of defensive ineptitude that would have been unforgivable even in something as awful as the Kentucky Fried Chicken League would, I knew, translate in the following day's papers as "a contest of epic proportions."

If anything the lie that appeared in tablet form the morning after was greater than feared. With additional script by manager Eoin Hand, the story that was written went something like this: memorable occasion . . . captivating performance by brave Irish lads ... magnificent after the disappointment of Rotterdam (where we lost a much better fame after a much better - or less worse - performance).

As a result, future historians who go to the cuttings library will find that (a) having been 3-1 down with 20 minutes remaining, Ireland staged a Great Comeback (b) this great comeback was in fact a Moral Victory over the "mighty Spanish" (we'll deal with that later) (c) it was, furthermore, an entertaining match and therefore good, because, as we all know by now, the trouble with the modern game is that there is not enough entertainment, and (d) Spain was "mighty", i.e., a good side by accepted international standards.

The latter was the biggest lie of all but an important one, for if we believed that Spain really was a decent side, all the other stuff about "epic comebacks" would be that much easier to swallow. Thus manager Hand's post-game observation that "this was a different Spanish side from the one that played (so badly) in the World Cup," was much touted the next morning. Hand understandably, given the professional circumstances (having dropped a home point we are, despite this 'epic', effectively out of the ball game), was implying that Spain were better than the side we had laughed at in the World Cup.

This assertion was not endorsed by the Spanish journalists who were present, who felt that, if anything, the Spain of Lansdowne was worse, than the Spain of last summer. If one can distinguish between mediocrity and sheer awfulness, I would be inclined to agree with that verdict.

There are good reasons for objecting to both this awful match and the awful rubbish that was written a bout it afterwards. The game itself, and in particular the performance of the Irish team, was an affront to the professional standards we have come to expect of our international sides in recent years. The reaction to it by those whose job it is to inform the public was, in its dreadful expediency, as insulting to critical values as the game itself was to their football equivalent. Thus bad football compounded by criticism equals lousy history. It is, of course, easier that way.

What actually happened at Lansdowne that day is complex,loaded with irony and paradox, joyless in its telling because, contrary to popular perception, the bad news business is no fun. But it is important to place it on record in the service of both historical accuracy and those who take an intelligent interest in their sport.

Ireland began positively and their aggression paid off after something less than five minutes when Ashley Grimes drove a glorious shot high into the net from 22 yards. Encouraged by this, and by the unconcealed panic in the Spanish defence, we continued to push forward for another ten minutes. But slowly Spain began to sort themselves out and midway through the first half the early Irish storm had blown itself out.

Then Spain scored. A bad goal volleyed spectacularly home by a big, red-shirted defender, criminally left unmarked in the Irish six-yard box. Thus we arrived at half-time. So far, so meaningless. A promising Irish beginning cancelled out by a commendable, if unconvincing, Spanish recovery. But no epic.

After 25 minutes of the second half the picture had altered dramatically. "Mighty" Spain had taken a two-goal lead, strolling on both occasions through a demoralised Irish defence to take scores that raised profound questions about (a) the right of some of our players to be playing the game at this level, and (b) the willingness of some of them to battle through a difficult period of the match.

It's a long time since such thoughts have arisen in relation to our international team. In short, not since the time when your correspondent played. And so, with 75 or so minutes of this European Championship contest endured, things looked black. A lamentable Irish performance arousing in those of us who were around in the bad old days a sense of deja vu.

Fifteen minutes to go, and as yet no sign of an epic. What, I wonder, was going on in the press box? Whose obituary was being composed? What clichéd condemnation was being contrived? We will never know, for what happened next defied simplistic explanation, or at least honestly simplistic explanation!

To interpret the closing act of this entertaining farce as the closing of an entertaining farce would have been difficult. The critic/reporter/commentator would have had to address himself to paradox and irony on a scale that

was clearly beyond those charged with the task. For example, if Spain were so good, how come they blew a two goal lead in the last 15 minutes? Or alternatively ... how did this epoch-making Irish side, heroes to a man, find themselves two goals down after 75 minutes?

Of course in theory satisfactory answers to these questions could be supplied. But surely it is the critic's role to distinguish between the romantic proposition advanced by the 3-3 scoreline and the tatty reality of the 'epic' in question?

It is therefore the purpose of the dissenting opinion, advanced by the temporarily disenfranchised critic, to offer an alternative view of what took place at Lansdowne Road, to wit, Spain were - and as this European championship progresses will be proven to be - a poor side. Ireland are at present - and will be proven to be - as a unit something less than the sum of their collective talents. That despite the fact that "the fans went away happy" some discerning, intelligent football followers will have been puzzled by the difference between the demoralised ineptitude that characterised the first 75 minutes of this Irish performance and the unqualified good news that was reported the next day.

To justify bad criticism by arguing that all that matters is 'entertainment' is to fail to distinguish between Dallas and Hamlet. Ireland and Spain was Dallas with knobs on. Not to say so would be an insult to the thinking sportsman, another easy victory for mediocrity, sporting and critical.

In his obituary for Ken Tynan, playwright Tom Stoppard paid critical contemporary the ultimate compliment. "He was," the writer acknowledged, "worth being good for." Which is a better world, free of Dallas and bad football matches, is how the critic would feel about his readers.