Northern Ireland v Luxembuourg (05/09/2024)

My reaction was more doom and gloom. The clans were gathering; the tartan hordes were mustering for a Highland charge. How could Norn Iron, a team consisting of mere youngsters, cope with all this hostility? My granddaughters were thrilled to see two policemen on horseback. The police in Glasgow had thought of everything. Of course our little marauding band of Ulster raiders, consisting of two middle-aged dads, their 11-year-old daughters and this old timer, would not cause much anxiety for a force which regularly polices Old Firm games. I looked around nervously to find out where they had parked the black marias. Everywhere there were Scottish scarves, Scotland banners and beanie hats plus tartans of every hue. The clans had come together for a feast and it seemed to my depressed mind that wee Norn Iron was already in the cooking pot. The context of the game also filled me with dread. They had qualified for the Euros. They needed a morale-boosting home win against a lower ranked team. “Cannon fodder,” I muttered to my son George, “we’ve been brought here as cannon fodder.” Painful memories flooded my mind. I remembered John White of Tottenham slicing our defence to ribbons in 1961 in a 6-1 drubbing at Windsor. I remember being at Hampden in May 1972 when Dennis Law and Peter Lorimer scored in the last five minutes and all the good defensive work of Terry Neill and company was reduced to ashes. I remember George Best, hammer of the Scots in 1967, being sent off in 1970 as we crashed to a home defeat. That’s the trouble with us old timers: we have too many memories, most of them bitter. We tramped around the vast stadium searching for any trace of the Green and White Army in the sea of tartan. Then at last there they were. They were laughing, joking, whooping with anticipation. All of them were there to enjoy themselves. None seemed to share my gloomy unease.

The Scottish Football Association had provided us with our own little sheep pen in a corner of the vast arena. There we were safely corralled in our very own mini Windsor Park. A home away from home. They had even created a no man’s land of empty seats that separated us from the caterwauling Caledonians. Not that Beth and May had any violent intent towards the Saltire-waving mob, their only possible missiles being packets of crisps. The SFA had also provided us with a match programme featuring words of astonishing generosity. It not only mentioned our team but actually provided an in-depth analysis of master tactician Michael O’Neill. Were they going soft in their pre-match complacency? Were they softening us up for the kill? Then the game started and it was clear to me as I trawled through far too many gloomy memories that our youngsters were not going to be overawed by the opposition. The angel who oversees the fortunes of our wee country decreed that Conor Bradley’s match winning strike would take place right in front of where we Northern Ireland fans were located. We were on cloud nine and to add to our ecstasy we became more and more convinced as the game went on that the Scots could play all night and never penetrate the defence of Ballard, Hume and Toal. I did not hear the final whistle, but George lifted me off my feet in a bear hug. We had secured an historic victory. The girls fell asleep in the car on the way back to the hotel. We were all tired but happy. Before sinking into blissful slumber, I leafed through the match programme again. The cover depicted Scottish midfield dynamo John McGinn as a comic book superhero. I smiled with deep satisfaction because on the night it was only our fantasies that came true.

IRISHFA.COM

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