We doubted him.
When the going got tough, the murmurs got going and Martin O’Neill was questioned. By every corner of the football world.
We weren’t expansive enough, we kept drawing 1-1, does he even want this job?
We questioned him after a handful of games and we were all ready and willing to not only put this qualification campaign down as a write-off, but to do the same for the manager’s tenure as well.
Fools. The lot of us.
On Monday night, on November 16, the Republic of Ireland gatecrashed their way into the European Championships via the dodgiest route possible and the nation stood tall. Together.
At the centre of it all, a little man from Derry.
Martin O’Neill was thrust into the middle of the Aviva pitch after a gloriously comfortable 2-0 victory over Bosnia and he was forced to take the plaudits. The crowd wanted him, the country wanted him, they demanded him and, with one almighty roar, with one embarrassed wave of a man with the inspiring look of someone who’s not even close to completing his job yet, there was a spine-tingling realisation amongst 50,000 Irish men and women right there and then: that’s Martin O’Neill out there.
That Martin O’Neill.
The one who commanded messiah-like presence almost routinely when he showed up at the doorstep of football projects in need of saving.
That Martin O’Neill was there in front of us in the spotlight of the nation having carried out exactly the same job you had almost quietly allowed yourself to expect from him.
That Martin O’Neill was there. He was always there. It just took a moment like this to realise it. To see him. To appreciate him.
We needn’t go into the difficulties that this route to France posed. The group was ridiculous. But navigating through that, beating the world champions, rising when we were on our knees wasn’t even the extent of Martin O’Neill’s achievements to date with this team.
Under Trapattoni, we defended well. It was nothing genius or even well-rehearsed, it was just 11 Irish men told to be disciplined and they spilled blood clearing their lines and putting their bodies on the line.
Monday night was different.
When we needed a result, Ireland weren’t hanging on. They didn’t just keep standing up when they were floored and it wasn’t even all about heart. It was organised. It was controlled. It was managed.
Ireland knew what they were doing. Every one of the players knew exactly what his role was and they were prepared for every eventuality. It wasn’t manically thrown together and it certainly wasn’t hope-for-the-best stuff. It was calculated. And it was executed. To perfection.
It had the scent of Martin O’Neill written all over. Bosnia didn’t get a sniff. Ireland had them at arm’s length the whole night and we manoeuvred our way expertly through the gauntlet. We were led there.
The Northern Ireland international had proven his worth. Again. And Ireland, as a whole, embraced him. They embraced the result and they embraced this team when we were all ready to toss the manager, this generation and even this sport out with the recyclables.
O’Neill spoke before either play-off about wanting to leave a legacy before he finished up with the country. He said he wanted to replace the older boys – some that he quipped were as old as him – and leave the team in good shape before he would even think about stepping down.
Quietly, without any of us even realising, he has begun to leave that legacy already.
Only Walters and Hoolahan are really left of the plus 30 brigade in the first team and, Jesus, how could you replace either of them anyway?
Shay Given seems to be gone. John O’Shea has suddenly lost his place and Robbie Keane – the national captain – is nowhere near the side anymore.
O’Neill, in the last few months, has completely cleansed the side and refreshed it and, in doing so, he has revamped an entire generation. It has been the kind of troubleshooting work where you can actually not only look at the next five years safely again, but you can look forward to it.
Better still, he has brought football back to the people.
Football is a working class game and this is football country.
Whatever about your classes though, football is a game that we all relate to. It’s a game you’re playing in your back garden as soon as you’re standing. It’s a game you can invite a stranger into with a simple kick of leather in his direction.
Only football delivers the sort of buzz it has this weekend. Like it did after Germany.
Only football offers that feeling in your stomach and that universal joy that Ireland is one. That we’re all experiencing this. That this is for everyone. A national feel-good factor.
Only football has you wanting to milk this dry, to dissect it the next day, to elevate ordinary men into genuine myth-like heroes.
Only football speaks for an entire country.
This Ireland team is doing that again. This Ireland team is proud again. Ireland is proud.
And only Martin O’Neill could’ve delivered that.
