Of the 25,000 plus Irish fans that squeezed themselves into the Stade Pierre-Mauroy on Wednesday night, if you had given any of them the chance to get onto that pitch, every single one would’ve done exactly what James McClean did.
They would’ve tried to at least.
They would’ve sprinted faster than they ever thought they could.
They would’ve sweated more than they ever thought medically possible.
They would’ve poured blood, laid their bodies on the line and they would’ve done it again and again and again.
They would’ve done what James McClean did.
James McClean is that player every supporter promises they would be given the opportunity.
He’s the one who plays like he’s just been released from the stand like a savage greyhound licking his lips in the traps. He’s the one who plays like he’s still kicking ball in Creggan, sizing down lads from a rival estate as if their very lives depended on upholding that local pride.
He’s the one who seems to come fresh from sitting in front of a TV complaining about the effort, as if he’s been given one chance and one chance alone to see if he can do any better.
He’d never let that chance pass him by. Never.
In the 93rd minute of that historic 1-0 victory over Italy, McClean had looked to have run himself to a standstill. He had thrown his body around Lille like a wrecking ball, he had charged at the Italians without hesitation, without inhibition. He had crunched blue jerseys, rinsed defenders inside-out and attacked the heart of the opposition with every half chance.
Playing on the left of a front three, he was electrifying. He was raiding down the flank, crossing early, going diagonally, taking the ball with his back to goal and doing the work of two men in defence. He did it for 93 full minutes. 93 whole-hearted minutes of pure, raw passion. Pure, Irish passion.
And yet, when his country came calling again, he answered dutifully. He answered gladly.
93 minutes on the clock and Ireland are hanging on for their dear lives. Stephan El Shaaraway takes the Italians on the march. The Irish are penned in. Bodies are looking tired, men seem dead on their feet. The blue shirts get closer. The ball is spinning rapidly down the left. 40 yards become 30. 30 become 20. A nation holds its breath. James McClean doesn’t.
BANG.
Another body is left mercilessly in his trail as he crunches into man and ball and the siege is lifted from the wreckage that remains.
Ireland hold on. Because James McClean won’t allow them to let go.
He was given his first start of the tournament on Wednesday night and he played as if it was going to be taken away from him at any minute. He played as if every minute was his last.
Martin O’Neill made a huge call. He dropped Wes Hoolahan from his pack on a night that Ireland simply had to win. They had to win or they were on the first non-cancelled flight out of France.
The country’s most creative player was sacrificed so the manager could deploy a 4-3-3 and it worked better than anyone could’ve anticipated. Amidst all the controversy and whinges at the team selection, James McClean silenced the critics within minutes and replaced it with the sound of crunching Italian bones.
The system, the personnel brought energy, pace, drive. From the very off, Ireland were zipping around with the sort impatience and verve that had the green shirts in the Lille stands falling over themselves. From the very off, James McClean was hunting for the ball and salivating for Italian blood. From the very off, he had the Stade Pierre-Muaroy shaking on its hinges.
There is a time and a place for Wes Hoolahan. It was used perfectly on Wednesday night.
For the most part though, this was a game for relentless confrontation. It was a game for direct running. It was a game for physical battle and a game for laying it all on the line. It was a game for heart, not heads. It was a game for James McClean.
The Derry man played as if his passion for his country was gushing out of him like the River Foyle is running through his proud city. He flicked a switch and went to animal mode and played the game on another level entirely. He played the game as if he was free-wheeling downhill in top gear, completely out of control but exhilarated by the thrill of it.
He rose above himself and touched greatness and, in doing so, inspired the rest of them to join him. He inspired the country to join together as his body became nothing more than a weapon for Ireland in their hour of need.
It was kill or be killed on Wednesday night. But James McClean wasn’t going to go down easy.
He wasn’t going to go down at all. Not on this night. Not with an Ireland jersey on.
