Jon Walters has had some fine games in an Ireland jersey.
This time last year, he tried to drag the country through a must-win clash with Scotland at the Aviva. He hit the net but it wasn’t enough.
Ever since that 1-1 draw that looked to have doomed the qualification campaign, ‘enough’ has been the very bottom of the Jon Walters yardstick. ‘Enough’ is the minimum that he doesn’t want to insult his national team with.
So he started the rout against Gibraltar after the summer. He barged his way first to the ball to score in the second half against Georgia in a tense, do-or-die game. He got there through pure heart. Pure grit. Pure, unapologetic allegiance to one country and a promise that words like “it wasn’t enough” wouldn’t define him or Ireland.
Eventually, every man has to take a stand himself. Every man has to stop relying on fate or luck or hiding behind excuses that could get you by in this life hassle-free, but unfulfilled. Every man, sooner or later, has to fight for what he wants and when it’s there for him – even just a sniff of it – he has to take it.
No-one’s going to give you anything. Not in this game anyway.
So Jon Walters came back to Dublin to face off with the world champions like a man possessed.
They’ll tell stories about that night on October 8 until they pass into legend. They’ll talk of the horse and cart he ploughed around Lansdowne Road, seemingly taking up and playing the role of three men in three different positions.
They’ll talk of his battering ram performance with his back to goal, charging the Irish upfield, thrusting the Germans back. The time he put Manuel Neuer on his backside, foul or not. The blocks he made, the touches he executed, the time he held off 14 men in the corner for five and half hours.
Legends become myth. Jon Walters is now the legend, the myth.
Against Bosnia, in one of the biggest ever nights in Dublin, he rose above himself further and touched greatness. He made history, made himself an icon, became a national hero.
It wasn’t luck, or fate, or entitlement. It was honest hard work. It was passion.
So he came to France with question marks over his fitness but, in Jon Walters’ head, in Jon Walters’ heart, not playing was never going to be an option. That just couldn’t happen.
So, despite not featuring against Holland or Belarus and barely training in the build-up to June 13, Jon Walters was always going to be there at the Stade de France come hell or high water.
High water came and he just kept on swimming.
On Sunday and Monday, tricolours filtered into Paris until the city came to a standstill. Countless flags were sporting the Stoke player’s face, fans chanted his name, they wore Walters at the back of their jerseys and they feared not the thought of Zlatan Ibrahimovic. They feared nothing because of Super Jon Walters.
Euro 2016, France… hell football needed the Irish fans and, by God, they delivered, @ConanDoherty was in Parishttps://t.co/cuHfcgw1h9
— SportsJOE (@SportsJOEdotie) June 14, 2016
After one minute, the 32-year-old said he could feel his Achilles playing up.
After 10 minutes, it was clear that he wasn’t fit.
And yet, after a full half of football, he had already set up Jeff Hendrick twice and played Shane Long through on goal only to be blown up for no good reason. He had already planted himself deliberately in front of big Zlatan off the ball in the middle of the field just to let the Swede feel the Irish presence. And he came hobbling off at half time, face grimacing, walking weakly.
He played 20 further minutes. He started winning ball higher up the pitch and teeing it out to team mates again. He was keeping it simple because injury was keeping him restricted.
He kept going.
Every time it looked like he had given enough, he went on again. Every time it looked like he was being brought to his knees, he stood taller. Every time it didn’t work out for him, he just kept going.
After the break, he somehow managed to drag himself into the corner to chase a loose pass. The leg looked to be hanging off him at this stage, the pain visible. But he retrieved it, he usually does. He got there ahead of Shane Long, ahead of a yellow jersey too and it looked like it hurt him just passing it out to Wes Hoolahan. 15 seconds later, Ireland scored.
Eventually, after 65 minutes of limping and puffing and sweating for the cause, Martin O’Neill took the decision out of the warrior’s hands and put him out of his misery. But it looked more painful for him to leave his comrades behind on the field of battle.
The crowd stood as one, every green jersey to a man rising to their feet to salute their hero. Thousands of Ireland fans applauded the 32-year-old and thanked him for what was one of his weakest performances for the country in a long time.
He owes Ireland nothing. Ireland owes him everything.
And, actually, after 65 minutes of battling the inevitable, of fighting the Swedes and fighting his own body, Jon Walters’ performance against Sweden was one of his strongest.
It was the one that showed how much this means to him. It was the one that showed he couldn’t be told no.
He did it knowing that it might risk his involvement in the rest of the tournament.
But he did it for Ireland. He did it for us.
