Dublin hasn’t seen the like of it.
Maybe ever, but certainly not in the last 14 years anyway.
The world champions, the FIFA Coach of the Year, some of the most frightening names in global football came back to the scene of their 6-1 destruction only one campaign previous and they were humbled. By God, they were humbled.
Germany was brought to its knees as Irish football, long since in need of a lifeline defibrillator, was revived. And we found a pulse. A beating pulse. A pulse pumping blood through the country’s veins, the sort we had probably forgotten existed.
Irish football, in all of its dismay, its lack of young players coming through, its failed attempts to prize foreigners to join the team, was resurrected and dragged to the light.
The Aviva was shaking on its hinges and the country was once again united. United in football. And one man took us there, kicking and screaming.
Martin O’Neill has had to listen to all the shit of the day since he took over the Republic of Ireland.
For some reason, all the blame of the state the nation found itself in was laid at the Derry man’s door. For some reason, we expected and demanded more of him and Roy Keane even though we all knew ourselves that there were better Irish teams in the past. And, somehow, Martin O’Neill has faced criticism in every decision that he has made.
He hasn’t been ballsy enough. He didn’t get Jack Grealish. We drew too many games.
Even now, he’s being scorned for not starting with Shane Long when he sprang the striker from the bench to win the game – to beat the world champions.
But in the face of personal attacks and doubters, there was a bigger task at hand. The task of taking on the best side on the planet and garnishing a result.
Ireland don’t beat teams, they said. We draw games. We’re happy with that. Remember Holland in ’01. God, those were the days. But don’t get carried away.
Well, here we were with the big guns in town. Here we were with history laughing at us and the country trying to convince itself that it preferred an oval ball. Here we were with a chance. And Martin O’Neill took it.
He took his chance and led the nation to the most notable competitive result in its recent history.
When Ireland crucially saw off Georgia, however unconvincingly, we agreed that O’Neill was due praise. Even if that result was being demanded from the stands.
He had just eight games in competition with this team under his belt and it looked for all intents and purposes that he was starting to find his groove.
Thursday night? Jesus, that’s just Martin Magic in bloom.
O’Neill knows his team now and his bold decision to stick with a diamond formation, against Germany and all, just showed that the manager finally had his stamp all over this outfit. The same outfit that have lost just once in nine competitive games.
He stuck with Wes Hoolahan when we’ve all grown pissed off at the boss for either dropping him or withdrawing him and, even with Whelan and McClean missing, even with Seamus Coleman out injured as well as a centre back and our first choice ‘keeper going down, O’Neill’s team was lined with steel. And it was littered with the sort of organisation and discipline that has set his career apart.
Crucially though, it was littered with heart.
And, for 90 breathless minutes, Martin O’Neill didn’t sit down for a second.
He patrolled the touchline, manically conducting, demanding more and he kicked every single ball that was struck in hopeful desperation. He jumped, he screamed and, as the 11 Irish lads in green produced the sort of heart-warmining performance that will be told and retold until the ages exaggerate it, Martin O’Neill had summoned the spirit of all that is good about this island.
When Shane Long – who the manager held and held in reserve almost William Wallace-esque, daring the enemy to come closer before he could unleash hell – grabbed what was the most emphatic of winners, the roof was blown off of the Aviva Stadium and smashed into smithereens around Dublin 4.
The roar was deafening. It was the sound of a country rising from the ashes.
Olé rang around the stadium. Fields of Athenry was belted out in euphoria and every single half block by an Irish shirt was ascended into God-like wonder.
O’Neill still patrolled. He still wanted more. And, on the verge of what must’ve been a career-defining victory for him too, he still got the crowd to its feet going through every emotion with him.
There were five minutes to go at a stage, Ireland had hoofed another clearance desperately out of play and O’Neill went ape shit, berating Robbie Brady to go down and call for the stretchers. Cute, deceitful, call it whatever you want. This is the Ireland manager and he was doing what was necessary to win. For Ireland.
Finally, after all the doubters and naysayers writing this management team and this generation of Irish footballers off, Martin O’Neill delivered the sort of night that the country so badly needed. He delivered a historic one.
And he did it with all of us tutting and shaking our heads. He did it with none of us believing we could do it.
Martin O’Neill believed.
