You know Robbie Brady took the ball off Darren Randolph to start that goal?
It’s the easiest thing in the world to hide on a football pitch.
You see it everywhere, in every game, players shrinking. Responsibility is a big thing to undertake, especially when mistakes in this business mean losing, they mean tournament exits and, worse so in Ireland’s case, they mean years of apathy.
Robbie Brady’s gonads didn’t just rescue a Euro 2016 campaign that began 21 months ago. They didn’t just spare Wes Hoolahan’s blushes or give the fans in France and back home another couple of nights of partying. They saved football in Ireland. They saved it.
This generation of footballers has been railing against perceptions of doom ever since Euro 2012. We were told that the players just weren’t there. We were cursing the systems that’s supposed to develop international-standard men. We were looking at other sports as some kind of relief because people would rather plead ignorance than have to face up to misery or, worse, have to do anything about it.
Then a moment, one beautiful moment changes everything forever.
Ray Houghton against the English, 1988.
David O’Leary against Romania, 1990.
Ray Houghton against Italy, 1994.
Robbie Keane against Germany, 2002.
Robbie Brady against Italy, 2016.
A list of major tournament memories that inspired the nation. A list of immortals.
Robbie Brady’s name is now etched in Irish history forever. It wasn’t luck, it wasn’t a case of being in the right place at the right time. It was one young man, rising above himself and taking the game, the tournament, the country by the scruff of the neck.
There’s a scene in Jerry Maguire after Tom Cruise had written his mission statement to change the future of his company, he went in the small hours of the morning – drunk on the vision he had – to get copies printed out for everyone in his work place. “That’s how you become great, man,” the guy working behind the counter said to him with a smile of admiration, respect. “You hang your balls out there.”
In the wake of what could’ve been an irreparable defeat against Belgium, Roy Keane led the rallying cry and put the gauntlet down for his players.
He spoke about courage and bravery in football – not going out and kicking someone but taking the ball when you might not want to take it; playing ball when you might risk losing it. Taking responsibility.
Having balls.
Roy Keane: "You get players who show for the ball but they're not really showing for it" https://t.co/MCBOA1YmUg
— SportsJOE (@SportsJOEdotie) June 20, 2016
Robbie Brady listened to him.
On a night where one mistake would’ve condemned the nation to more years of indifference towards a football, it would’ve been the most understandably human thing to play safe, hedge bets. To fear.
One man from Dublin wasn’t afraid though.
One man elevated himself above the question marks and permutations and above all the ‘what might and could be’. One man rose off his feet and dared to believe. He dared to play. To win.
In this his third game in a third different position, Robbie Brady was just playing football. He was playing football for his country and he needed no further instruction or motivation. He was already wired to the moon, high on patriotism.
From left back, to wide of a 4-2-3-1, to central in a 4-3-3, the 24-year-old has starred in every single outing in France and his performance against Italy will be told and retold in folklore until myth paints him with a sword and shield.
That’s barely just a myth. That’s how he played. With aggression and fire, passion and a will to slay for his country.
He demanded the ball in tight areas when others at the top of the game would’ve stood behind their marker until a handier opportunity presented itself. He took men on. His instinct – his only instinct – was to get to the Italian goal. He never released possession until someone was in a better position and he could play them a proper ball without just passing the buck. Everything he did, he did with courage and skill.
His running never ceased. Nor did his bravery. 85 minutes on the clock and his efforts weren’t enough. So he stepped it up again, he stepped everyone up. He went and took the ball off Randolph, brought it through the middle, fed McGeady. That wasn’t job done, Ireland hadn’t won. So he dragged himself forward again, further and further until he burst like an explosion in the box to get to the ball first, to put his head on the line, to win for his country.
He broke into tears.
He played on the edge, at the very limits of his emotions and physical capabilities. He played on the edge of getting carried away or carried off, whichever came first. He toed the line between winning and losing and he didn’t care one bit because he had to do that to win. He just had to win.
Sometimes, you watch sport and there’s a moment that stuns you. More rarely, you might be lucky enough to witness a performance – a 90-minute passion-filled performance – that takes your breath away. You see a man committed so wholly to a game of football that you know there and then that this is all that matters in his world right now. You see him lost in the game as if there’s nothing else going on in this earth and it is beautiful.
It’s timeless. It lasts forever.
“I said to him after the game to enjoy this moment because they don’t come around very, very often. When they do, it’s some experience. I told him to take it all in and enjoy every minute of it.”
It’s fitting that Robbie Keane had the last word on Wednesday night on Robbie Brady’s once-in-a-lifetime performance. From one legend to another. From one immortal to the next.
From one moment, 14 years apart, to this moment.
Here come the next generation now. You can almost hear them tossing aside their control pads and pulling on the jersey. You can feel them aiming to be the next immortal. To be the next Robbie Brady.
That’s thanks to one man from Dublin. That’s thanks to him for putting his balls on the line.
