For days hope and optimism took hold on the seemingly arid landscape of the Croatian aftermath. Cause to believe seemed scant initially, yet as the movement grew more and more followers were converted. Eventually the perennial dictator was overthrown and the pretenders ruled. Their time was short lived, however. On Thursday reality came out swinging and wasted little time in reestablishing the natural order. Within three minutes our siesta was over. As is the disposition of autocrats, retribution was swift, prolonged and harsh.
Spain were simply sublime. They passed and moved with their customary aplomb, tiki-taka flowed as beautiful as ever. The travesty of the night was not the defeat, rather its origin and manner. The Spanish were more than capable of overcoming this Irish side on the merit of their own ability. The helping hand we extended was an unexpected and unwarranted contribution. Having seemingly sought to aid in our own demise, the Spanish wasted little time in granting our wish.
Giovanni Trapattoni is a fine coach with a distinguished past. He has steered the nation to its first European Championships in 24 years. On Thursday, however, it was his performance that was most glaringly inept. Robbie Keane alone up front, was an incredible decision. Simon Cox in midfield equally so. Trapattoni, in yesterday's press conference explained his decision to deploy Cox in the unfamiliar role, pointing towards his capacity to occupy Xabi Alonso and diminish his influence on proceedings. Sound in principle, not so in execution. Cox was never the man for the job. The chance of the Irish turning the Spanish over were slight from the outset. Accordingly one would imagine the Irish management would be economical with such glimmers of hope, seek to encourage and develop them in training and ultimately plot a course to unlikely success. In the end they were being rapidly dwindled away through inexcusably poor decisions.
Like most things in life, however, this loss cannot be attributed to one single individual. The broad brush strokes of the rights and wrongs of Trapattoni's decisions do not account for the many shades of grey that afflicted this Irish team. Some of the Republic's greatest servants have faltered at these Championships. Shay Given, seemingly not fully fit, simply does not make the sort of mistakes that led to Spain's second goal. Once David Silva had dispatched the ball to the net Ireland's dream was irrefutably unattainable, our championships over. Robbie Keane was never given the opportunity to prove his worth to those that now doubt him and cut a forlorn and frustrated figure. Richard Dunne too struggled at times. His stumble in the opening minutes, after a fine tackle, gave Torres the opportunity to pounce for the opener. Although Stephen Ward was ultimately responsible, the man that has so often been Ireland's most impenetrable line of defence; Dunne, was on this occasion found wanting. His knee jerking and buckling under the burden of his weight a microcosm of the team; burdened, buckling, and ultimately beaten. Our best may not have been enough at these championships, and given the evidence of the past week one would suspect as much. Frustratingly, however, we will never know.
The reality of our ineptitude was crushing, yet looking around the stadium you'd never have guessed. Of course there exists a correlation between expectation and reaction, and in that context greater lee-way is afforded to the Irish players. Were Spain to be knocked out after two games, conceding seven goals and scoring one, nobody would expect their fans to be as understanding as Ireland's were last night, such would be the disparity between expectation and performance. Regardless, the actions of the Irish supporters were truly magnificent. Thousands of miles away, a silence descended in homes and bars as people became aware of the growing symphony of Irish voices lamenting the travails of times gone by. As the din grew greater, so too did its influence. The singing spread, and before long enveloped the homes and establishments that had fallen silent. One final stand against the reality of the situation. As the chorus of voices sang the Fields of Athenry, you could see a people yet again pick themselves up off the canvas and dust themselves down. Exhibiting the best of what this country has to offer in terms of resilience, character and loyalty, their actions unfortunately spoke louder than those of our heroes on the pitch. This was the fan's turn to inspire the players, to express our appreciation for their efforts no matter how futile they ultimately had proven, and to remind them of the esteem in which they are held for their service to the jersey. It is not enough for the players to content themselves with gallant defeat, it is not enough for them to comfort themselves with the strength of their support nor to disguise their failings. But that is not what the final few minutes of Thursday night were about either. In their darkest hour the players deserved our support. The extended, ever-looping rendition an indication of the willingness of the fans to oblige and of the shared catharsis that had enveloped the stadium.
The biting reality of our greatest fears hurt. The embarrassment as bad was as we could have envisaged. Yet unity, loyalty and a steadfast refusal to be bowed exhibited the best of our country. The team must improve, of that there is no doubt. Now, more than ever before, they owe it to their fans.
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