I dunno about anybody else but I’m absolutely cream crackered today. Everyone I’ve said that to this morning at work has gone, “Rough night last night big lad?” Like that can be the only reason. Does my salubrious reputation go before me? Well, no, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. Even when I assure them that I am just suffering from physical tiredness they wink the eye with that ‘Yeah, physical tiredness. Gotcha’ look. But I am. Look, put it this way, if I had robotic arms like Steve Austin, the 6 million dollar man (popular 70s TV program) and could type this without actually typing it and be in my bed at the same time while my arms worked tirelessly at my desk, then, absolutely, I would be. And before anyone writes in and goes, oh but Steve Austin only had one robotic arm, and the arm couldn’t detach itself from his body never mind type, hey, I know already. It’s called poetic licence.

What’s wrecked me? Driving up and down to Dublin to watch that younger brother play for Ireland is what. It wouldn’t be so bad if the road there were all motorways. And to be fair now most of it is. In bygone times it wasn’t so accessible though. A driver would typically have had to play donkey derby on a snaking road saturated with combine harvesters and cattle droving farmers with no comprehension of time in motion. Now though about 70% of the road down from Belfast to Dublin is motorway. The other 30% is a struggle through town ring roads and traffic light systems but they tell me that one day it will all be finished. I can picture myself now bringing grandchildren to the hard shoulder of the Irish M100, pointing and telling them that once we had to drive cars down this road, oh yes, there were none of your hover scooters or tele-transporters in my day.

You want to add insult to injury? Being already cutting it fine to get to the Berkeley Court hotel to meet the aul boy to get my match ticket I tried to change from a ‘Turn left’ lane into a ‘Straight on’ lane and backed into a guy in a ‘91 Toyota Starlet, busting his radiator and number plate with my tow bar. No, I’m serious. Gardai phoned. The whole nine yards. Luckily no one hurt which is the main thing. Except for my pride and already brittle wallet, cos I’m gonna have to foot the repair bill outside the insurance company. Just to keep a no-claims profile up. Nightmare.

Phoned the aul boy to tell him.

Me: “Dad, you’re not gonna believe this but I’m gonna be late getting those tickets. You think you could leave them at reception desk?”
Aul boy; “What’s happened ye?”
Me: “Well, bit of a nightmare to be honest, I’ve backed into a guy here at a traffic lights and I’m waiting on the Gardai to arrive.”
Dad: “You did what?”
Me: “I’ve backed into a guy here at a traffic lights and I’m waiting on the Gardai to arrive. Wax out them ears”
Dad: “Is there much damage done?”
Me; “Radiator busted. And Number plate.”
Aul boy “I don’t believe ye. Is anybody hurt?”
Me: “No, thankfully not, everybody’s OK. Wasn’t a big smack or anything.”
Aul boy: “What in under Jaysus are you doing backing into somebody at a traffic lights?” (like I had it scheduled in my diary!!)
Me: “J**s, it’s not like a I meant to do it. Listen, this is not the time. You able to leave them tickets or what.”
Aul boy: “Right then so, I’ll leave them in an envelope in your name behind reception.”

Review: So what have we learned here from this episode? Answer: Dads and advice lectures. Believe me, no matter what age you get to, and I hope it’s a ripe old one, you will always be treated in times of wrong-doing like you’re 5 years old and have just soiled your nappy.

Only missed first 14 minutes of the match. On what was a beautifully mild evening. No need for Himalayan goat fleeces and anti-blood freeze sprays like you would normally do at Landsdowne, which was nice. As always, you could still see the shadows of rugby lines on the pitch despite the grounds people’s best efforts. Our national team we’re talking about here. At one time placed at number eight in FIFA’s world rankings. Playing in an egg-chasers stadium?! Honestly, don’t get me started. When oh when are we gonna get ourselves a national soccer stadium?!! Seriously. Bertie, if you’re reading this, and I imagine you probably are, as I know you’re a big fan of the Bear chronicles, sort it out.

Great game, in retrospect. But 3-0 at home always reads well on paper and looks good in the annals of history. But we looked a bit shaky at the back at times. And if you ask me, which you obviously won’t, they could easily have been a couple of goals up on us had their shooting been on target.
Nonetheless, cap number 56 now I think for Shay. Keeping him at the second highest capped Republic of Ireland player after Ian Harte (I think – somebody correct me if I’m wrong). And to that end it was great to see Shay come back out after half time when we fully expected Nicky (Colgan) to emerge.
Shay’s best moment? A superb reaction save to his right from a point blank shot. The save was then knocked into the open goal as Shay lay prostrate on the ground but was (rightly) ruled out for offside. The initial save though, it’s important to remember, was not offside and so was crucial.
Comedy moment of the evening? The moment on the first half when Robbie Keane knocked the ball into the Canadian’s net having been clearly flagged for offside and, jokingly, the Landsdowne crowd began cheering. Obviously waking up the commanche who plays the disco music to celebrate a goal as that Spandau Ballet song that starts
“Goal!! <goal!> Always believe in your sooo-ul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructibuuuule . . . always believe, yeah-ah”, or something like that, began booming out of the PA system for about 5 seconds until the guy responsible woke up and caught himself on and scratched it to a halt. I can just picture him up there in his announcer’s cubby-hole snacking on pink glaze doughnuts half asleep suddenly realising hey, hang on, people are cheering, we must’ve scored, where’s that damned button . . . . D’OHHHHH!!!!!!

Craic was good as always in the player’s lounge after, although we didn’t stop too long with Shay as the FAI security guy came round bouncing the senior players out onto their coach at around 10.45pm. That’s the worst thing about these matches and their late kick-offs. It’s near ten o clock before you’re thinking about getting on the road or having a quick beer. Plus if you’ve to drive the road to perdition like me, it’s the small hours before you’re even on the pillow. In my case, 1.45am.

Stole a few words with Ian Harte and Kevin Kilbane and got a bit of slagging from Packie Bonner for holding the bar up and therefore being a typical Donegal man. Well, you’ve gotta prioritise on occasions like these. Shay relived his ‘armed robbery’ experience from the hotel in great comic and graphic detail and before you knew it we were scattering from the empty stadium in its blanket of darkness to make the lonely trips home. The sober realisation crystallising in my mind that we would probably not now see Shay again before Christmas, which is always a depressing facet of family football life and how they are completely unforgiving of each other. Oh well, roll on the world cup draw in December and God, if you reading this, please give us a handy wee draw. Good man. Cheers.

Buy the Bear's T-Shirt here in Shay-Given.com Online Webstore

A big thanks to the 'Bear' for his time and effort in writing this
©Copyright 2003 Shay-Given.com. All rights reserved.