We recently had the anniversary of “Henry Day”.  It passed me by a little, I’ll admit, because there’s plenty of stuff to be worrying about which is probably more important than a silly football match, let alone the anniversary of one. 

But then that thought itself reminded me of something I wrote last year after I arrived home from Paris.  At that time, the weather crisis was severe flooding, this time severe cold.  Somehow the economic crisis has since got worse, much worse.  We needed a lift then; we need even more of one now. 

Anyway, read on.

(originally published 19/11/09)

Paris, Henry and a Nation Dumped on its Arse

I was at the match in Paris, arrived back today, I’m still stunned.

We played them off the park last night, the French team and the French crowd didn’t know what hit them.

When the goal went in, it was at the opposite end of the ground from us but it was obvious from the reactions of the senior Irish players (Given, Duff in particular) that something was very wrong. Those players just don’t react like that, EVER. Duff in particular is so laid back as to be mistaken for a coma victim at times and to see him running around like a headless chicken was startling to us.

And then the texts started flooding in from back home, we couldn’t believe it – TWO handballs???

But we kept supporting the team, screaming from the bottom of our lungs to try to blow the ball into the French net, but it wasn’t to be. At the final whistle we booed and clapped almost at the same time, torn between showing our derision for the officials and our pride for the efforts of our men in green and white.

As we made our way back into the city, the French fans had the dignity to leave quietly. There were no renditions of their anthem and anyone trying to start a chorus of “Allez les Bleus” was quickly shushed out by their compatriots.

They knew that a great injustice had been done.

We sat and stood in French bars and cafes long into the night, still not having seen a single replay but hoping in our hearts that it really wasn’t as bad as our friends and family at home were saying. There was no talk, no craic, just the same shellshocked look on every fan’s face until, in small groups, we would wend our way back to hotels and hostels to go to sleep. Perhaps we would wake up and it would all have been a bad dream.

On our way home, twice we encountered French fans who apologised for the goal and genuinely seemed ashamed at the manner of their victory. We thanked them, and wished them good luck in South Africa.

We had a 6.15am shuttle to the airport this morning; curiosity got the best of us and we decided to look at the replay before we went.

We stood there at the internet kiosk, speechless. Having honestly thought that the various texts from back home had been hugely exaggerated, probably brought upon by the excesses of a big Irish sporting evening, here we were watching a handball (a DOUBLE handball!) that was so blatant that we just couldn’t take it in.

I still can’t take it in.

To their credit lÉquipe, the French sporting paper of record, today had “The Hand of God” as their headline, along with a full page photo of Henry’s handball. Inside, they praised the Irish team for their play and determination, praised the outstanding French goalkeeper, and piled derision on the rest of the French players as well as the hapless officials.

The country is silent today. There’s a soft rain that has been falling all over the country for hours and it seems apt. Better for people to be worrying about potential flooding and other practical things than about a silly football match in France.

But this country is in the direst economic crisis it has ever faced -unemployment rocketing, national finances in ribbons, house repossessions at record levels, and our young people now forced to emigrate again just like the bad old days. In such times, pride is a powerful thing. That pride soared against Italy, when we came within just a couple of minutes of beating them and topping the group. It soared in Croke Park last Saturday as we kept the French at bay until a ferociously lucky Anelka goal (deflections off defender and post) burst the bubble. And finally, gloriously, in Paris, it seemed that even if we went on to lose that match in the end, we had still restored something about Irish pride, our collective sense of character and resolve, of staring into an abyss and climbing out together.

And with that travesty last night we were flung back into that abyss, this time deeper than before.

That’s how much this means over here.

I’m still gutted.

We all are.