Postcard
Daniel Carey
FOR me, the lowlight of Poznan wasn’t the first Croatian goal, or the controversial second, or the ‘game over’ third. No, the worst moment was being told at Poznan G?ówny railway station, shortly after 3am, that our train had no Carriage 14.
Our five-strong group were facing a four-and-a-half-hour journey back to Sopot, our base camp until Friday, and had taken the precaution of booking first-class tickets – in Carriage 14 – to ensure that we’d have guaranteed seats. Instead, our gang of Presentation College, Headford alumni (John Gibsey, Brian O’Connell, Bryan Carey, Fergus Collis and me) ended up in our own 21st-century version of a Polish corridor.
“I had a sinking feeling at that stage,” John, who had bought the tickets, mused wryly in the early hours of Monday morning. “Whatever chance we had of getting two goals back, I couldn’t see them ‘magicking’ up another Carriage 14!”
My seat at the Stadion Miejski was among the best in the house, just to the right of the halfway line in the lower tier. But I only got to use it before the game and at half-time. For the 90 minutes, the entire crowd in our part of the ground remained standing, which – as it turned out – set the trend for the night ahead.
We stood up as, too often, Ireland stood off their opponents, in a grim reversal of the “put ’em under pressure” mantra that has secured much nostalgic airplay in recent weeks.
There was booing of Croatian passing (an unwelcome development that left a sour taste as supporters of both countries mingled freely), text messages back home (to find out about contentious refereeing decisions, which weren’t replayed on the big screen), and, by the end, a real sense of fear that our Euro adventure could be over almost before it’s begun.
That lasted until, shortly after 1am in the Dubliner pub, a group of fans started singing “We’re gonna top the group” and “Que sera sera, whatever will be will be, we’ll beat Spain and Italy”.
Much as we’d all like to be optimistic, I couldn’t help but wonder if the non-alcoholic beer in the stadium had gone to their heads. A more realistic appraisal came a few minutes later when, spotting our green shirts at an intersection on in Poznan’s main street, a small group of Croatians serenaded us with a note-perfect “You’ll never beat the Irish!”
That song has always been a hostage to fortune.
The gloom which the result left was in stark contrast to the fun of the night before. We wandered the resort town of Sopot, noting the plethora of Spaniards and gorgeous local women.
In Poznan, 15 Galwegian men were inspired to go stark naked while singing “In the nip for the boys in green”. Is it any wonder the riot police were called?!
Among the songs heard on Saturday evening was a reworking of ‘Molly Malone’, with the words “Stephen Ireland’s two grannies” inserted in places of “crying cockles and mussels”. By match-day, we had switched to “Oh Paul McShane, he used to be Brazilian but he’s Irish now” and the new favourite “Merkel thinks we’re working”.
On the tram out to the stadium, one Irishman asked a beautiful Poznanian: “You’re Paddy Walsh’s daughter, aren’t you?” It was a question unsurprisingly answered in the negative.
Eleven hours later, still awaiting a seat on the train, I briefly fell asleep while standing up in the corridor – at least until I lurched forward and fell down on top of Fergus, one of my travelling companions. Before a slot finally opened up in a nearby compartment, we observed a man getting stuck in the small space between two sets of uncooperative automatic doors. There was plenty of honest endeavour on his part, but it became clear he was going nowhere. Hopefully that’s not a metaphor for the boys in green.
