Postcard
Daniel Carey
WHEN John Terry fell into the net after controversially ‘clearing’ the ball during last Tuesday’s Ukraine-England match, I expected to hear plates crash at a restaurant next to ours in Stary Rynek, Poznan’s old market square.
Enjoying dinner outdoors on our last night in Poland, our four-strong group noticed a striking physical resemblance between Terry and a waiter at the adjoining establishment. Yer man was a dead ringer for the Chelsea defender, though he had less hair.
We wondered: what if JT had access to some kind of portal, allowing him to serve dinners in Poznan while simultaneously trying to keep Ukraine scoreless in Donetsk? If he slipped on the field in Ukraine, would cutlery go flying in Poland? If that theory sounds ridiculous, it wasn’t much stranger than some of the things we actually witnessed at Euro 2012.
Like the chorus of ‘Here I Am, Lord’ that broke out among Irish supporters the night before the Croatia game. Like the broken bathroom door miraculously repaired around 10pm, during the Germany-Denmark match. Like the Pole who, with no explanation, kissed the crest of my Mayo GAA jersey.
During our time in the country, we saw no real trouble, though the riot police were deployed on the night of Poland’s last group game as a precaution. You couldn’t knock much craic out of the lads with batons and shields – though God knows we tried. One Westmeath man, musing for the millionth time on the beauty of Polish females, commented: “See the women police? You’d start a row just to get arrested!”
The bond which developed between the Irish and the locals was emphasised 12 hours before we flew home. Wandering through the Fan Zone in Poznan, we were asked by a group of Polish teenagers how long we were staying. When we replied “until tomorrow”, they expressed sadness and said: “Poznan will be boring without you!”
I don’t think they meant me personally. But earlier in the week, I’d been interviewed by TVP Poznan and praised everything about the experience – except for Polish Rail and the Irish team’s performances.
At least our final game, against Italy, was in the balance until Mario Balotelli’s spectacular injury-time goal. It was so hot that day we decided to stick to water, but we saw t-shirts that read ‘Irish today, hungover tomorrow’.
Someone else sported the slogan ‘F*** Schillaci’. When that sentiment was repeated inside the stadium, it was directed not at the man from the Smithwick’s ad, but at a certain Corkman.
“F*** you Roy Keane, we’ll sing when we want,” was belted out with fervour. Mind you, the ITV pundit might have endorsed the feelings of the frustrated individual behind me who, as the teams lined out for the second half, roared: “Come on Ireland … ye owe us SOMETHING!”
One popular indigenous tradition – whereby followers of the local team, Lech Poznan, turn their back on the field of play, join arms and and jump up and down in unison – was eagerly adopted by Irish visitors. Throughout the tournament, there was plenty of cultural cross-pollination.
A few Poles joined in our version of ‘We All Dream Of A Team Of Gary Breens’ the night their team was eliminated by the Czech Republic.
We were regularly serenaded – in English – by locals singing ‘Come On You Boys In Green’ and responded in kind with ‘Polska bialo czerwoni’ (Poland the white and reds). There were regular high fives and group photos. One Pole who posed for a picture with us had spent two years in Tallaght – “Everybody’s f***in’ crazy there,” he recalled with a laugh.
Asked by two Poznanian females “What’s the best thing about Poland?” one of our number gave what proved to be a popular answer: “The ladies”. And, channelling the Polish Pope, John Paul II, an Irishman addressed the population at large: “Young people of Poznan, we love you!” We’ll definitely be back.
