Liam Brady’s bidding arrivederci to RTE’s soccer coverage the other night got me thinking. About several things, actually. Some of which were before my time, others that became central tenets of my life. Directly or indirectly as the case may be. To begin with the second bit, that revolves around the late Bill O’Herlihy and John Giles and Eamon Dunphy and – in latter years – Brady were the mainstays of the national broadcaster’s association football coverage.
The first half of the ponderings, though, actually related to, as Johnny McEvoy beautifully lilts, long, long before my time. When Giles was the Irish manager, actually. Both when combining the role with playing and when he’d retired from the latter part of that. My uncle Tom, rest his soul, was far more attuned to soccer than most at at time when it wouldn’t have been all that popular. It might even have been frowned upon.
Not that said reality deterred the likes of that generation, or indeed those before them. After all, many’s the time I heard the tale of when da and Meath All Ireland winners of 1954, Jim Reilly and Bobby Rusk, went into Dalymount Park to see Stanley Matthews play in an exhibition match.
Reason for bringing all that into this offering was that Brady’s swansong contributions on RTE reminded me of Tom’s chief bugbear, namely, John Giles running down the football Ireland played under Jack Charlton even though he managed the team and achieved nothing with them. By, as Tom used to describe it, playing six passes where three would do and wind up with no end product.
What the likes of ‘Chippy’ now and Giles back then either didn’t see or just refused to acknowledge was that, under Big Jack we continually punched above our weight. Or, as another legend and hero of mine once put it, we lived way beyond our means.
In contrast, presently, reality is not so much biting as taking chunks out of us. The fact is we’ve had, at most, two decent managements since Charlton departed in 1996. I’d have about as much time for Mick McCarthy as I would for a pressure sore, but that’s a personal thing.
If judging by results, as both Captain and Coach, the former centre half is undoubtedly one of the best since the big Geordie. But, lest we forget, he did shoot his chances of improving that status in the foot by sending home not only Ireland’s best player but the best footballer on the planet at the time.
Brian Kerr, Trapattoni (and Brady) and Stephen Staunton were about as fit to be in the job as Eamon Ryan or Boris Johnson are to be in politics. Martin O’Neill and Roy Keane were wholly under appreciated just because their faces didn’t fit. Yet their achievement in getting Ireland to Euro 2016 – and beating Italy – warranted comparison with anything achieved under Jack given context.
And so we arrive at Stephen Kenny. Ironically, you can’t help feeling that’s exactly how the FAI decided to give him the job. Now, his record at League Of Ireland level was exemplary and historic, he also made more progress with the Irish U-21’s than most, but going from that managing the senior national team is akin to putting Basil Fawlty in charge of catering at Buckingham Palace.
But in fairness to Kenny, he did take the job at a time when it was a poisoned chalice. Thus, kicking him now when its all gone to sh** misses the point entirely. Brady may be one of the most boring people ever supplied with oxygen and also infused with an insane amount of negativity. However, he is spot on regarding the current status of the Irish squad.
That, however, doesn’t give elements of the press carte blanche to launch personalised attacks on individual players as happened in at least two cases this week. Equally, though, the manager has to accept that there will be intense scrutiny and criticism in such a high profile position. Whether the job should have the profile it carries is another story given that there are numerous sports the Irish are immeasurably better at. Mind you, if Kenny is really honest with himself he must surely acknowledge that Philip Quinn was actually spot on to describe some of what has gone on lately as shambolic.
In defence of the diminutive Dubliner in the dugout, he can’t make silk purses out of sow’s ears.
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