Another friendly goal for Robbie

A pin-point slide-rule pass from Duff,
Latched onto in a sure way.
A check and shot were just enough
To Take the lead ‘gainst Norway.

There’s those who say he only nets
In games that do not figure,
That in big games he oft forgets
To aim and pull the trigger.

But what is Keane supposed to do
When friendlies come a-knocking?
Smile and whisper “Toodaloo?”
No, that would be too shocking.

Thirty four our Robbie’s scored,
Now miles ahead of Quinner.
Instinct brings its own reward
And Keano is a winner.

Twenty years

Twenty years! Ah now, Caithlin, it’s hard to believe!
That match still looms fertile and strong all the same.
It’s many a thicket-hedged laneway that we’ve
Meandered in hope since that wonderful game.

Is it really so long since we turned that first page,
Not knowing if it were novella or tome.
Chapter on chapter upon the world’s stage,
New York, Ibaraki, Stuttgart and Rome.

The goal is indelibly etched in our hearts,
But what of the seventy eight minutes still left.
Lineker’s chances from Beardsley’s short darts?
Robson appalled at the scale of the theft?

We’ve come close in the years since that first epic match,
But never quite scaled the dizzying height
Of the ball striking net from young Houghton’s thick thatch,
As the new boys in green beat the old boys in white.

‘Twas the night of Eurovision

‘Twas the night of Eurovision
And the Serbs had come to town.
It was not a hard decision
Which to choose.
So we headed off for Croker
For the Serbian showdown,
Knowing well ‘twould be a choker
Should we lose.
And we yelled for Trapattoni
To cast out the old baloney
That had made our recent hist’ry
Somewhat arduous and stony.
Would our future become clearer?
Was the Holy Grail now nearer?
Oh our hopeful hearts were welcoming
The Trapattoni era.
Que sera
What will be
Bring it on.

‘Twas the night of Eurovision
And the Serbs weren’t quite on song.
We howled with some derision
As a group.
Though ourselves, we weren’t too perky
As so many moves went wrong
Did we have another turkey
In the coop?
Then McShane behaved slapdashly
Playing offside somewhat rashly
And their striker latched onto it
Chipped it over Kiely brashly.
Was it nul points for Irlanda?
Yes, we looked at our commander.
Would he answer Colm Murray
With veracity and candour?
Que sera
What will be
Bring it on.

‘Twas the night of Eurovision
And the minutes ticked away.
With Italian supervision,
Nothing changed.
We were still as far from winning,
Thought supporters in dismay,
This was not the new beginning
We’d arranged.
Then a moment of Serb folly
And young Keogh smashed home a volley
And the mood was lifted instantly,
No longer melancholy.
Douze points shall be our slogan,
Andy Keogh is Johnny Logan,
But will Signor Trap turn into
An Italian Terry Wogan?
Que sera
What will be
Bring it on.

.

Ireland 1 Serbia 1 (Friendly)

Joe Trapattoni’s waiting

Too long we’ve been sitting here on our own,
Waiting for a hero to pick up the phone. (ooh)

A match in Croke Park can become a bad dream,
People think we have a world-beating team.
Great expectations can lead to a fall
Playing’gainst Cyprus and drawing two all

Joe Trapattoni’s waiting, talking Italian (talking Italian)
Marco Tardelli’s waiting (talking Italian)
Joe Trapattoni’s waiting, talking Italian (talking Italian)
Marco Tardelli’s waiting (talking Italian)

With Joe we think we can go all the way
Odds on we’ll be bringing home Jules Rimet (ooh)

Nobody cares if the football is dull,
Winning our games will keep stadia full.
This is our only escape from it all
Seeing our name on that chart on the wall.

Joe Trapattoni’s waiting, talking Italian (talking Italian)
Marco Tardelli’s waiting (talking Italian)
Joe Trapattoni’s waiting, talking Italian (talking Italian)
Marco Tardelli’s waiting (talking Italian)

A match in Croke Park can become a bad dream,
Joe is the man who can raise our esteem.
And when the World Cup is heading our way
We’ll celebrate in the Tardelli way

Joe Trapattoni’s waiting, talking Italian (talking Italian)
Marco Tardelli’s waiting (talking Italian)
Joe Trapattoni’s waiting, talking Italian (talking Italian)
Marco Tardelli’s waiting (talking Italian)

Ireland 0 Brazil 1

Their goalie barely sees the ball,
The team’s so forward-driven,
But in their hist’ry few recall
A keeper like Shay Given.

Their centre backs can read the ball
And spot the midfield runner,
But few would have the wherewithal
Of someone like the Dunner.

They’ve players who can spread the ball
Like all great players can,
But frankly you may keep them all
For we have Kev Kilbane.

Their love of getting on the ball
Oft borders on the greedy,
But seldom do these players enthral
Like Miller or McGeady.

Their forwards pounce on each loose ball
With joie de vivre latino,
But how Brazil would love to call
On Kevin Doyle and Keano.

But where Brazil are on the ball
Is in their whole approach
That teams improve if you install
An international coach.

The language barrier

Some like which way the penny flips,
Some say it’s all baloney,
But the latest name on people’s lips
Is Signor Trapattoni.
While many rush for betting slips,
Some think the news is phoney.

Giovanni can’t converse, they say.
His English is too broken.
The Irish players are not au fait
With Italian, as it’s spoken.
Communication is the way
Our passions will be woken.

But don’t dismiss him out of hand,
Though fears might need allaying.
He’s one of just a tiny band
Who’s worth the cash we’re paying,
And very few could understand
What Jack or Stan were saying.

It isn’t right to make a fuss
Of lack of English, is it?
Don’t board the xenophobic bus –
Invite him for a visit,
For English might well be a plus
But it’s hardly a requisite.

Anyone want to be manager?

The World Cup dates have now been set.
No manager installed as yet,
But sure, there’s lots of time before it starts.
Rushing today, tomorrow ruing,
Delaney knows what he is doing –
Photos on the wall and throwing darts.

The speculation’s been intense
Since Stan was toppled off the fence,
The press promotes a new one every day.
Is it so hard to find a man
To step into the boots of Stan
Or does Delaney frighten folk away?

We need to choose a manager,
A world-class, A1 manager,
To lead us all to Canaan and beyond,
But everyone we think we like
Says “hey, no way,” into the mike –
There aren’t too many fish left in the pond.

The gang of three has roamed the world
But no new name has been unfurled,
Despite the headline talk since Stan’s removal,
But what if the new appointee,
Whoever he, or she, may be
Just doesn’t meet with Eamon D’s approval?

If John had any brains at all
He’d find a coach who’s on the ball,
But more important, meets with Eamon’s blessing,
And then he might well get the time
To dig us out the muck and grime
And fix the basic faults that need addressing.