The Death of Eoin

The manager. The nearly man.
His goose was truly cooked.
Things hadn’t gone at all to plan,
He’d pressed the self-destruct.

So near he came, and yet so far,
Cruel luck ran through his story.
The very thickness of the bar
Could well have brought him glory.

But in the end, ‘twas not to be,
Results just tailed away.
And Eoin’s fate was sealed for he
Was honest as a day.

The method though was somewhat shoddy,
Detectives did impart.
A groundsman came across the body,
Dagger through the heart.

They hauled the usual suspects in,
Liam and Frank and Dave,
But each showed a defiant chin,
And strong denials gave.

But, thanks to the forensics’ lad,
They freed the trio and
Proved that the late lamented had
Died by his Eoin Hand.

Gerry Daly

Somebody scribbled all over the ball,
Chapters and verses in letters so small.
Calligraphy-wise, ‘twas a bit of a scrawl,
Deciphering it was an order quite tall,
With theorists banging their heads off a wall,
As disputes over meaning turned into a brawl.
But it was no bother to Gerry at all,

He could always read the ball brilliantly.

Lansdowne, I Hardly Knew You

Along with fifteen thousand more,
I watched the great John Sivebeck score.
From the right full back position,
He mesmerised the opposition.
On and on and on he ran
With smooth control and great elan
And finished with a mighty shot
That Packie Bonner found too hot.

The clapping echoed ‘round the stand,
And marked the end for Eoin Hand.

Three years later, Lansdowne Road,
With great supporters overflowed.
Terrace tickets were elusive,
And, as I found out, exclusive.
How many people who had seen
The Danes destroy the Boys in Green
Found getting tickets far too stressful,
Now we had become successful?
How many, we can only guess,
Came only we got success?
“The best supporters in the world,”
Announced the banners, now unfurled.
[But only, they forgot to tell,
At times when we were doing well.]

Mickey Walsh Produces the Goods

In January ’85, Ireland’s Eoin Hand
Announced his squad for Italy, exactly as he’d planned.
Defeat in Copenhagen meant that changes were expected,
And one change in particular was certainly suspected.
Mickey Walsh of Porto thus discovered he’d been dropped,
His international career had been prematurely stopped.
Yet somehow, I don’t think he cared ‘bout Ireland or ‘bout squads,
For on that day, his darling wife presented him with quads.

Tony Galvin / Famous Buns of History

Famous buns of history (Part 1)
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What kind of bun did Paddy Mulligan throw?
Did he throw an oul’ bun at all?
Did it make one boss
So hot and so cross
That he wouldn’t give Paddy the ball?

Was it London, was it Saffron, was it Chelsea?
Was it buttered or was it plain?
Or perhaps it was Bath
That spiked Paddy’s path,
And ushered in Eoin’s reign?
.
1980 - After Johnny Giles quit, Eoin Hand beat Paddy Mulligan to the Ireland manager's job by one swing vote. Afterwards, one FAI board member said that he had voted for Hand because he thought Mulligan was the person who had thrown a bun at him on an away trip. originally posted by 'the spuds r boiling' on the "An Fear Rua - The GAA Unplugged" website

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Tony Galvin

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He never kissed the six-yard box,
Nor held the centre spot.
The larger penalty area
Touched romantic ardour not.
With the teasing centre circle,
His strong arms did not entwine,
But everybody roared when
Tony Galvin hugged the line.

The Luck of the Irish [76-81]

‘Twas at the end of ’76, the Irish were in France,
Where Stapo’s goal from Brady’s cross had given us a chance,
But joy was interrupted by a travesty unfair,
When the peering, Slavic linesman raised his flag into the air.

Summertime in’77, in Sofia we strayed,
But once again, the Irish fans were cruelly dismayed.
Givens was about to shoot, they barged him in the back.
The ref deemed that a fair way to break up the green attack.

Then Gilesy struck a beauty, and the points were in the bag,
But twenty minutes afterwards, the linesman raised his flag.
The Bulgars were so fortunate to win by 2-1, which
Is why the home supporters clapped the Greek ref off the pitch.

Two years later, back in Paris, losing by a goal,
Kevin Moran nods it down with marvellous control,
Robbo puts it in the net to answer Ireland’s call,
But incredibly the ref decides a hand has touched the ball.

1981 in March, we’re off to play in Brussels,
A game that many people see as one of our great tussles.
And Stapo scores before half-time to stupefy the crowd,
And no-one has a notion why the goal is disallowed.

And then, towards the very end, the Belgians get a free,
The ball is blasted at the net with great ferocity.
It flies up off an Irish head, away up in the air,
And Irish goalie, Jim McDonagh, doesn’t have a prayer.

He’s trampled on and kicked and gouged and mashed into the ground,
He’s punched and kneed and disembowelled by everyone around,
And as the ball comes down again, Jan Ceulemans is there
To nod into the empty net, which seemingly’s quite fair.

Giles in the seventies just couldn’t understand,
What he had done to have been dealt a most unlucky hand.
And later, in the eighties, Eoin Hand did feel the same,
When terrible decisions robbed his team of hard-earned fame.

Liam Brady

When first he burst upon the scene
To don the famous Irish green,
Way back towards the end of seventy four,
He put the Russians to the sword,
And Dalymount with fervour roared,
As Givens thrice delightedly did score.

Mancini took the walk of shame,
But Brady ‘twas, who ran the game,
And gave an exhibition of great skill.
Next day the world in stupor read
How Russia had been left for dead
For Ireland had dismissed them three to nil.

And as we hailed a superstar,
So young of age, who’d come so far,
We wondered, would his youthful brilliance last?
Or would he shine for just one game?
Would injury snuff out the flame
‘Ere many international games had passed?

But time, with fond embrace, did show
How Liam, year by year did grow
To be one of the finest goal creators.
His famed left foot was magic, but
He also had a great right foot,
Which oft is overlooked by commentators.

I won’t pretend that every time
He played, he reached that perfect prime.
Certain games he barely got a mention.
But no-one else possessed his vision,
Passed with such direct incision
Or drew the least discerning fan’s attention.

For fifteen years he gave his all,
Answering the Gaelic call,
Except when he was injured or suspended.
And football is a cruel game,
For Ireland’s greatest success came,
Just as Chippie’s long career ended.

Only a game?

This remarkable book,
which brought him great acclaim.
The epithet stuck –
was it only a game?
A journeyman’s tale
in the second division,
Ambition grown stale
and inviting derision.
“I couldn’t care less,”
he intoned near the end,
“for the men of the press
and the tripe that they’ve penned.
They sit on their eyries
massaging the truth
to fit in with their theories,
however uncouth.
The facts must be twisted
to shore up their views
and half-truths are listed
as what they call ‘news.’”

Ironic’s the word
that springs soonest to mind.
Is his memory blurred?
Is he really that blind?
He’s made a nice living
by doing just that,
with his warped, unforgiving
and motive-strewn chat!
The men he’s destroyed
with his merciless pen,
the venom deployed
without counting to ten.
And who says he’s correct
in the theories he floats?

Himself, I expect,
As tradition denotes.

[I Did It] Heighway

He was a brilliant player,
Though his moustache was very iffy.
The fullback had no prayer,
For he was round him in a jiffy.
Equally at home
Whether on a wet or dry day,
At Filbert Street or Rome,
‘Twas Stevie Heighway.

He lived out on the wing,
Up which he frequently would canter.
He made the Koppites sing,
And listened to their sarky banter.
Famed throughout the world,
In Torremolinos or in Taipei,
Where’er the red flag was unfurled,
‘Twas Stevie Heighway.

But when he was picked
To wear the green,
His neck was ricked,
He wasn’t keen,
He had a knock,
He was too tired,
He’d lost a sock,
Passport expired.
His record shows
The path he chose
That’s Stevie Heighway.

Playing for Ireland in the Sixties

Selection for the national side
Was once a cause for burning pride.
And though the trek back home was long,
They faced it with defiance strong.
On Saturdays they’d play a match,
Then change their clothes and run to catch
The train that went to Liverpool,
And eat a pork pie, as a rule.
Then at Lime Street, they’d a very
Briskish walk to catch the ferry.
Nine hours later, dirty, bleary,
Dock in Dublin, or Dun Laoghaire,
Where they’d join up with the squad,
With but a little help from God.
It was a quite exhausting trip
By Shanks’ pony, train and ship.

But in the sixties, certain players
Would not say their travelling prayers,
And claimed that they had got “a knock,”
Or broke the tie-up on their sock,
Or seemed to have mislaid their comb,
Preventing them from coming home.
And there were others Busby told,
“You’re not to go – you’ve got a cold.”
Despite the fact that they felt fit,
Busby would have none of it.

Charlie Hurley used to play
For Sunderland on Saturday.
And when the final whistle blew,
He knew just what he’d have to do.
He wouldn’t bother getting dressed,
But start to run with zeal and zest
Out of the ground and out of sight
Still proudly garbed in red and white.
He’d set a course for west-south-west
[A course he always found the best]
And then he’d run with steady stride,
Until he reached the foaming tide,
Whereupon, he’d plunge into the ocean,
And with a forceful front-crawl motion,
Swim and swim, and in a jiffy,
He’d be powering up the Liffey.
Thus Charlie put them all to shame,
Those charlatans who’d miss the game.

And those “great” players, who will not play
For Ireland’s national team today,
Trying to eke out their careers,
For one or two financial years,
And leave international football early,
Should take a leaf from Charlie Hurley.

Spain 1 Ireland 0 – Ireland’s Shame

The World Cup Finals in En-ger-land were only a year away,
And Ireland had a great chance to be there,
With only the Spanish to play.
The Syrians also had been in the group,
But they had withdrawn in disgust,
So only the Spanish and Irish were left
To battle it out in the dust.
Well we won 1-0 in Dalymount,
But lost 4-1 in Seville,
But aggregate scores didn’t count at all,
And so we were in it still.
And so to the choice of venue,
The countries just couldn’t decide.
The Spanish suggested Lisbon but the Irish called offside.
The Irish were looking at Liverpool,
The Spanish were not impressed.
They wanted to ensure that it was themselves who progressed.
At last a deal was brokered,
A sordid and squalid affair.
Paris would be the venue although
It didn’t seem particularly fair.

But

Ireland could keep the gate receipts!
Think of the thousands of francs!
Spain might have an advantage but
The FAI said “Thanks!”
And so, before 30,000 fans
From Barca and Madrid,
The Spanish looked to qualify, and this they duly did.
It was a late Ufarte goal
Ensured that they’d succeed.
Though many might say the damage was done
By our officials’ greed.

El Loco

(The Best Goal Noel Cantwell Never Scored)

Noel Euchuria Cornelius Cantwell
Bundled the goalkeeper into the net.
The Spanish were mad, but the Irish supporters
Thought that the challenge was honestly met.
The ref gave a free, but the mild Spanish keeper
Now perceived Noel as a physical threat,
And in the great scheme of this World Cup encounter,
The Irish ensured that the stage had been set.

An hour on the clock and John Giles got bowled over,
And Cantwell and Hurley trooped into the box.
The poor Spanish goalie stood nervously waiting,
Fidgeting, yelling and pulling his socks.
O’Neill swung the free in, too close to the goal-line,
But Noel and bold Charley were quick off their blocks.
They charged at the keeper, both roaring like demons,
And Iribar tensed for the imminent knocks.

But nobody made any physical contact,
The laws of the game were quite strictly obeyed.
The goalie expected a hard Irish shoulder,
And seemed to be more than a smidgen afraid.
When the ball reached him, he turned round and threw it
Right into his net, with his teammates dismayed.
And 42,000 all roared their approval
For Noel “El Loco,” the prince of his trade.

Charlie Hurley / A Little Slice of History

A little slice of history

The European Championships – a much-loved competition,
Nearly fifty years of age, a footballing tradition.
But Ireland’s record in it has been worthy of rebuke –
We only qualified the once and that was quite a fluke.
But back in 1959, we won eternal fame,
When Dalymount played host to the inaug’ral EC game.
Of course it was the Euro Nations Cup in those dark days,
But Ireland lit the fuse and set the tournament ablaze.
The Czechs were somewhat shaken by our physical approach,
And we scored through Liam Tuohy, who’d be later Ireland’s coach.
Then Cantwell scored a second and we finished it two up –
First match, first goal, first winner in the Euro Nations Cup.
The papers screamed it out, and sure we made a big palaver –

‘Twas such a shame we lost 4-0 next month in Bratislava.

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Charlie Hurley

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A centre half, he was ten foot six,
And he thrilled the crowd with his showboat tricks.
He liked to get his tackles in early,
Tough as old boots, was Charlie Hurley.

He lived in a cage and was fed raw meat,
Ate turkey heads for a Christmas treat.
Compared to him, Ron Yeats was a girlie.
Eat your granny, would Charlie Hurley.

At training sessions, he’d run through walls
While juggling six or seven balls.
No-one ever was so big and burly,
Arse like a barn, had Charlie Hurley.

An iron man with steely class,
And his neck was made from solid brass.
As powerful as his hair was curly,
Roared like a lion, did Charlie Hurley.

He’d kick the ball almost half a mile,
Headed rocks with a fiendish smile,
Before a game he was dark and surly,
There’s no-one today like Charlie Hurley.

Glasnevin Cemetery, Dublin

As the robin’s sharp trill
Cuts the air damp and chill
And the sodden leaves smother the grass,
I stroll round the graveyard
So barren and still
And the stones never blink as I pass.

There are so many names
Etched in weather-worn frames,
The last remnant of unfulfilled lives.
Are they all bathed in oil,
Or do some stoke the flames
With their loving and dutiful wives?

Every year I come here
When the sky’s pale and clear
And I visit my long-distant past –
Grandad Byrne with his cough
And his fondness for beer,
Auntie Vi with her bosom so vast.

George Geoghegan, who died,
So they said, with great pride
As a hero of nineteen sixteen,
And the Kanes, whom my father
Could never abide
In an overgrown plot past the green.

When I’ve paid them my dues,
Let them know all my news,
I head back with a sorrowful air.
Women potter in headscarfs
And sensible shoes
In this garden of quiet despair.

Of God, there’s no trace
In this desolate place,
Though his name is invoked in all quarters,
For he cannot explain
In his state of high grace
Why its right to part mothers and daughters.

And I stop at a stone,
Though not one of my own,
That is always adorned with fresh flowers,
Still a shrine to a man
That was blood, flesh and bone,
Beaten down at the height of his powers.

On a runway doused white
On a February night,
A red rose was scythed down in its prime.
‘Tis many years now
Since that ill-fated flight
But the shock hasn’t lessened with time.

As millions asked why
These young men had to die
With such tragic and unexplained violence.
The snow kept on falling
Like tears from the sky,
Entombing them all in its silence.

Liam Whelan, your world
Never fully unfurled,
Your bright future was cruelly taken,
Carried off in the blizzard
That flurried and swirled,
From which you were never to waken.

So I pause at your mound
In the wet leaf-strewn ground
In this graveyard so vast and defenceless.
And I scream out your name
Though my throat makes no sound,
For injustice, as then, is still senseless.

Atyeo 1957

To paraphrase bold Philip Greene,
The noiselessness was so complete
It turned enquiring faces e’en
‘Pon Dublin’s famed O’Connell Street.
A hush descended so profound,
An ant that crept o’er Peter’s clock
Could well be heard throughout the ground
By thousands paralysed with shock.
Alfie Ringstead’s early strike
Had separated these two teams,
Though England pressed and fretted like
Old rag dolls fraying at the seams,
But seemingly to no avail;
As Ireland pushed the gates of Eden,
Following her Holy Grail –
A debut World Cup place in Sweden.
Liam Whelan, soon to fall
Upon a snowy Munich night,
Kept close possession of the ball
To keep the World Cup flame alight.
And David Pegg, on England’s wing,
Did gain his first and only cap.
And mourners too for him would sing
When Munich hatched its bitter trap.
The obese lady cleared her throat,
And Finney motored down the flank,
Picked out Atyeo remote,
And Ireland’s brave resistance sank.
No silence such had e’er been heard
As that which fell on Dalymount.
No curse, no groan, no single word
Could anybody stunned recount.
Thus Atyeo saved England’s pride
And spared his country grievous pain.
No more though did he make the side,
For he was never picked again.

(Part of this poem was quoted in the book "Atyeo - the Hero Next Door" by Tom Hopegood and John Hudson)

God 1 Satan 4

October 1955 and Dalymount was packed,
Despite the fervent protests that were made.
The clergy in their wisdom tried to get the friendly blacked,
Led by the Archbishop, John McQuaid.

The Yugoslavs were communist, and therefore ‘twas a sin
To play them in a football international.
Why should God-fearing people have to take it on the chin?
The game was both immoral and irrational.

Outside the ground, before the game, there was much demonstrating,
As Cath’lic Ireland vent its moral spleen,
And Philip Greene, for just one match, gave up his commentating,
And Dev was called upon to intervene.

But soccer fans are often quite an atheistic breed,
Except when football miracles are needed,
And Dalymount that afternoon was very full indeed,
As the pleas of the Archbishop went unheeded.

The Yugoslavs had little horns and strangely cloven feet,
[An accusation Tito had refuted]
They smelled of fire and brimstone and gave off an eerie heat,
And transformed into serpents when it suited.

And so it came as no surprise, the Yugoslavs scored four,
‘Gainst just a solitary Irish goal.
The march of Christianity was shaken to the core,
And the late Archbishop wept for Ireland’s soul.

Tommy Eglington [1923-2004]

Many, many years have passed, and football’s changed completely,
But memories are built to last, and many still smile sweetly,
Like Eggo, running at full flow, and leaving fullbacks groping,
Not knowing which way he would go, and ending up not coping.
The centre half might keep his head, and come across to cover,
But often he’d be left for dead, unable to recover.
And then, with that sublime left foot, with all supporters yelling,
He’d carve the latest in a glut of crosses straight and telling.
How many goals did Eggo make? How many fouls were ridden,
‘Ere television’s flatt’ring take, by pers’nal fame unbidden?
If he were but a youth today, his worth would stretch to millions.
Ironic he should pass away, as we faced the Brazilians.

Historic Day September 21st 1949

Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh………….
‘Twas on the autumn equinox in 1949,
That England fans were shaken from the Tamar to the Tyne.
At Goodison, the Irish team ran out to great applause.
It was as if the game was played on Ireland’s native shores.

But English fans were noisy too, so passionate and loyal.
No foreign team had ever won upon their native soil.
And no-one gave a hope to those poor cousins ‘cross the water,
The latest in a long, long line of meek lambs to the slaughter.

Fifty two thousand fans [well, give or take a few]
Assembled there at Everton to watch the mismatched brew,
And there was quite an element of shock within the ground,
As Ireland quickly settled down and knocked the ball around.

The Irish team in forty nine was Irish born and bred,
Though only two still stayed at home to earn their daily bread.
And with Carey and Con Martin, the defence was calm and strong,
And Farrell was unstoppable whene’er he was on song.

A half an hour upon the clock and Ireland went ahead,
Con Martin scored a penalty with Williams left for dead.
And Billy Wright, as ever, tried to galvanise his side,
But despite heroic efforts, he just could not stem the tide.

The second half saw England with the wind behind their backs.
They probed the Irish rearguard with constant, strong attacks.
And Portsmouth’s Johnny Harris was convinced that he had scored,
But the ball rebounded off the bar, with parity not restored.

Jesse Pye went close as well, but Ireland battled hard,
Determined to become the first to win in their back yard.
And captain Jackie Carey was, as usual, immense,
Winning every dangerous ball and clearing from defence.

Then just before the finish, Tommy O’Connor got the ball,
The Shamrock Rovers winger with the talent to enthral.
He tantalised the English backs and drew them all out wide,
Then very calmly slotted in a perfect ball inside.

And so it was that Peter Farrell wonderingly found
Himself with a run-in on goal, upon his own home ground.
Bert Williams came out frantically, and as the two foes met,
Farrell lobbed it over him and in the English net.

England 0 Republic 2, the tricolour unfurled.
The news sent major shockwaves all around the football world.
English invincibility at last was laid to rest,
For versus lowly Ireland, they had come off second best.

Four years later, burst the great Hungarians on the scene,
Eclipsing with their brilliant skills the doughty boys in green.
But not even Hidgekuti could suppress the salient fact
That England’s proud home record by the Irish first was cracked.

Mr. Versatility – Con Martin

Con Martin was born in Dublin, and was one of the special few,
Who played for both the Republic and for Northern Ireland too.
Ireland’s first ever substitute in 1946,
Deputising in a friendly match between the sticks.
Mr. Versatility, a centre half by trade,
He always gave his everything, wherever he was played.
Centre half, or right half, right or left full back,
He often played in goal as well, and not just for the craic.
Thirty caps he gained as Ireland’s best position-filler,
A role he had for eight years when he played for Aston Villa.

Bob Fullam terrifies the Italians / The Ballad of Paddy Moore

Bob Fullam had a fearsome shot
That frightened the Italians.
(‘Twas used in training camps a lot
By army corps battalions)
When he placed it on the spot,
They fingered their medallions,
And tears ran very hard and hot
As though they’d chopped up scallions.
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(Ireland’s first ever home game in 1926 versus Italy B. According to folklore, the Italians were so afraid of Bob Fullam’s powerful shot, they begged the Irish to stop him taking free kicks!)

.

‘Twas on the 25th of Feb. in nineteen thirty four,
A historic day for Ireland, and inspired for Paddy Moore.
It was Ireland’s World Cup debut on that chilly winter’s day,
And Dalymount was buzzing as the teams ran out to play.

Our opponents were the Belgians who were very hard to beat,
Most difficult to tackle when they played the ball to feet.
It was our introduction to international competition,
And many people feared a continental demolition.

But all the way from Aberdeen came Ireland’s Paddy Moore,
He’d been transferred from Rovers just a short few months before.
He’d only ever won two caps, and he had scored in each,
And maintaining that proud record should not be beyond his reach.

Now Paddy was a drinking man, he had a reputation
For soaking up a lot of pints in post-match celebration,
And the rumour went around, though perhaps it was unfair,
That Paddy had turned up to face the Belgians worse for wear.

Our baptism was dreadful in that ’34 World Cup,
For Capelle and Van der Eynde put the visitors two up,
Twenty eight thousand fans all grimaced in frustration,
And wondered if they’d come to witness an annihilation.

But on twenty seven minutes, the Free State pulled one back,
As Derry’s Jimmy Kelly orchestrated the attack.
He crossed the ball into the box, and in came Paddy Moore,
Who fired it home to register our debut World Cup score.

Half time came with Belgium’s men still one goal to the good,
The Irish hoped we’d score again, and many felt we would.
But down inside the changing rooms, the rumour mill insisted
That Paddy had a chaser and then came out fairly twisted.

Two minutes barely had elapsed when Belgium scored again,
‘Twas Francois van der Eynde who administered the pain,
And many of the faithful looked aghast and bowed their heads,
Acknowledging the skill and the proud talent of the Reds.

But then the tide was turned around in one eight minute spell,
As Ireland started passing and their game began to gel,
Midfielder Billy Kennedy, who played for James’s Gate,
Split the Belgian backs in two and Paddy aimed it straight.

Then Jimmy Kelly got the ball and put it on the spot,
And Paddy got his hat trick with a strong and fearsome shot.
Van der Wijer in the Belgian goal looked downcast and forlorn,
But in the ground at Dalymount, a new star had been born.

But there was still a sting to come, befitting of a thriller-
The Belgians snatched another goal, which seemed to be the killer.
The euphoric celebrations quickly turned to agony,
As our continental cousins seemed to have the match four - three.

But Dolphin great, Joe Kendrick, did not take it lying down,
He crossed it quite immaculately onto Paddy’s crown.
A bullet of a header and the score became four - four,
Elucidating one more time that stadium’s famous roar.

And that was how it finished in a most pulsating game,
And everyone in Ireland seemed to know bould Paddy’s name.
Forty one years came and went, before that epic feat
Was equalled by Don Givens in a thrilling Turkish treat.

Paddy’s international career was sadly very short,
Seven goals in just nine games were all his talents brought.
He transferred back to the Rovers, when just two more years were through,
But the drinking took its toll, and he was dead by forty two.

So gather round and raise a glass to poor old Paddy Moore,
The pride and toast of Dalymount in nineteen thirty four.
His star shone very brilliantly in Ireland’s football scene,
Perhaps the first true superstar to wear the famous green.