Where was McGrath that day?

Good question. Injured possibly…I don’t remember. He definitely played in the other two games (who could forget his header off the upright against Holland?). Adding his name to the above list, of course, makes it a good deal more impressive and illustrious. Sheedy (a fine & intelligent player in his own right) played in his stead against the USSR. Other than that the team remained exactly the same for the 3 matches.

Much like the economy at the time, it seems our permanent state of failure was due to tragic mismanagement and lack of belief rather than lack of talent.

Sadly true. Sure wasn’t the team picked by a meddling “panel” for years? Bloody insane.

Having said that, there was also (from what I recall) a cruel absense of luck at critical times (despite what the cliche might say about the Irish). When we finally got a massive slice of fortune (thank you Gary MacKay) we secured qualification.

The day Ireland beat England in Stuttgart, my parents took us to the beach!

By Italia 90, of course, everything had changed utterly. Gangs gathered in houses & bars. The hours before and after kick off were put aside for nothing but football fever. Nobody’s parents thought (for a second) of taking the chiddlers to the beach.

We called them “Ronnnies”, and practiced them regularly

Ronnie (and “Ronnies”) aside, the Euro 88 team remains my favourite Irish international one. The line-up that day: Bonner, Morris, McCarthy, Moran, Hughton, Houghton, Whelan, Sheedy, Galvin, Stapleton, Aldridge.

Poor chris Morris (and his booming crosses into the crowd) excepted - what a team! And this with Liam Brady sitting at home watching.

The day Ireland beat England in Stuttgart, my parents took us to the beach! I didn’t even get to hear Ray Houghton’s goal on the damn radio. My brother and I have never really forgiven our parents for it, and even they themselves are a bit sheepish on the subject. Years later, I met a friend in college who had the same experience (or rather the same denial of experience), though an important factor was that his day away from the telly was a punishment, not a misguided “treat”.

“With this in mind any outrageous scissors-kick (or flying volley) was instantly dubbed “a Whelan”"

We called them “Ronnnies”, and practiced them regularly, as in “Do a long throw-in, I’m going to go for The Ronnie”. As the ball looped towards us, we’d hurl ourselves at it squealing “Oh…Wheeellaaann!!” in our best George Hamilton accents.