An Irishman's Diary

WHERE, oh where did those 20 years go? "Which 20 years, Daddy?" The 20 years since the 1988 European Soccer Championships - Stuttgart, Gelsenkirchen, and all that. Did I ever tell you I was there?

"You might have mentioned it once or twice. I have a feeling you're going to tell me again, aren't you?"

Well I was there, since you ask. Drove all the way, except for the bits that involved crossing the sea. Ferry to Holyhead; another ferry from Hull. Then the motorway, all the way to Bavaria. I remember seeing Nightmare on Elm Street III in a cinema in Hull while we were waiting for the boat. But driving on continental roads for the first time was definitely scarier.

"Was it because of global warming that you went by ferry?" No, son. The world hadn't heard of global warming then. But it hadn't heard of Michael O'Leary either. Flying was still very expensive. And this was the 1980s, remember, so times were hard. Money didn't grow on trees then - not like now. The main thing is we got there, eventually.

"And you were right behind the goal that Ray Houghton scored into, weren't you?" Yes, I was.

"That must have been great. How long did you say was left to play after we scored?" About three years, as I remember it. At least that's the age it put on me watching our back four trying to stop Gary Lineker equalising. But somehow we held on.

"Who's Gary Lineker, Daddy?" He's the man who presents Match of the Day. He was young once too.

"The atmosphere after the game must have great?" It was if you were in Heidelberg, apparently. That's where the Irish tour groups were all based. Unfortunately, we were camping out in the middle of nowhere. So we stayed on in Stuttgart after the game, expecting all-night celebrations. And about five minutes after we deliberately missed the last train, the pubs all closed. There'd been trouble with the English fans the night before and locals thought they'd wreck the city. Stuttgart was a ghost town by midnight. We ended up sleeping in a subway, and getting the 6am train out.

"That sounds rough." It was, son, but sure we didn't know any better. God, we were so young then.

"How young were you?" I'll tell you how young we were. We missed Ronnie Whelan's goal against the Soviet Union because - I'm embarrassed to admit this - we were too busy doing the Mexican Wave. It was still a novelty at the time. I'm not even sure it wasn't us who started it that night. Anyway, we were behind Packie Bonner's goal, watching the wave come round again and gearing ourselves up when, suddenly, we noticed the Irish players celebrating at the other end of the pitch. We missed the goal completely.

"Did they not replay it on the big screen?" They mustn't have had big screens back then, son. No. Two days later, we were passing a television shop in Gelsenkirchen and one of them showed Ronnie Whelan scoring this spectacular volley that none of us had ever seen before. It took a few moments to realise it was from the game we'd been at. The rumour back in Hannover was that it been a header.

"Is that why, whenever the Mexican Wave starts anywhere now, you always sit on your hands looking grumpy, and say: 'Just ignore it'?" That might be part of the reason, all right.

"By the way, Daddy. What was the Soviet Union?" That's a long story, son. I'll tell you some other time.

"YOU MUST have been crushed when Ireland lost the last group game against Holland?" Well, yes and no. Of course, we were seven minutes away from the semi-finals when they scored, so that was disappointing. But up till then we were worried about how we could afford another three days, never mind a week, in Germany. We would have had to drive to Hamburg for the semi; then maybe the whole length of the country down to Munich for the final. We might have had to resign from our jobs too.

On the other hand, going home would have been unthinkable. We'd have met thousands of Johnny-come-latelys heading the other way, joining that bandwagon we started. Not to mention claiming our "world's best fans" title. It would have been galling.

So we were secretly relieved to lose. The Dutch thought we were being very philosophical as we exchanged scarves and promised to cheer for them from now on. But they'd saved us from bankruptcy. We were in Amsterdam three nights later when they beat Germany, and it was like our win over England all over again. They gave us free beer.

"In a way, Daddy, you're probably glad we didn't reach Euro 2008. Because that way you can still claim you were at the only European championships we ever did qualify for, and you can still get away with telling boring stories about it." Less of the cheek, son, but you could be right. The legend of Stuttgart has certainly grown with the years. It's the modern equivalent of having been in the GPO in 1916, you know.

"What happened in the GPO in 1916, Daddy?" Ask your mother, son. Can you not see I'm busy?