A lesson from Frank on Macedonia

Frank Stapleton, attired in regulation combat fatigues, looked more than a little peeved. The build up to TV3's coverage of the Euro 2000 qualifier in Macedonia favoured a sort of "wish you were here" approach, with titbits of soccer analysis breaking a series of features on the joys and quirks of the Balkan country. Stapo's brief was to spend some time with Irish troops serving abroad and when we first caught up with him, his company appeared to have been halted at some sort of road barricade.

"So this is a regular occurrence - you're just stuck here for ages with nothing happening?", he inquired morosely, proving that Irish Army life is pretty much uniform the world over.

Still, the watching Irish public discovered more about Macedonia than they were ever likely to find out for themselves and when the home team took the field we at least could empathise with them on some sort of level.

Back in studio, Trevor Welsh informed us that later on Stapo and Mick McCarthy were to meet for a "Frank interview". A nation groaned and suddenly a night of heroics seemed a little bit unlikely.

All sources were consulted for possible outcomes on the match. The Army lads bluntly predicted a 30 win, as did a few of the punters in TV3's selected pub. Our Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern, delivered an ironic line given the current money scandals, cheerfully ruminating on a situation of "sudden debt" and "going for broke".

Onto the match itself. Fans expect various things from their national side. Our own particular fate seems to be watching our gallant lads defend desperately in menacing, ruined old stadia located in cities of which we had previously been blissfully unaware of.

So it was on Saturday evening, with Ireland lining out against a formidably grim backdrop, complete with a hostile crowd who favoured a blood-curdling bass chant over the traditional cheering. Occasionally you could hear Mick McCarthy's forlorn Barnsley roar above the eerie din, like a harassed Yorkshire housewife vainly screaming for her kids to come home for tea. There was something vaguely depressing about the whole show.

Sure, Quinn's novel abbreviated bicycle kick lifted spirits in the first half but the swaying nature of the other group game in Zagreb left nerves frayed anyway and with 25 minutes to go, watching was actually unpleasant. We were told by Conor McNamara that the Croatian FA had paid for a new set of floodlights for the Macedonians to ensure the game went ahead there, heightening suspicions of a mass Balkan conspiracy. Whenever three minutes of injury time was signalled, our worst fears were confirmed and a home goal seemed inevitable.

So wretchedly we watched on with morbid fascination, trying to pinpoint precisely which Macedonian would distinguish himself and achieve a sort of demonic cult status over here, some inconsequential B footballer who will be remembered in pubs across Ireland in 50 years time. In the end it was Stavreski. TV3 immediately switched over to the concluding moments in Zagreb and bitterly we waited for a late Croatian winner to put some sort of finality on our agony.

On to Sunday and we fell back on the rugby boys to mend our shattered innocence. 1991, big Gordy and all that. (Forget about Lynagh's try, rugby's equivalent of the Stavreski goal).

All the props were in place - a full house at Lansdowne, rain and wind, Keith Wood.

But, no more than Stapo in the Army barracks, what we were treated to was an unreasonable amount of stodge. The Australians had come here in no mood for nonsense; they want to win the World Cup because, as John Eales pointed out, that would be "the sign that you are world champions." Romantic, maybe not, but definitely logical to us all.

There was little romance to be found on the field either.

"Just the one score," breathed Jim Sherwin as the first half closed while Tony Ward was growing ever more exasperated with the mistakes on both sides.

As the match wore insufferably on, it was clear that there could only be one winner in this - BBC 1, which was broadcasting the Eastenders omnibus.

Trevor Brennan's dazed, bloodied and pulped face said it all. The Australians were beating up on us and there was nothing we could do about it.

As the Australians bored through the Irish and bored the rest of us half to death, we were treated to the latest episode of revisionism on Irish rugby. Pessimism flooded the airwaves. Wardie bemoaned the fact that we were supposed to be professional.

Aussie analyst Alan Jones declared that with the ball, Ireland were awful. And George Hook grumpily informed us that our third choice out-half was better than the other two combined. Suddenly we were being warned to be wary of the Romanians.

But by then, everyone was past caring. The mood had soured in the studio to a large extent.