Morning's dreams become a nightmare

You are Mick McCarthy. It is Monday morning. The kids are drifting about downstairs. You can hear the clatter of crockery and the jumpy rhythm of breakfast talk. The red digits on the alarm clock tell you that it is 7.59. In less than 60 seconds you have to get up, get dressed and start the school run through south London. It's a cold world outside the duvet, though. You stare at the red digits and as the hour rolls over you stretch out and hit the snooze button, strangling the first alarm shrill before it is even born.

The warmth wraps itself around you. You crook your knees into your chest and close your eyes. You are Mick McCarthy and you are the best known face in Ireland. This has been the adventure of your life. You stand with your back straight and your oft-broken nose taking in the Dublin air. You shut your eyes and listen. This is what half-a-million people sound like. Ole, Ole Ole . . .

You are Mick McCarthy and this is the night of your life. You step forward to the microphone and tell the ocean of faces in College Green that somewhere back in Italy the Cameroon are beating England in the quarter-final of the World Cup. You grin down as the sound bounces off the walls of Trinity College and hits the old bank and ricochets up Grafton Street. Who put the ball in the English net? Rayo. Who put the ball in the English net? Rayo.

You look around at the faces in the blazers lit by the mix of streetlights and spotlights. Aldo and Big Paul and Jack and Razor and tousled Kevin Moran and smiling Chris Hughton and all the boys. This moment brands itself into your memory like an old-fashioned camera flash popburning an image onto film.

You are Mick McCarthy and from beyond the mist of condensation on your bedroom window comes the startling sound of angry morning traffic. You open your eyes and a little shiver sprints down your spine. Familiar morning sounds. Running water and the soft-brush shuffle of teeth being cleaned. A cistern filling itself. Feet on carpeted stairs. The various rattles as the fridge door opens and closes again. Still time. Your brain doesn't have to send a message to your index finger. The bony digit reaches out and depresses the oblong snooze button again.

You are Mick McCarthy and you are on the Late Late Show swapping tittle tattle with Gay Byrne. Easy gig sitting here in the big chair with makeup on your face and the lights warming you. Gay Byrne coaxes a few questions from the audience and the answers come tripping off your tongue and the jokes get big laughs and you sip water from a glass while the good vibes bounce around.

You are the last item on the bill, the feel-good showstopper, the all-singing, all-dancing showstopper. Gay Byrne wishes you well in France next summer and, next thing, surprise surprise, lorra laughs lorra laughs, here's the team, the boys that got us to France, filing out onto the set, blinking in the applause and the limelight. Tracksuits and young men's haircuts and shy faces and Mick Byrne bringing up the rear. Yeeeeeeeeow!

The audience stands and cheers. You look along the line from the comfort of your seat. The heroes of Brussels. Shay Given, who saved the penalty. Cunningham, the right full back, whose concession of the penalty was the only blot on a pristine ledger. Breen and Babb, the elegant central defence, and Irwin, the left full back, whose early free had rattled the Belgian crossbar and set the tone for the night.

The midfielders: Gary Kelly, who had skimmed the wings; Roy Keane, whose tackling broke Belgian hearts; McAteer, the jinking genius whose dribbling had mesmerised so many, and Staunton, the veteran not yet turned 30 who had come off injured. The strikers, Connolly and O'Neill, whose intuitive movements had created the last goal, and the heroic substitutes, Niall Quinn and Mark Kennedy, the latter valued at something like £18 million these days as Liverpool storm through Europe and the Premiership. Mark Kennedy, eh? The Serie A boys wave wads at him every time he looks out his window.

You are Mick McCarthy and you hear your name being called on this November morning. You gettin' up today, Dad? Your brain replies, but your mouth has the taste of heavy sleep in it and nothing issues from it except a soft smile. You turn the pillow and lay your cheek on the cool side of the feather sack.

You are Mick McCarthy. Faces that used to have green shirts underneath them swim in your brain this morning. Liam Brady. Frank Stapleton. Jim Beglin. Mark Lawrenson. Kevin Moran. They are sitting in the gallery with laptops and notebooks and you can hear them cluck-cluck-clucking like hens. Paul McGrath and John Aldridge visit your dream. They have finished their careers in circumstances which have hurt your friendship and stained your memories of them. When you walk through College Green these days you hear nothing but traffic.

You are Mick McCarthy and you are going to get up before it's too late, before the cold insinuates itself under the duvet. You have left a job which paid you more to take a job which grieves you more. It would have been easier to go have the words Captain Fantastic chipped out onto your headstone. Now the engravers will have this ugly little footnote to include: * See Below for Details.

There is a message on the answering machine downstairs. You heard the apparatus clicking on last night. The ringing stopped when you were still on the landing. You just turned back for bed. You are in no hurry to hear it. Andy Townsend has cut his toe off in a gardening accident? David Connolly has been abducted by aliens? Shay Given has caught his fingers in a blender? Kenny Cunningham has been fingered for the Shergar job?

You are Mick McCarthy. The alarm clock is speaking urgently to you again. Chirp chirp. Chirp chirp. A low, white winter sun is filtering through the filigree in the net curtains, trailing shadows onto the white ceiling. Chirp chirp. Chirp chirp. You lie on your back thinking about pushing the warm weight of the duvet from your chest. The shadows on the ceiling look like vultures from where you lie. It is Monday morning. The press cads will be ringing you soon.

You get up, stick your chin out and go to work again. You are Mick McCarthy. The good friends, the great nights and the happy vibes are part of your sleep. You are Mick McCarthy. You face the week. You have more to lose than anyone else.

Brrr. It's cold.