I was there on a June day in 1995 when a team which featured Niall Quinn and John Aldridge could only manage a nil-all draw against the amateurs of Liechtenstein (population 30,269) despite some 40 shots on goal.
The Irish team played as though they had just tumbled on to the pitch in Vaduz out of a Hiace van after a five-hour trip from Geneva airport.
I knew how that felt because I drove in a van 300km across Switzerland to watch one of the most brutal games of football I have ever seen. I swore I would never do it again.
Fourteen years later, domiciled in Geneva, I rashly agreed with a friend that we would take my car to Paris, to see Ireland play France in a World Cup qualifier. After the game I would dash to the airport to catch my flight to Dublin for an appointment, and he would bring my car back to Geneva.
READ MORE
The Irish fans kicked off proceedings by whistling along to La Marseillaise, which somehow robbed the anthem of its usual power. Robbie Keane really took the wind out of French sails when he scored.
Unfortunately, while the referee was waving to his mother in the stands, Thierry Henry handled the ball twice in extra-time and France got the winning goal.
The extra-time meant that I was now in danger of missing my flight to Dublin. I made my way back to the Gare du Nord to collect my luggage and get the train to the airport.
Football fans were rioting on the streets of Paris, setting fire to cars. Not our lot. These were Algerian fans celebrating their 1-0 win over Egypt in far-off Cairo.
An agitated railway official beckoned about 20 Irish fans to the train for Orly Airport. We piled on, only to notice after about three stops that we were going in the wrong direction.
We arrived at Terminal 2 shortly before 1am just in time to see the Aer Lingus jet piercing the night sky, leaving us to sleep on the floor of the terminal building
So, we all got off and were directed to a bus stop – which required crossing the tracks, where we joined a group of late-night shift workers on their way to the airport.
Some heated words were exchanged with one French football fan as we boarded the bus and the Senegalese driver appealed for calm. ‘Si vous plait, si vous plait ...’
Someone behind me was communicating loudly with his girlfriend who worked in some capacity at Dublin Airport. He asked that she make it known to Aer Lingus that a large group was on its way to catch the plane.
He shouted out in jubilation: “They’re holding the plane.”
Employing a single finger and the words “terminal UNO”, he then surveyed the bus to see if anyone wanted to go to “Terminal Uno”. It seemed nobody did and, with the aid of an interpreter, he tried to persuade the driver to head straight to Terminal 2 where an Aer Lingus plane was patiently waiting our arrival.
The bus driver, a very pleasant fellow, was startled at the suggestion that he skip Terminal 1 and go straight to Terminal 2.
“Monsieur, ce n’est pas possible ...”
The minutes passed. We arrived at Terminal 2 shortly before 1am just in time to see the Aer Lingus jet piercing the night sky, leaving us to sleep on the floor of the terminal building.
There were no seats available to Dublin that day. I received an apology for the previous night’s debacle at passport control as I returned to Geneva at dawn, where I bought a ticket to Dublin to make my afternoon appointment. It was the most expensive football game I have ever attended.
I took a break from following our national team until I was persuaded that it would be a good idea to fly into Warsaw, hire a car and drive to Gdansk to see Ireland play a group game against Spain in the 2012 Euros.
In a deserted pitch-dark town somewhere off the motorway, we gave up on trying to find our accommodation and drove on till we found a roadside motel.
A scene of complete bedlam greeted us in the main square of Gdansk. Irish football fans never tire of expressing their affection for the team. “Take your shoes off for the boys in green ... stand on one leg for the boys in green ... do the Watusi for the boys in green,” etc.
My personal favourite, “We all dream of a team of Gary Breens, a team of Gary Breens ...”
Fan loyalty seemed to have gone through some transformation to a higher state of being since my visit to Paris. With the score Spain 4/ Ireland nil, I was about to leave when I was stopped in my tracks by the power of song.
In the closing quarter, The Fields of Athenry rang out loud and long around the ground – to the bafflement of the Spanish fans, who listened in puzzled silence and grudging admiration.
And so, for my next outing, I’m off to the birthplace of Kafka, Prague, without a ticket. Wish me luck.
