The world shares our pain - but give it a rest

JOHANNESBURG LETTER:Men and women from all nations seemed to have seen in Thierry Henry's act something they cannot quite forgive or forget, writes KEITH DUGGAN

MENTION THAT you are Irish in Johannesburg and straight away everyone shakes their head in sympathy. If one thing is becoming clear, it is that pretty much the entire world decided to sit in and watch the box the night Thierry Henry decided to handle that ball. And for some reason, millions took it very personally.

After the opening match on Friday night, two Mexican guys came up wondering if they could get into any of the bars around town. The chattier one looked like Ralph Macchio in The Outsiders and seemed too young to be allowed out of his house after nine, let alone allowed to roam the streets of Jo’burg without a minder. But they were on the skit of their lives, following Mexico around South Africa.

They shook their heads gravely when the subject of Ireland came out, and they then began discussing Henry’s handball until they worked themselves up into a state of outrage.

“Let me tell you something,” the spokesman for the pair said to conclude the inquiry, poking the air with his finger. “Mex-i-co is gonna FOCK France up.”

He delivered this line like Al Pacino in full-blown indignity mode.

I wasn’t sure he was right about that but it sounded great. Remember the Alamo.

But the fiery young hombre was simply voicing the common opinion. It would seem as if all nations and hues are determined to inflict all sorts of horrible deeds against France, mainly because Henry handled the ball against Ireland. On the same night, a South African man who went by the name of Spirit got hot under the collar on the subject. “You should be here,” he declared, meaning Ireland.

Notions of a very different World Cup began to materialise, visions that included Mary McAleese shaking hands with all teams before every game and the Artane Boys Band playing the ballads on the vuvuvela and a South Africa-Ireland match which would have finished 4-4 and been declared one of the greatest in Fifa history. Anything was possible. Except Henry ruined it.

The world feels bad about it and anyone Irish can milk it all they want.

Still, it was alarming how many people remembered the damn goal. It was as if it was the first and last handball in the history of football. Because you have to get taxis everywhere in this city, you end up having lots of chats with taxi drivers.

So far, they have been exclusively black and, without exception, beautifully spoken, as if they had all spent a term at Greyfriars. As soon as they heard mention of Ireland, they began pontificating on the unforgivable moral lapse Henry was guilty of.

“Everyone here saw that goal,” Ben said. “Because the game was live here in Johannesburg. It was live! France are not wanted here. Thierry Henry,” he chuckled, “very bad! Very bad!”

The more this went on, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for France and for Va-Va-Voom in particular. He spent a decade presenting himself as suave, charming, gifted, enviable but likeable. Now he has become a cartoonish villain in world football.

The French stars are beginning to understand the Irish aren’t the sort to let go of a sense of injustice. It wasn’t just the infamous tricolour displayed in Cape Town in their opening game. Afterwards, as they went about chatting to media in the tunnel, Patrice Evra and a few others found themselves eyeballing the Irish contingent and conversation inevitably turned to that night in Paris. Understandably, they began to lose their patience. They must feel as though they are being stalked by this.

And it is not limited to the players.

In Rustenburg, John from Cork told us about meeting a group of French-Algerians up in Kruger Park. They asked him where he was from, just to be friendly.

“Can’t tell ye?” the Cork man snapped, looking beatific and wounded. They pressed him, and then he gave it both barrels – “Ireland” – and of course they remembered that game and that goal and they retreated, whispering, pointing at the Cork man and looking troubled.

A few nights later, John was in a bar in Johannesburg and a local man hailed him as a hero. Because he was Irish. “I am black South African of 40 years,” he said to his younger compatriots. “You know nothing of my struggle. But this is an Irish man. He understands! He understands! He is my brother.” This without a mention of Henry.

But it has gone far enough. It was a handball. It must be haunting poor Henry in this World Cup. One imagines him at night obsessively washing his hands like Lady Macbeth, desperately trying to cleanse himself of the feel of that football on his palms. He could not have guessed in those mad, sly seconds when he guided the ball across Shay Given’s goal he was crossing some international line of sporting etiquette. Men and women from all nations seemed to have seen in Henry’s act something they cannot quite forgive or forget. Meeting Irish people gets their blood boiling all over again. It is great fun but enough is enough.

If this continues we will have to pretend to be Welsh.