I heard a couple of hours ago that the great Jack Charlton had finally broken free of his mortal coil and gone to where the good people go. I never met him. I never spoke to him. I never shook his hand. But he had a huge influence on my life. Read more
My interest in soccer died when Jack Charlton retired as manager of the Republic of Ireland team. When players started earning obscene sums of money for prancing around a pitch and giving Oscar-worthy performances of being injured in a tackle only to bounce up bright as new seconds later, I gave up on soccer and pledged my allegiance to the more manly sport – rugby.
I had forgotten how engrossing it can be, though, to watch a soccer game …live. Especially when the teams that are playing are young, not yet corrupted by fame and fortune, and still in possession of the dream – the dream to play their hearts out and win.
Létavértes is a small town of about 3000 people close to the Hungarian/Romanian border. Its team plays in the third division under the auspices of Debrecen. Under the watchful eye of ZS, they have been doing well this season. Yesterday, they played an away game in Budapest against Ferencváros’s second team (Fradi 2). I was one of the six-country cohort that went along to cheer them on and I am so glad I did.
I’d been a little reluctant to go to a Fradi game as I’d witnessed the first team’s reception in Nyíregyháza when they had an away game there a few years ago. Armed police escorts, brawling fans, and mob-like chants – all very intimidating. While Fradi might rank up there amongst the best teams in the country, its fans are famous for their racist, anti-Semitic cat calls and a hooliganism that could stand alongside the worst of what British football has every produced.
But I needn’t have worried. There might have been 100 people in the grounds of Gozdu Palya in Népliget and the vast majority were supporting the home team. Yet there was nothing intimidating about any of them. When the teams went through their opening rituals, I was amazed at how young they looked. Their eagerness to get started was infectious. Their neon-coloured football boots created a rainbow affect against the green of the grass, and it was all go from the start.
LétaV played their hearts out. They attacked. They took opportunities. They made the breaks. And they missed. Yet with just two minutes to go, they were one up. And then Fradi scored two goals in quick succession. It was heartbreaking. Heartbreaking to see a young team have their neon-clad feet swept from under them (a magnificent No. 27 subbed on and he just 18 years old, and I’d give it to No. 7 and No 13 for the dogged determination they displayed) . Their star player, a young Brazilian, in a No. 19 jersey, was the most marked man on the pitch and while not quite on his game, he was amazing to watch. I’d forgotten the skill that soccer requires. I’d forgotten the dexterity that top players have. I’d forgotten that, all things considered, it’s still a game worth watching.
The goalie, who reminded me a little of Packy Bonner, did his damnedest. Mind you, he didn’t have a lot to do as Fradi were never really in the game (until those fateful final two minutes) with any amount of offensive. The LétaV lads seemed to be doing all the work.
It was soul-destroying to see their three points disappear in a puff of latent adrenalin. And to see them slink off the pitch, despondent, when they should have been walking tall…it was gut wrenching. They played by far the better game and were by far the better players. But on the day, it just didn’t go their way.
As we sat in a nearby bar waiting for ZS to appear, they walked by on their way to the bus that would ferry them back to Debrecen. We cheered. They looked. And we realised that they thought we were taking the mickey. One of ours was in a green shirt – the Fradi colours. Who was to know.
Next time, as a fan group, we need to get our act together. We need to rehearse our cheers that will out-do the moronic Fradi chants that bordered on the neanderthal. We need to colour coordinate in red and white. And we need to get to know the names of the players. Shouting top volume to egg on No. 27 ain’t quite as powerful as telling Lászlo or Tamás to get the boot in.
The fan club – Wales, England, Ireland, Catalonia, the United States, and Hungary – as a body were so very proud of our lads and how they played. And as they left the pitch, we felt their pain. But we’ll be back. And we’ll travel to Debrecen if needs be.
This week, I’m grateful to the players at Létavértes for reminding me of the golden days of Italia ’90, when we’d barrel in to the Lord Mayor’s in Swords, two hours before kick-off, just to be sure we had a seat. When all anyone talked about was where they were going to watch the match. When the entire country came to a standstill for 90 minutes as we watched our boys, en masee, fight for glory. Those who’d taken holidays to go to the opening games called home looking for extended leave. And if they didn’t get it, they quit. They called home asking for loans to finance their extended stay and if they didn’t them, they remortgaged their houses. Companies brought in TVs and beer so that their staff would at least work up until 30 minutes before kick-off. The country, probably for the last time in recent memory, was united behind Jack’s Army. Those days indeed were the glory days. And it was soccer that knit us all together.
And while you can’t compare the European championships or World Cup antics with a second division game in Gozdu Palya, it did it for me. The lads at LétaV have rekindled my interest in soccer and reminded me of how good it is to be young, and energetic, and in charge of life. I sit tonight, somewhat chastened; embarrassed at how easily I give up at times, especially on things I want so badly. Their will, their tenacity, and their determination were an inspiration. You might have lost that game, LétaV, but you’ve won so much more. Go n’éiri an bothair libh.
Note: For a reminder of what the Grateful series is about, check out the post Grateful 52
A fever is approaching the edge of Europe. Hovering on the outskirts, it is gathering momentum ready to make a full-on assault on 8 June 2012. Experts reckon it will reach its peak on 1 July. Collateral damage is expected to be high. Those who succumb to the fever will be rendered incapable of talking about anything other than what ails them. Those who live with them or work with them face a gruelling four weeks of sleepless nights and inane conversation. Big screens are being erected. Fans are pulling out their colours. And facepaint will be the most sought-after cosmetic on the market. Euro 2012 is about to unleash itself upon the world.
What’s in a name?
The UEFA European Football Championship has played itself out every four years since 1960. Originally called the UEFA European Nations Cup, it changed to its current name in 1968. And then in 1996, it adopted the more manageable form of Euro 2012 or whichever year is appropriate. But no matter what you choose to call it, if you’re not involved, if you’re not interested, if you’re not a soccer head, you’re in for four weeks of hell. Four weeks where every watering hole this side of the Atlantic will be showing soccer matches. Four weeks during which fashion gives way to team jerseys and national colours. Four weeks in which conversation revolves around the permutations and combinations needed to win. Sheer hell.
And hell is how I remember Euro 2008 in Budapest. It was as if life stood still and all other forms of entertainment were mothballed. It was soccer or ….soccer. I watched one match and I can’t for the life of me remember who was playing. I know Ireland missed out on qualifying by drawing with Germany in front of a home crowd of 67,495 fans in Dublin. What interest I might have had died a death as the final whistle blew.
When Jack Charlton managed the Irish team and brought us to Italia 1990, I was part of a nation that lived, breathed, and slept with soccer. I was working in Dublin in the Bank of Ireland and remember the government advising employers to supply TVs for their staff to avoid the whole workforce going off sick. Grannies dyed their hair green, white, and orange. Tourists wondered why there were no taxis or buses on the road. During match times, the silence on the streets was punctuated with loud roars from the pubs as people cheered on the boys in green. It was a fantastic time. A nation united. Had Jack Charlton run for President of the country, he’d have been elected (assuming the matter of his holding a British passport could be overlooked). The big question on everyone’s lips was ‘where are we going to watch the match!’ Those who had gone to Italy were writing home for money; quitting their jobs when their bosses wouldn’t sanction additional leave; and pledging their first-born sons to anyone who might fund their extended stay.
But that was then. When Jack left, he took my interest with him. This, too, was around the time I moved to the States and so baseball and basketball took over what little sporting interest I had. When I came back to Ireland, I converted to rugby – a far better class of men. As far as I was concerned, the WAGs could keep their pretty boys and soccer could keep its prima donnas.
An interest reborn
As Euro2012 approaches, though, Ireland has qualified. And what’s more, Ireland is playing a friendly with Hungary, in Budapest, on Monday, June 4th. And the question on my mind: will I go? My deep-rooted sense of patriotic duty would have me on the sidelines of an egg and spoon race were Ireland being represented. But eggs and spoons are interesting. Could I bring myself to watch a soccer match – to sit through a full 90 minutes of theatrics (assuming goals are scored) by metrosexual men who earn millions running around a pitch, occasionally jumping in the air, and hugging their team mates? But it’s Ireland. And it’s Hungary. And I’m in Budapest. And I can get a ticket. So yes, I should go.
In preparation, I watched the highlights of Ireland’s last international at home against Bosnia & Herzegovina. I recognised but one name – Robbie Keane. And the Dublin man is looking as good as ever. But one name? Therein lies a problem. If I’m going to cheer my head off, I will need to at least know their names. So I have to do my homework. I have a few days to get to grips with who’s playing in what position and the friendly at Ferenc Puskás Stadion on Monday will be a good text of my new-found interest. Who knows, it might just last all the way through to 1 July.
First published in the Budapest Times 1 June 2012