Not the most glorious year in Irish sporting history, 2005. Not by a long shot.
It got off to a thoroughly poxy start, with the horrendous mess of the Cian O’Connor/Waterford Crystal affair, which left us with no option but to look forward to the Six Nations and an effortless march to the World Cup.
You probably would prefer not to be reminded of what ensued.
Unbelievably, in a scandalously easy group, we managed to finish fourth.
The turning point appeared to be Clinton Morrison’s early goal in Tel Aviv, after which the boys in green proceeded to retreat into their shells, prematurely and dangerously. The second half was like a tortuous re-enactment of Macedonia in ’99, Ireland ridiculously affording Israel the exaggerated respect of a safety-first containment strategy, when the obvious course of action was to go for the kill. Predictably, it backfired. Two points senselessly thrown away.
The return at Lansdowne was equally distressing, a two-goal lead vanishing into the ether, while the accursed Israeli goalkeeper indulged in the most shocking orgy of time-wasting witnessed since the Egyptian al-Shoubeir in 1990. Suddenly, we were up against the French needing to win, at which point Zinedine Zidane, Claude Makelele and Lillian Thuram fucked everything up by deciding to come out of retirement. Suddenly, France were transformed. Thierry Henry’s winning strike was inarguably beautiful, but we should never have been left in a position whereby it would cause any damage. The Cyprus and Switzerland games showed that we deserved to be out. We hadn’t an attacking idea in our heads, and had it not been for the brilliance of the inestimably magnificent Shay Given, we would have been eviscerated twice. Over and out. As Dylan almost sang, we threw it all away.
As for our rugby team, we entertained legitimate hopes of a Grand Slam on opening day, inflated said hopes by eating Italy and Scotland for breakfast, provoked riotous celebrations by slaying perfidious Albion at Lansdowne…and, of course, just when expectations had hit Mount Everest proportions, blew it against the French and Welsh. Autumn slaughterings at the hands of the Kiwis and Wallabies offered little hope of immediate improvement, though young Andrew Trimble displayed extraordinary promise against the Romanians. As Elvis once sang, I just can’t help believing.
We shall meet again next year, comrades, in the place where there is no darkness. In the interim, happy Christmas.