THE CRYING GAME

AND LO, the shit hitteth the fan. I was liberating a beer from the fridge when Spain scored their first goal, so I was spared some of the pain. Not all of my senses had been assaulted by this occurence, somehow, it didn't seem so bad.

To tell the truth, there was a weird sense of relief that they had drawn first blood in this fashion, a relief which was of course conditional on the presumption that we were not about to witness the Lansdowne Chain Saw Massacre which ensued.

I had calculated that if Spain were going to score, it would be better for all concerned on the Republic side that they score early, thus inspiring a rabid and overwhelming response from the affronted Gaels.

The response was, of course, overwhelming, as we proceeded to lay on two more goals for them in quick succession.

I now know the true meaning of the cliché which states that something is "like a bad dream." There was something horribly unreal about the rest of the afternoon, as a stupefied nation came to terms with the frustration of Americus interruptus.

You had been warned in this column of the perils of hubris, and the grotesque prospect of facing up to Billy Bingham's boys, needing to carve out a result in a re-run of the Battle of the Boyne.

But not even Foul Play, in its most Cassandra-like moments, had dared to anticipate such a colossal fucking bummer. A draw in a good match would have been irksome, but respectable. Now we must wonder whether this horror-show has inflicted some kind of permanent scar on the Republic's morale, awkwardly enough at a time when Norn Iron are feeling very chuffed with themselves.

Dousing the flames of hysteria for a moment, in the ordinary course of events, the Republic should beat Norn Iron nine times out of ten. Of the current Bingham squad, perhaps only the tricky winger, Michael Hughes, would find a place in the Republic's first eleven.

On November 17, this will not count for jack shit, once the men from the wee North are high on the improbability of shafting the hapless Taigs.

Belfast City Council has probably already said "Yes" to commissioning statues of Billy and his Windsor Park heroes in the event of a home win.

To the venerated names of Carson and Craig will be added that of Bingham, who held the pass against the marauding Fenian hordes. This will be no ordinary course of events by a long way. Ulster is just dying to say "No."

Is there a crumb of consolation to be found in the wake of Black Wednesday the 13th, and what may well become even Blacker Wednesday the 17th?

The performance of John Sheridan was, I suppose, a glimmer of light poking through the Stygian gloom.

Having laid on the third Spanish goal quite beautifully, he settled down to produce his best Republic performance to date, offering what few flashes of wit and invention were visible to the hallucinating masses.

It seems obvious that he must take over from the increasingly ineffective Ray Houghton, particularly in a setting where one or two sparks of originality may separate the warring factions in what should be a fairy tale encounter . . . Grimm.

Because it seems obvious, Jack will probably confound us all with his own ineffable thought processes by leaving the mercurial Sheridan off the bench altogether.

As a gesture of goodwill to soften up our opponents, it might be good diplomacy to hand Alan Kernaghan back to them in a midnight ceremony at the Border. We have held him hostage down here for too long, and now it is time for him to return to his own people.

As we resorted to the old familiar misery of pouring over the goal-difference charts as though they were illuminated manuscripts containing a hidden clue to the mystery of the cosmos, it became clear that we may not need to beat Norn Iron at all, if Spain beat Denmark, or Denmark beat Spain . . . oh, fuck it for a game of soldiers, we have to win the bastard thing, and let that be the end of it.

Though the TV channels in these islands are petrified to admit it, a not unlikely scenario looms whereby America '94 will be deprived of the uplifting presence of a representative from Great Britain or Ireland.

Wales have to beat Rumania by two goals to qualify, which, even at the Arms Park, seems at least as tall an order as our little consignment in Belfast.

BBC, ITV, and RTE may well be offered the challenge of trying to interest punters in fascinating clashes between Greece and Algeria, Belgium and U.S.A., or Norway and Morocco. I do sincerely hope that it keeps fine for them.

And so we come to England. Dear old doughty England, cheated out of their birthright by a referee lacking the bottle to send off Ronald Koeman for fouling plucky Platt in a scoring position.

Graham Taylor did his best to rouse the folks back home into a frenzy of savage indignation, conveniently ignoring the injustice meted out to Holland when that good goal of Frank Rijkaard's was disallowed.

If we must resort to the scales of justice, then the greatest injustice would have been the elimination of this splendid Dutch team, who are finally beginning to shake off the impression that football is some species of chess, rather than a game for fit young men.

The Doomsday scenario for the game in these islands is but a moment away, and eventually it may fall to the Republic to keep its finger in the dyke, for Ireland, and, you'd better believe it, for Britain.

They may come to love us, yet.