Back from the Brink: The Autobiography by Paul McGrath

Author:Paul McGrath [McGrath, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781446409602
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2010-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

Eoin Hand: ‘We sat up until about three in the morning waiting for him. I couldn’t believe it. All I was thinking was what the hell is McGrath playing at here? Eventually, I gave up and went to bed. Next morning, I get hold of him. I’m spitting fire.

‘“Paul, what time did you come in last night?”

‘“Aah, I didn’t come in till this morning.”

‘“Hang on a second, we assemble here.”

‘“But I don’t see the sense in that. Sure I live in Dublin!”

‘I had to explain to him the whole principle of getting together, of bonding, of gelling as a unit. I had to tell him that, on international duty, it wasn’t up to him to decide where he’d sleep for the night. But it was obvious he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong. It was genuine naivety.

‘I remember I called over Frank Stapleton, who was captain. Told him what had happened. And Frank’s response was, “Yeah, Paul’s a bit laid-back about things like that. Even with United!”’

The Italy game was big box office in Dublin. This was the side of Bergomi, Conti, Tardelli, Rossi and Altobelli. There was still the core of the team that had won the World Cup in 1982, and on the night, Dalymount would be drastically overcrowded.

I was named on the bench, but nine minutes into the game, Mark Lawrenson had to come off with a dislocated shoulder and he was ferried straight to Jervis Street Hospital. My heart was thumping from the second he pulled up. This was my moment. It felt as if all my years kicking a football had carried me on a natural path to this day, this game, this green shirt on my back.

Dalymount was a tight, old-fashioned little ground (sadly soon to be demolished) squeezed in amongst the shops and terraced houses of Phibsboro on Dublin’s Northside and there was a sense of good-humoured chaos in the stadium.

Even the Italians seemed genuinely tickled by the scenes as the crowd began to spill onto the edges of the pitch, some of them sitting literally close enough to get in a tackle. It was chaos, but smiling chaos. Italy went on to win the game 2-1 with goals from Rossi and Altobelli, Gary Waddock netting the Irish score. Me? I did OK. Nothing spectacular.

Two more international friendlies quickly followed, against Israel in Tel Aviv and England at Wembley. I started both. But if I thought I had now arrived as an international footballer, the England game was to provide a rude awakening.

Eoin took me off at half-time and I was absolutely seething. Now I realised I hadn’t been playing well. Why? I honestly can’t say. Maybe my concentration just wasn’t right. Essentially, my job was to mess up the opposition midfield as Eoin had picked Mick McCarthy and Mark Lawrenson as his centre-backs.

I had no issue with that. We were inundated with quality centre-halves. I mean Dave O’Leary was on the bench that night.

So I saw my role as bungling into tackles and giving the ball to our more skilful players like Ronnie Whelan and Liam Brady.

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