They were once called the lost generation.
Back in June, when we drew with Scotland, when we accepted that we would be the only home nation not going to France, there was a serious disconnect between the country and the Republic of Ireland.
There was no player to get the nation excited. There was no-one there to look up to. There wasn’t one person that kids were trying to emulate.
Jack Grealish wouldn’t come. Stephen Ireland had long since retired and Damien Delaney was following suit. We were seen as rigid. Martin O’Neill didn’t even know his best team and chunks of the island were happy to just turn their interests to the oval ball because, there, there was hope. There, there were players we could relate to. There, there were heroes.
Suddenly, beneath all of our noses, there’s been a seismic shift in Irish football.
Suddenly, the nation has a team that it not only identifies with, but loves.
Suddenly, you could take your pick of heroes.
Martin O’Neill’s greatest success with this crop of footballers isn’t in the achievements to date, it’s in how he has somehow managed to elevate a once lost generation into what could potentially become a golden generation.
Where he was once criticised for chopping and changing and not knowing his team, that’s become his strength. His strength is that he surprises us. His strength is that no-one knows his team. His strength is that, suddenly, he has more than 11 players who can step in and do a job and play in different systems as necessary.
His strength is that he has built a squad. Not just a good one, but one the country identifies with.
No-one even questions it anymore when he withdraws Wes Hoolahan at home in a play-off game after 55 minutes. Ireland knows what he’s doing, they understand. They know who’s coming in and they know why.
No-one even questions why Daryl Murphy starts and why Shane Long is held and held as if William Wallace was daring the English cavalry to advance.
Suddenly, everyone knows the team, they know the squad and they know what they’re all capable of. Suddenly, everyone is proud of this team.
No more are they the disowned sons of the Irish sporting world. They’re not treated with contempt or indifference and they’re not held to ransom because of the money they earn or the life they lead or the country they live.
They’re just like the rest of us now. They’re Irishmen.
And they have two of the most successful and endearing Irish men showing them the way.
Three and a half games ago, Darren Randolph was a third choice ‘keeper. He was there, everyone knew he was there but, realistically, he wasn’t there. Not in our minds anyway. Eyebrows were raised when he came on for Given against the world champions – even David Forde’s eyebrows. Now, Darren Randolph is a hero. A genuine hero. His confidence has boosted the country’s confidence and the country’s confidence has boosted his.
Seamus Coleman is just getting better. Both he and James McCarthy always felt pressure to be the players they are for their clubs and, when questions were asked of Ireland, the Everton men delivered. Not just with their class, but more so with their grit. Their aggression. Their love of Ireland and this team.
Richard Keogh has excelled beyond belief. He gobbled up Edin Dzeko without salt. He claimed the jersey when he was given it and refused to let it go. His meteoric rise has summed up the last three months – his rise and his sheer passion for the cause. More importantly, he is proof that there are others out there. Given the chance, there are players there – good players – ready to cling to their green shirt for all their lives.
They once feared Robbie Brady’s left back credentials. Now, he’s scoring goals from midfield and slotting back in to solidify the backline. Now, we have a genuine footballer – one we once thought O’Neill wouldn’t use – and he’s trying to run the show on an international stage. Now, we have a player of quality there that youngsters the country over are looking up to.
Wes Hoolahan. Jesus, where do you even start? To see a player move so gracefully, touch so delicately and think so cutely wearing this nation’s colours, it’s about as proud as you can get as an Irishman. He is a gem of a footballer. It’s heartbreaking to think that, at 33, he only has 25 caps to his name but, in such a short space of time, he has opened the eyes of this country to what can actually be done. By Irish people. He has played football without fear or restriction and he has lit up the Aviva given half a chance or half an inch.
James McClean’s tackles, his lung-bursting runs, his manic aggression, he’s a fan favourite. The cheer for Shane Long against Bosnia on his return to the Aviva since that Germany game only showed that he is already a man that will go down in the annals of Irish history.
Then there’s Jon Walters. Super Jon Walters.
Is Jon Walters the best footballer on the planet? (Of his generation)
— Conán Doherty (@ConanDoherty) November 16, 2015
If every kid in Ireland wasn’t waking up on Tuesday morning beaming with pride and rushing to school to “be Jon Walters” on the playground and fields, then they should be given detention and a recent history lesson until they appreciate Walters like he should be appreciated.
He brings ball down from the sky like it’s loaded with sand. He pushes defenders back like he has no respect for anything but Ireland. He keeps his head, he always does the right thing, he scores goals, he scores bloody volleys and he always delivers. He always puts in a shift. He always does it for this country.
Monday night only confirmed it, Jon Walters is the most loved man in Ireland right now. His legend has grown almost irrepressibly and he has shot way beyond what was once cult hero status into genuine national adoration.
Suddenly, we have heroes amongst us. Suddenly the old guard are now just that: the old guard.
Now, we are all Jon Walters.
Now, we are all this Ireland team. Not one of the past.
And, finally, we are all together. Finally, together, we have a team to love.
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