Points keep on coming for Trap
It wasn't always pretty, but it was effective, writes John O'Brien
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THE big nights keep coming and, dutifully, the points keep rolling in. Another in the cloying heat of Sofia last night carried with it the blissful feel of a victory. When Brian Kerr's reign ended with a calamitous scoreless encounter against Switzerland RTE's Colm Murray memorably described it as a "0-0 defeat". This was its much more welcome antithesis. Ireland happily left Bulgaria having eclipsed their frustrated hosts 1-1.
A bright position before yesterday shines even more luminously today. Another round of games chalked off, Bulgaria still trailing by five points, their destiny as manager Stanimir Stoilov admitted, out of their own hands. Italy may yet top the group but now it doesn't feel premature anymore to think about hoarding the vast sums that will be required to follow this defiant Ireland team around South Africa.
They know they are getting close now. At the end they lingered a while with the 2,500 or so Irish fans massed at one corner of the ground, an increasing phenomenon under the stewardship of Giovanni Trapattoni. In return the fans sang the old, almost forgotten chant deep into the evening: "You'll never beat the Irish." In truth, Bulgaria didn't come close.
Famously, Ireland had come to this stadium several times in the past only to leave with nothing more than aching limbs and a bracing sense of injustice at the whims of certain officials. It's hard to know what the current generation of footballers know of history, but it was easy to think there was a sense of reparation in their gritty refusal to succumb to Bulgaria's pressure. In Claus Bo Larsen they had a composed and nerveless referee. And on the night they needed it.
Larsen, like Ireland, needed to be strong because Sofia was no place for faint hearts. The Bulgarians whipped up a racket. Behind the goal they waved flags with giant portraits of famous Bulgarian generals and revolutionaries, summoning a charged atmosphere that Irish internationals of a distant hue would have instantly recognised. The world is such a constricted place nowadays that these journeys mostly lack the intimidation factor of times past. The hosts tried their best, though. At the anthems a loud, guttural roar ricocheted around the stands and you sensed a night of intense hardship for Ireland.
And with just a little over 20 minutes gone you could feel it: the first waft of cool air blowing in from the direction of Mount Vitosha, the mountain that looms majestically over the south stand of the Vasil Levski stadium maybe a mile or two away. Respite. The oppressive heat of the Sofia day was diminishing. Inside the ground 38,000 eager Bulgarian supporters were growing quiet and restless. Worryingly for them Ireland had found their stride.
For all the home team's pressing the best they had to show up to that point was a Dimitar Berbatov header that had sailed menacingly over Shay Given's crossbar. For a team in desperate need of three points it was a chronically poor return. With 20 minutes in the cauldron behind them you could see Ireland visibly grow, Damien Duff sparkling to life on the right. One pulsing run had the Newcastle winger flying to the turf, cynically hacked down by the left-back Radostin Kishishev. Reassuringly like old times.
Ireland were so composed and reeking of such authority, Bulgaria so inept in their efforts to pierce their defence, that it was no major surprise when Ireland sneaked in front. How traumatic for Giovanni Trapattoni that they frittered their lead away barely five minutes later, though. That it resulted from a horribly basic error from Kevin Kilbane, by some distance the most experienced outfield player in the side, made it all the more galling. Suddenly Ireland were on the backfoot again.
Still, Kilbane's momentary lapse apart, Ireland were playing with commendable skill and organisation and it's difficult to imagine now that under Trapatton it would be any other way. Richard Dunne led the way and others followed. His goal was incidental to his overall contribution. He blocked, he harried, he robbed and stood firm all night. He bailed colleagues out when they found themselves in trouble.
For some the team fielded by Trapattoni was disappointingly conservative, but the result and performance offered supreme vindication. The energy of Stephen Hunt and Caleb Folan troubled Bulgaria at times and could it be, you wondered, that Sean St Ledger, at the age of 24, was making his first start for Ireland? There are a thousand other venues you could choose to make your competitive debut, but in the cauldron of the Vasil Levski Stadium, the Preston defender performed like a veteran.
It was remarkable that for all Ireland were effectively finished as an attacking force for the second 45 minutes, Given wasn't stretched to breaking point nor was Ireland's defence forced to cede its shape or descend into panic mode. For the most part Bulgaria were restricted to pot shots from 20 yards or more and, each time, Given watched them harmlessly over his crossbar.
Significantly, as the game progressed you could see Berbatov's confidence visibly diminish. Although Ireland couldn't afford to grow complacent about his threat, the Manchester United player was a thwarted presence long before the end. You watched closely 11 minutes into the second half when his control let him down close to Ireland's goal, retreating slowly towards midfield, hands first clutched tightly against his head and then, more revealingly, lower against his hips, inspiration seeping away by the moment.
Ireland defended deep because they had to and they were solid and magnificent in their execution. It is a sign of how things are that they finished with the pairing of Folan and Leon Best of Coventry up front. Best's inclusion was merited because Robbie Keane, possibly feeling the effects of an injury, had a largely fruitless evening. Still, think of the fact of two strikers being blooded in such a critical game, the audacity of such thinking even, and consider how far Trapattoni has brought an ordinary team.
To the brink of the World Cup finals no less. Never pretty at any stage, for sure, but always much more than prettily effective.
- John O'Brien
