My fondest ever soccer memory

The skies over Dublin that October day in 1974, were, as they are for three hundred days a year -- overcast.

The school teacher’s words had drifted into oblivion long before the 1 p.m. quitting bell, and, spying a rare opportunity when the faculty relaxed their gaze, the pair of us sneaked out the door, through the thicket and over the wall to freedom.

Our Mecca was approximately three miles away at Dalymount Park -- the home of Irish football -- where some two hours later the might of Russia was set to take the field in a World Cup qualifier against a mighty underdog host nation.

Too pent up to board a bus and fritter through the north city traffic, we took the logical option and put one foot in front of the other. If there was consideration in that pre-cell phone era of parents’ worries about missing children it clearly wasn’t expressed by these 12-year-olds.

Like the migration of wildebeest across the Serengeti we joined a flow of humanity which knew neither perimeter nor parameter. Traffic lost its advantage as the hordes swarmed across the Phibsboro Road and up to the apron of the stadium. For those of you who have driven to Gillette Stadium, parked vehicle and unveiled lounge chair and cooler, let’s just say that day 35 years ago was nothing like that.

Over an hour to go to kick-off and we were proud of our having negotiated the three-mile journey, yet frustrated that the remaining 200 yards would take perhaps as long. Nothing about this was easy and once inside the stadium we waded through bodies and eventually came to rest on the stadium’s perimeter fence.

Chins almost resting on the playing surface, so close were we to the action, we had unknowingly put ourselves at serious risk of life and limb (terraced stadiums of the time owed little to sense or sensibility -- it was first come first served and all between fan and disaster was a strategically placed crush barrier. And with the interest in this particular game pushing the crowd a "safe" ten thousand above capacity, someone up there was definitely looking out for these innocent young kids.

The pre-match build up left young and old open-jawed as Russian goalkeeper Vladimir Pilgui gave as good a performance between soccer goalposts as any gymnast could -- a display of brilliance rivaled in my lifetime perhaps only by Liverpool’s Bruce Grobbelar. A novice at such events I wasn’t used to seeing partisan crowds actually applaud an opposing player. Yet this they did for this Russian goalkeeper as he dove to keep out practice shots he had no right to save. How could anyone ever hope to put the ball past him?

The atmosphere as the teams crossed the white lines was electric, streamers and toilet rolls raining down from on high -- an imitation of the Buenos Aires based World Cup of earlier that year.

The Soviet team was ranked second-best in Europe and wore their hearts on their sleeves for their national anthem with their country’s name ‘CCCP’ emblazoned proudly across their chests. They were all clean cut and shaven as was the way of Communist block athletes of the time.

The Irish, by contrast, were more in touch with the hippie culture of the seventies -- 17-year-old debutant Liam Brady resembled John Lennon with his shoulder-length hair, while big striker Don Givens wouldn’t have looked out of place in a band named Electric Light Orchestra.

The sheer brilliance of both teams left me amazed and then, on 22 minutes, a ball was whipped over from the right wing. It was a thing of beauty -- Givens rose majestically, and with razor-like instincts, buried a header in the bottom corner. I can still to this day see the ball ripping into the net as his shock of hair followed the trajectory of the ball. The unbeatable Russian keeper, cat-like in his movements pregame, was left rooted to the spot like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

The roar of the crowd at that moment was heard far away in the foothills of the Dublin mountains. And, ten minutes later, there was silence enough for me to hear the sound of boot meeting head as Ireland’s nominal Italian, Terry Mancini, became entangled with his marker and fairly laid him out for a ten count.

The roof lifted once more before halftime as Givens struck again and the Queens Park Rangers striker completed his hat-trick with twenty minutes remaining to leave the Russians, and indeed the 40,000 fans on hand, thoroughly dumbfounded.

Walking on air I felt nothing but bursting pride on what was a short journey home. I wanted to talk, to relive every moment of the history in the making I had just witnessed, but just couldn’t find the words.

Back at home, I walked in the front door. There were one or two stares. No questions were asked of my whereabouts -- it was as if everything was understood. I took my place beside my family members at the kitchen table. And all I was left with that wonderful night was my fantastic memories and the comparative silence of tea being poured.

I have been to across Europe to witness soccer matches -- and of course will always remember that epic game at Giants Stadium in 1994 when Ireland defeated Italy to once again shock the world, but nothing will ever separate me from my memories of that heavenly day in 1974