Flying the flag
Patrick Collins Sunday, June 23, 2002

David Seaman is caught unawares by Ronaldinho's lofted free-kick (Reuters)

After three chaotic weeks of sport, a single image is etched upon the memory. Two men are standing in a crowded arena. The older man is clearly in shock. His head moves slowly from side to side. His face is crumpled, his brimming eyes stare at the ground. The younger man is grasping his shoulders and speaking quickly, urgently. He ignores the mayhem around him, so intent is he upon making his point. His face is serious, and he has important things to say.

In those first moments of defeat in Shizuoka, David Beckham revealed qualities of stirring leadership and sensitive compassion, while David Seaman demonstrated that a dozen years of accomplishment could not protect him from the consequences of an isolated error. And so they stood and lamented the loss of a childish game. And, for some of us, all the meaning, all the emotion, all the abiding significance of sport was captured in that cameo.

A few weeks ago, as the World Cup began, a columnist on this newspaper raged against the hysteria which the tournament would attract. 'Honestly, what difference would it make if "we" won?' asked Peter Hitchens. 'Would we be more or less free? More or less prosperous? More or less safe from war? More or less better educated?' He concluded: 'It would make precisely no difference. It doesn't matter.'

Now, I do not quarrel with his remarks about freedom, prosperity, safety or education, since they come under the heading of what the great Basil Fawlty once called: 'The bleedin' obvious.' But his conclusion was wrong then and it is still more mistaken today. After three weeks in Japan, I came home to find a nation which seemed distinctly happier, saner, kinder and generally more civilised than the one I left. Success, albeit qualified success, at this childish game had somehow brought out the best in the English. There was a steep and welcome decline in chest-thumping, foreigner-baiting and lager-fuelled patriotism. There were mercifully fewer references to ancient military campaigns. Even the victory over Argentina produced an eruption of honest pride rather than a bovine bluster of jingoism.

For the first time in my sporting experience, the flag of St George did not evoke a shudder of instinctive distaste and the jubilation of those who follow that flag was not tainted by the shattering of glass or the wailing of sirens. And it was a wonderfully inclusive celebration. At home and in Japan, the flag was to be found around the shoulders of all races and colours. The days of Norman Tebbit's crass and demeaning 'cricket test' of national loyalty were being relegated to the mean little margins of English history. Now, England expected precious little and that may have helped the mood. A team which was not even expected to qualify for the finals had surpassed itself by climbing out of its first-round group. After that, anything was regarded as a handsome bonus. Naturally, we should have loved to progress still further, but if we had to nominate our most acceptable conquerors, then Brazil would have been top of every list.

And so the nation joined in the musical chairs; scrambling for seats, knowing that the game could end at any moment, resolved to enjoy it to the last. The people at FIFA, who had dreaded the potential consequences of England's qualification, declared that the behaviour of the English fans had been 'perfect'. They exaggerated, of course, but we cherished the exaggeration as we remembered other years, other tournaments. Had ultimate victory been achieved, then public reaction would have been even warmer and more exultant, but a place in the last eight represented adequate reason for celebration. Of course, not everybody felt like that. Consider again the moving distress of David Seaman and the concerned decency of David Beckham. They had invested too much skill, energy and pride in the enterprise to be satisfied with minor consolation.

But the nation at large has been intrigued and absorbed, captivated and thrilled by the drama of the competition. In the course of these experiences, it seems to have discovered something about itself, and it likes what it finds. For the moment, at least, we are living in a better country. Sport did that. It made a difference. As the past three weeks have decisively demonstrated, it matters.

The farce of a goal too far

The man of the week - indeed, the man of the entire tournament - was somebody who did not set foot in the Far East.

Step forward Signor Luciano Gaucci, chairman of Perugia in Serie A, and a man of fixed and fatuous opinions. This is the gentleman who sacked his South Korean striker, Ahn Jung-Hwan, for the vile offence of scoring the goal which eliminated the Italians. Now Italy's explosion of self-pity has itself been a joy to behold. They may have had the rough end of a few decisions, but they went home early because their chances were missed, their strategy was flawed, their nerve was feeble and their arrogance was absurd.

One of the more curious World Cup traditions is that which decrees that Italy should turn up with some of the most technically proficient footballers on the planet, contrive a telling advantage, then squander it by a meek and mindless retreat into defence.

That tradition was miserably obeyed at these finals, and the resulting post-mortem is convulsing the nation. And yet, Gaucci's intervention has elevated a sad situation to the realms of high farce. 'I am a nationalist,' he said, 'and I regard such behaviour not only as an affront to Italian pride but also an offence to a country which two years ago opened its doors to him. I have no intention of paying a salary to someone who has ruined Italian soccer.'

In other words, Ahn Jung Hwan was perfectly entitled to play for South Korea but he went much too far when he scored that goal. I believe that Signor Gaucci deserves an audience which understands and appreciates his brand of rampant buffoonery. He has outgrown Italian football. Oblivious to ridicule and swollen with self-regard, he must surely become the next chairman of Chelsea.

McCarthy enjoyed the joke at Phoenix Park

The battle was over, the boys were defeated. But the splendour of Ireland's World Cup performance and the cruel injustice of the loss to Spain brought 100,000 supporters flocking to Phoenix Park to welcome home the heroes. Mick McCarthy was given the biggest cheer, which is something few could have forecast some four weeks ago when he sent home his disruptive captain, Roy Keane. But the Irish coach has forged a formidable link with his country's fans, as recent guests of the Yokohama Bay Sheraton Hotel could testify. Word spread through Yokohama that the Irish players were resting at that excellent hotel, en route to their match with Saudi Arabia. A crowd of fans assembled in the lobby; some Japanese, most Irish and all wore green shirts. The players appeared and were applauded on their way to the team bus. Finally, the elevator doors opened and McCarthy strode through.

He nodded and waved, then seemed to remember an unpaid bill. He went to the desk and produced a credit card. A voice arose from the ranks of green: 'Was it one Coke you had from the mini-bar, Mick? Or two? Tell the truth now.' Difficult to be certain but McCarthy seemed to be giggling.

Another, bolder, voice boomed from the back. 'Ah, Mick! You didn't watch that fillum, did ye?' McCarthy's shoulders shook and he threw his head back. 'Cheeky boogers!' he roared. The place collapsed in mirth, and off they went to scupper the Saudis.

So, no, we weren't surprised when they screamed their approval of McCarthy in Dublin. They were recognising one of their own.