9 September 1999 Edition
Ray Houghton, I nearly knew ya!
By Mick Derrig
RAY HOUGHTON and I go back quite a while.
He's been lucky enough to have been present at some of my more memorable moments.
On 29 August it was his turn to be there when I was present at the opening of the Late Late Letterkenny Festival - actually the wee man was doing the official opening - but my presence made all the difference, of course.
It's fitting that this diminutive giant has been the backing act to some of my greatest triumphs. We're both Glasgow Bhoys, both proud to be Irish. I'm much the better looking though.
I am, of course, one of the men of 1988 - out in Stuttgart I was, when the Master Race received their biggest second prize since Crossbarry.
Razor - in fairness - played his own minor part by actually sticking the ball in the net, but you need someone who's good at those minor details if you're gonna do them serious damage.
Always sore losers - imperialists are rarely good neighbours - they criticised our style of play. But we played in the way that our history had fashioned us. We could defend with the best of them, but we weren't natural invaders.
The English set out their stall to roll over us and teach us a lesson in native deportment. In defeat, their `supporters' left the field of battle and took it out on non-combatants.
With the bad neighbours banished, we got down to some serious partying. They couldn't beat us either in Italy - so more locals suffered. We continued to hold our own - meet the best of the world as equals and invite everyone to the subsequent fleadh. When Toto Schillachi bade us ``Ciao'', it was the end of a voyage of discovering what our Irishness meant in the world. We were - like all nations - a product of our history.
We had haemorraged out of our island since the famine in obscene numbers. Wherever we had ended up we remained what we were - Irish.
Those custodians of veracity - the English tabloids - gave themselves the power to say who belonged to our nation and who did not. The power to define who you are is something that imperialists almost always take away from natives. Unable to beat us they retreated behind the defensive wall that stated, ``They aren't Irish anyway!''
This team was hugely representative of the Irish experience. In the one hundred years before most of the team were born, being Irish often meant having to leave Ireland - for good. Hyphenated Irish was still Irish. Two Glaswegians proved that in Stuttgart.
Back home, in March 1993, we had to endure a difficult afternoon trying to be polite to our dysfunctional cousins - more Union Jacks. It yet again hammered home the absurdity of Norn Iron as a country - let alone a distinctive culture. Their only musical contribution to the proceedings was to belt out how many Taigs they'd killed. Anyway, with 28 minutes gone it was three-nil to the Boys in Green. The `songs' kinda dried up after that. A certain little Glaswegian directed one-way traffic towards the Norn Iron goal - just as I'd planned it.
Probably my greatest triumph was in the Giants Stadium in New York. I was quite magnificent as me and my supporting act made the Italian support look sound like three Swedes on a Bible study weekend in Ballymena.
The Richter scale gave up as the global Gaeltacht dug into its DNA to teach the world An t-Amhrán na bhFiann.
It felt good, didn't it? Free of the shackles of imperialism, gombeenism and the Hierarchy - that's how it's meant to feel. The après-match was an entirely civilised affair - there were no Union jacks.
It was the world's biggest céilí as we retired to celebrate the fact that we all were, Irish & Italians, tenants in this little village, good neighbour to good neighbour.
The following day we learned that the Butcher's Apron had made an appearance at O'Toole's in Loughinisland - bad neighbours.
A strange `way of life' this that they want to preserve - they only feel good about themselves when they're stepping all over their neighbours.
The sight of Mr Houghton at the festival though, made me remember the good times, when the world's game passed through our global townland.
Thanks, wee man. I couldn't have done it without you.
RAY HOUGHTON and I go back quite a while.
He's been lucky enough to have been present at some of my more memorable moments.
On 29 August it was his turn to be there when I was present at the opening of the Late Late Letterkenny Festival - actually the wee man was doing the official opening - but my presence made all the difference, of course.
It's fitting that this diminutive giant has been the backing act to some of my greatest triumphs. We're both Glasgow Bhoys, both proud to be Irish. I'm much the better looking though.
I am, of course, one of the men of 1988 - out in Stuttgart I was, when the Master Race received their biggest second prize since Crossbarry.
Razor - in fairness - played his own minor part by actually sticking the ball in the net, but you need someone who's good at those minor details if you're gonna do them serious damage.
Always sore losers - imperialists are rarely good neighbours - they criticised our style of play. But we played in the way that our history had fashioned us. We could defend with the best of them, but we weren't natural invaders.
The English set out their stall to roll over us and teach us a lesson in native deportment. In defeat, their `supporters' left the field of battle and took it out on non-combatants.
With the bad neighbours banished, we got down to some serious partying. They couldn't beat us either in Italy - so more locals suffered. We continued to hold our own - meet the best of the world as equals and invite everyone to the subsequent fleadh. When Toto Schillachi bade us ``Ciao'', it was the end of a voyage of discovering what our Irishness meant in the world. We were - like all nations - a product of our history.
We had haemorraged out of our island since the famine in obscene numbers. Wherever we had ended up we remained what we were - Irish.
Those custodians of veracity - the English tabloids - gave themselves the power to say who belonged to our nation and who did not. The power to define who you are is something that imperialists almost always take away from natives. Unable to beat us they retreated behind the defensive wall that stated, ``They aren't Irish anyway!''
This team was hugely representative of the Irish experience. In the one hundred years before most of the team were born, being Irish often meant having to leave Ireland - for good. Hyphenated Irish was still Irish. Two Glaswegians proved that in Stuttgart.
Back home, in March 1993, we had to endure a difficult afternoon trying to be polite to our dysfunctional cousins - more Union Jacks. It yet again hammered home the absurdity of Norn Iron as a country - let alone a distinctive culture. Their only musical contribution to the proceedings was to belt out how many Taigs they'd killed. Anyway, with 28 minutes gone it was three-nil to the Boys in Green. The `songs' kinda dried up after that. A certain little Glaswegian directed one-way traffic towards the Norn Iron goal - just as I'd planned it.
Probably my greatest triumph was in the Giants Stadium in New York. I was quite magnificent as me and my supporting act made the Italian support look sound like three Swedes on a Bible study weekend in Ballymena.
The Richter scale gave up as the global Gaeltacht dug into its DNA to teach the world An t-Amhrán na bhFiann.
It felt good, didn't it? Free of the shackles of imperialism, gombeenism and the Hierarchy - that's how it's meant to feel. The après-match was an entirely civilised affair - there were no Union jacks.
It was the world's biggest céilí as we retired to celebrate the fact that we all were, Irish & Italians, tenants in this little village, good neighbour to good neighbour.
The following day we learned that the Butcher's Apron had made an appearance at O'Toole's in Loughinisland - bad neighbours.
A strange `way of life' this that they want to preserve - they only feel good about themselves when they're stepping all over their neighbours.
The sight of Mr Houghton at the festival though, made me remember the good times, when the world's game passed through our global townland.
Thanks, wee man. I couldn't have done it without you.