When I was a young boy living in Glack, innocently playing chase up in Sandy Hills or kicking a football down the site, all I ever dreamed about was being a princess.
The 1980s was a strange time to grow up in Glack and neighbouring Ballykelly, simpler even. It was a time long before Friendsreunited and Facebook, and while there was no such drink as Aftershock, cans of Tennents lager had ‘lovely ladies’ on the side of the tin, such as Linda, Susan and my favourite, Janice. Janice had a lovely frock.
People with money aspired to nothing more than owning a trailer tent and a soda stream, while ordinary folk only dreamed of fags, Bacardi and a new Betamax tape player.
As I got older and my brain began to develop fully, I realised that I’d never be a princess. The years went by and my heroes would change and evolve, from Panthro in Thundercats to Monkey Magic. From Gripper Stebson and Blake out of Blake’s 7, to B.A. Baracus and Kelly Monteith.
There was stage later on during a difficult period in my confused, young life when all I ever wanted to be was Marcus out of El Dorado. (I was going through a ‘phase’.)
But more often than not my heroes would be sportsmen. From Anthony Tohill to Brian Robson, Brian Jacks from Superstars, Stephen Roche, Ollie Campbell, Rocky Balboa and a thousand others…

With time rapidly receding Robbie Brady drives out of the Irish half with the ball and finds substitute Aidan McGeady, full of running and intent on making things happen. McGeady slipped the ball out wide to Wes Hoolahan. Hoolahan, shuffled the ball from his right to the left and whipped in the killer ball. The timing of the Brady’s run was exquisite. The bravery of the header. The confidence. He knew exactly where the magician Hoolahan was going to deliver the ball, and he knew where he was going to put it – into the back of the Italian net. Goalkeeper Salvatore Sirigu came running out and could have launched himself at the diminutive Irish footballer like Harold Schumacher but was too slow off the mark and Brady had scored the winner.
Coming immediately after Wes Hoolahan’s sitter, it was failure, redemption and glory all in a minute. And as minutes go, that was probably the best in the history of Irish football.
Jeff Hendrick’s early shot, as he leathered the ball with the left peg only to see the ball rocket inches high and wide, promised much. If Ireland were going out, they would go down with their boots on. They would go down the way we always do – fighting. Hendrick’s rasper was closely followed by Darryl Murphy’s powerful header and from early on we knew that this Italian defence, historically mean and stingy, could be breached. There was hope…
James McClean, the Derry man tearing the Italian markers a fresh one down the left wing, was brought down in the box as he was about to pull the trigger but the referee inexplicably saw no wrong-doing. It’s that burning sense of injustice that can drive a team on, drive a nation on. The fear that yet again we would be valiant losers. But still losers.
Shane Long, standing on his tip toes, gowling into the face of Italian ‘keeper Sirigu’s face. The gormless, greasy Italian ‘keeper didn’t know how to react, and had the very same look on his face as myself when the wife asks the Warrior’s Code to “do something sexy”.
Long’s act of defiance typified Ireland’s performance and their night. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog. And we had plenty of it.
A shattering defeat to Belgium saw Martin O’Neill wield the axe. The landscape was bleak and the vultures were circling.
The changes that the Kilrea man made were designed to make Ireland a taller, stronger, tougher side. In came Daryl Murphy, James McClean, Shane Duffy and Richard Keogh, out went Whelan, John O’Shea, Ciaran Clark and Wes Hoolahan. Hoolahan’s absence was far from popular among the Irish fans but at least keeping him in reserve meant that O’Neill had a weapon to bring off the bench. A weapon of mass destruction as it would turn out.
As for the Italians, it’s fair to say that this was not the greatest Italian side Ireland have ever faced. Antonio Conte had made eight changes from the team that had played against Sweden.
But this is still Italy, and they were still managed by Conte, the managerial star who is on his way to Chelsea, a tactical obsessive who won’t even let every member of his staff in on the tactical sessions, so jealously does he guard his secrets.
The Italians were under fierce physical pressure right from the first whistle from the Irish, with Coleman, McClean and Hendrick all putting in early crunching tackles, which, thanks be to Jesus, referee Ovidiu Hategan let go.
Hot, humid and ‘close’, as they say in our house, under the roof in Lille, as the match wore on the team began to tire. Ireland still needed to score. With 20 minutes to go O’Neill made his first substitution, bringing on the mercurial McGeady for Murphy, then, with 15 minutes to go, Hoolahan came on for McCarthy.
And at the crucial moment it was McGeady who took the ball in midfield, moved forward and calmly rolled it to the feet of Hoolahan to deliver the ball that pierced Italy’s defence.
And the celebrations. The smile beaming from Brady’s face. The legend born. Running to embrace his Mrs and brother in the crowd. Glory, glory days. Roy Keane and Martin O’Neill’s bromance; the looks on their faces; just how much it meant to them both. Keane, that notorious hard man on and off the pitch, of whom it was once said - Roy Keane doesn’t make love, he makes hate.
I’m still pro-Keane. Always will be. And another hero of the Code. Always will be.
Watching the game at home with my son Daniel was the highlight of the whole magical episode. The joy in his eyes as Brady scored and Ireland won. Only 7 years old, he’s unaccustomed to watching Ireland win. But for that one night we were kings. And Daniel had his first hero - Robbie Brady.
When Daniel grows up he doesn’t want to be a princess, he wants to be Robbie Brady. He’s a lot smarter than his oul boy…

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