Read Days of Heaven for Free Online Page B

McGrath was no doubt partly rooted in this profound intuition, this sixth sense that he had the ‘weakness’ which so many of us have. And
that withal, he was magnificent.
    And then it got a bit tricky, because even though the true story of Paul McGrath had not yet been told, we probably knew enough at that stage to realise that he was magnificent despite his Irishness, and all that had happened to him on this side of the Irish Sea. Deep down, we were guilty that we could do so little for such a vulnerable kid, that England at least could provide
him with a stage on which he could display his great gifts.
    Though lest we forget, if Ireland had abused him, England in turn had abused Ireland. Always, there was the get-out clause.
    We had had this uniquely twisted relationship with Johnny England for a very long time, until the wonders of the Charlton years forced us to move away somewhat from the comforting simplicities
of old and to realise that maybe, just maybe, we could handle the truth. Which, as was suggested by another Irishman who did rather well for himself in England, is ‘rarely pure and never
simple’.
    We were in Germany now, with England beaten at their own game.
    But how could we have done it without them? This defining moment in our island story had been granted to us, not by our Gaelic football and the amateur ethos of which we are so proud. Not by our
hurling, which is ‘the fastest team sport in the world’, and not by our handball, or anything else that might be played in the environs of Croke Park. It was all down to association
football, the game of the conqueror and the coloniser; and the man in charge, trying to correct some of our ancient inadequacies, was a ‘gruff Yorkshireman’.
    Likewise, it was a bookie from Belfast, Barney Eastwood, who steered Barry McGuigan to the world title in boxing, again not one of our Gaelic games, but which kept us going anyway during
McGuigan’s glorious run.
    In fact, Euro 88 came just a year after the astounding achievements of Stephen Roche, who came apparently out of nowhere (Dundrum actually) to win the Tour de France, the Giro d’Italia and
the World road race Championship, all in 1987.
    Again, his efforts had owed virtually nothing to the traditions of the Gael, apart from the tradition of getting the hell out of here if you’re any good.
    I had heard of Sean Kelly, because of a highly-regarded book about him by the sports writer David Walsh, but Roche meant nothing to me when, as Hot Press roving ambassador to the world of
sport, I arrived to interview him very early one morning, placing my absurdly large cassette recorder on the table in front of him, while he breakfasted in a hotel in the borough of Dun Laoghaire,
shortly before he and the rest of his fellow cyclists started the journey to Cork.
    In fact, the extent of my knowledge can be gauged by my incredulity at his proposed schedule, this idea which he had casually voiced, whereby they would cycle all the way from Dublin to
Cork.
    ‘You mean ... you’ll actually cycle ... all the way?’
    ‘Well, if the wind is against us, we might drive to Portlaoise and just take it from there’, he said.
    Good luck with that, I thought.
    ‘By the way, could you not have brought a bigger tape-recorder?’ he quipped, with that understated wit which would become so familiar to us all a year later.
    For now, it was all just a bit baffling, especially at such an early hour.
    And anyway it was only cycling, about which I was no more ignorant than any other Irish person, little knowing that soon we would be speaking sagely about the peloton and the echelon and forming considered opinions about the abilities of various domestiques . But I remember being impressed, as the photographer took the pictures, at the way Roche insisted on
getting all his sponsorship logos together before the snapper did his thing. Yes, the interview might have been a waste of time, but the picture would make it vaguely worth