EURO 2002 ROAD TRIP DAY 7:IT WAS a subdued morning in the Camper Van Village, where even the 1988 vintage blow-up hammers were looking a little deflated. Gloom was general, at least until noon. And the most exciting thing that happened all day was when a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses came calling, van-door to door, to remind everyone that Jesus saves.
We were tempted to crack an old joke about bringing Him in instead of Shay Given for the Spain match. But the evangelists were very polite, earnest young people, who looked as out of place in a football fan environment as the green beret in which Seánie Fitzpatrick has been swanning around Poznan.
So we just took their literature politely and then pointed them in the direction of the bar, where the campsite’s blackest sinners were congregated.
Viewed from the morning after, the worst thing about Sunday night, next to the Irish performance and the result, was the dignified restraint with which the Croatian supporters celebrated.
Either this is a cultural thing – they seem to be a morning people as a rule – or they didn’t consider victory over Ireland something worth getting excited about.
In which case, the cheek of them. But whatever the reason, it was again the green-shirted hoards who, even in defeat, had to paint the town red on their behalf.
So it was a physically and emotionally exhausted campsite by morning. Nobody wanted to think about Gdansk yet, and few had the energy to go anywhere else.
An intriguing day-trip from Poznan is to the town of Zagan: home once to Stalag Luft III, from where in 1943, 76 prisoner-of-war airmen made The Great Escape. Apparently there’s an interesting museum there now. Yet somehow the trip seemed too daunting yesterday.
The van village might as well have been Stalag Luft IV, with improved security, for all the movement there was out of it. Instead, as they came to life during the day, the more energetic inmates organised sporting activities such as football and tennis, while others just sat around eating, drinking and trying to be philosophical about Sunday’s events.
Later there was a certain other matter to revive everyone’s enthusiasm.
As at previous tournaments, most Irish fans in Poland have an each-way bet. They can cheer for Ireland. And when that doesn’t offer any returns, they can cheer for the team playing England.
Thus the Thierry Henry handball was temporarily forgotten around tea-time as the van village threw its weight behind France.
There may have been a few people supporting England, but if there were, they were being very quiet about it.
For this and other reasons, the despondency over the Croatian defeat lifted gradually. It gave way first to cautious pessimism, then acceptance and, later, the beginnings of what by today will have swelled into full-scale hope. Spain didn’t look that great against Italy, after all. And if you searched Sunday night’s game hard enough for a silver lining, it was this.
Great as beating Croatia would have been, it could not have had quite the resonance of those famous wins over England in 1988 or Italy six years later.
Whereas now a new generation of Irish footballers has a chance to write its own chapter of history against the European and world champions. Even a draw would be famous, setting up the possibility of a great escape from Group C in the final match.
So we told ourselves in Stalag Luft IV yesterday, as we gazed out at Poland through a chicken wire fence and made vague plans to start moving towards Gdansk for Thursday’s match.