So the team lost 2-1. But where was the decency Irish football supporters once had in abundance, asks Mary Hannigan
When Kevin Kilbane was named in the Irish squad for September's European Championship qualifier against Russia in Moscow he conceded that it would be a welcome relief to get away from club duty at Sunderland for a while, to play in front of supporters who would never doubt you so long as you gave your all.
A quaint quality, perhaps an incongruous one in this sporting day and age, but one that's been the commendable forte of the Jolly Green Army for as long as Kilbane, and most of his international team-mates, can remember.
Granted, it doesn't have much to do with anything, but Kilbane is one of the Irish squad's gentlemen, an affable, decent man, devoid of the brashness that some of his colleagues possess.
One who, incidentally, turned down an offer of an England youth call-up as a teenager because he wanted to play for the country of his parents' birth. Preston born, Irish by nature. No big deal, that's just how he felt. Even if an England call-up would have boosted his career, and his earning-power, immeasurably.
Perhaps he witnessed English supporters booing their own players - the likes of John Barnes and Chris Waddle come to mind - at Wembley in his youth and thought, "it's Ireland for me". Kilbane was innocent then, as was the Jolly Green Army, just back from US '94, Ireland's second successive World Cup. Happy days.
The reason for Kilbane's relief, at the prospect of going away on Irish duty last month, was simple enough. At Sunderland this season, he has been subjected to dog's abuse from his own supporters, his every touch booed, resulting in any semblance of confidence draining, painfully, from his body. With Ireland, at least, the fans would lift him, so long as they believed he'd have no "gas left in the tank" at full-time. That's all they'd ask. No more.
After Wednesday night? God be with the days.
He had a poor game against Switzerland, the latest in a long run of inadequate displays, but one that was not helped by his manager's perplexing decision to play him in a position utterly foreign to him. After 62 minutes Clinton Morrison appeared on the touchline, ready to come on as a substitute. The crowd waited to see who was being taken off. When Kilbane's number 11 lit up on the official's board, they jeered as the player made his way to the bench. It must have been the longest, loneliest jog of his lifetime.
After years of doing the decent thing, showing it was a cut above, the Jolly Green Army has proved it has caught "up" with its European Big Shot football-supporting counterparts by being just as nasty, unforgiving and callous. Maybe Ireland came of age on Wednesday night. European integration, you might call it.
It was an ugly, deeply depressing moment, even for the most cynical observers. So much for Irish duty being a refuge from the spite Kilbane endures when playing for Sunderland. Naively, he thought Irish football supporters were different.
Many, probably most, would argue Kilbane is not of international standard, but not even his harshest critics could doubt his commitment when playing for Ireland. Call him old-fashioned, call him corny, but Kilbane gets a blast of dewy-eyed passion when he pulls on an Irish shirt.
That he is no Damien Duff is hardly his fault. He can't be blamed, either, for his manager's decision to stubbornly persist with him when, if he was honest with himself, he'd admit that Kilbane is not up to the task at international level.
That he was booed at Lansdowne Road probably said much more about the folk doing the booing than it did about Kevin Kilbane. The greatest supporters in the world? As Jim Royle might put it: "my arse". Fickle? Most definitely.
It's barely three months since 100,000 people gathered in the Phoenix Park to welcome home these same players, and this same manager, from the World Cup. If you were at Lansdowne Road on Wednesday night you had to wonder where has all this venom and malice come from? Of course, the Roy Keane/Mick McCarthy dispute was the backdrop - the miserable start to Ireland's qualifying campaign exacerbating the supporters' frustration. Maybe when they booed Kilbane they were really booing McCarthy. Maybe.
True, some believe McCarthy's time is up, some believe he has made a dog's dinner of his job in recent months, not least with his handling of the Keane affair and the misguided publication of his World Cup diary. But, whatever those views, the simple, undeniable fact is that Mick McCarthy did not deserve the nasty and cruel treatment he was served up the Lansdowne Road crowd on Wednesday night. At full-time, he could have hastily retreated down the tunnel. But instead he strode on to the pitch and shook each of his players' hands, thanking them for their efforts, even if they weren't enough. Then he headed for the tunnel, and the bulk of the people in the stand facing him booed him with gusto. He kept his dignity and walked on, ignoring the abuse, fading out of view, possibly for the last time at Lansdowne Road.
Whatever his mistakes, Mick McCarthy deserved better, even from those who ache for Roy Keane's return. You can doubt plenty about Mick McCarthy - his tactics, his player-selection, his judgment - but his most virulent of detractors could never, ever dispute his passionate yearning for his Republic of Ireland team to succeed. For him, for them and for the supporters. Call him old-fashioned, call him corny, a mirror-image of Kilbane, perhaps, but that's the way he is.
There was, once, a decency about Irish football supporters, not the trite "begorra" image presented by the charmed foreign media, just a lovely sense of fair play and display of sportsmanship that, damn it, made you proud. It was, though, sadly absent on Wednesday night, not just from the Keane supporters, but also from the "pro-Mick" contingent who chose to heap vile abuse on the exiled Irish captain in response to the chants of "Keano" that filled the ground.
Whatever Keane's faults, there was no doubting his devotion to the cause before the mother of all personality clashes separated manager and captain.
When you exit the players' tunnel, in the bowels of Lansdowne Road, after a football international you usually have to wade through throngs of autograph-hunting children, the security staff desperately trying to create a parting in the crowd to allow the players make their way to the team coach.
On Wednesday night, Irish captain Kenny Cunningham had no such obstacles in his path. The five or six loyal youngsters hardly caused a stir. Cunninghamsigned their autograph books and made for the coach. It was his quickest exit from Lansdowne Road. It was a sad night for Cunningham. A sad night for his manager, his former captain and, at the risk of being too melodramatic, Ireland.