Football fans everywhere will sympathise with Dino Zoff, who resigned as Italian coach this week after Silvio Berlusconi dubbed him an "amateur" for not having Zinedine Zidane man-marked in last Sunday's Euro 2000 final. My own involvement in that game was restricted to shouting at the TV set. But I thought I still had a bigger influence on the result than Zidane who, great player though he is, was a peripheral figure on the night.
The reason I was shouting at the television in a match that didn't involve Ireland was, of course, sheer passion for the game. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that I had Italy in the office sweep - perish the thought! And this also in no way influenced my opinion that the Italians were the team of the tournament, daring to be defensive in a competition dominated by attack-minded fancy dans.
Italy's skill and courage were exemplified by the rear-guard action against Holland in the semi-final, when blue-shirted players fearlessly threw themselves to the ground every time a Dutchman came within five yards. Some thought they were cynical; but I would argue there was too much at stake (£120 in my case) to expect free-flowing football at that stage of the tournament.
Indeed, as far as this column is concerned, the only tactical error Zoff made in the final was not paying off the match officials (I'd have thrown in a tenner myself). Had they restricted injury time to even three minutes, France wouldn't have scored and no one would now be any the wiser. God knows it wasn't for want of loud advice from this quarter that the referee didn't blow it up earlier.
Still, the way the game ended made for gripping entertainment. Especially if you were trying to watch it in a hotel room in the west of Ireland, with two excited children who wanted to do just about anything except watch a football match on television.
My 23-month-old daughter reacts to hotel rooms the way English soccer supporters react to beer. It's just over-enthusiasm in her case. But the first couple of hours in a hotel can be dangerous, especially since one of her favourite games at the moment is climbing onto pieces of furniture and jumping off them into her father's arms. Without always checking if her father is there first.
Her other favourite game is trying to kill her baby brother. This is a normal impulse among children with younger siblings (especially younger siblings who've just been admired by tourists in the hotel lobby), and it often happens under the guise of affection. The baby will be patted gently at first, but when the parent is not watching the patting may become more vigorous, sometimes including the use of heavy, blunt objects. Either way, hitting the baby was Roisin's main priority as Sunday night's match got under way.
It was a tense first half, a classic confrontation between attack and defence. On the one side a two-year-old girl, relying on flair and experience, and on the other a seven-month-old boy, relying on his parents. To complicate matters further, the parents were trying to eat dinner in the room, since the hotel restaurant didn't have a TV and the bar was no place for kids. But thanks to man-marking and desperate defending, half-time was reached without major incident.
It was scoreless in Rotterdam as well. Then early in the second half, Dino Zoff threw Del Piero into the attack and, within 60 seconds Italy had scored. With excitement mounting, I decided it was time for a tactical switch too. You need to be able to concentrate in order to shout the correct advice at the television under pressure, so I suggested to my Euro 2000-sceptic wife that now would be a good time to give Roisin an extensive tour of the hotel grounds.
Thus free from the danger of attack, me and the baby watched the Italians close in on victory; a victory that was rarely threatened until, four minutes and 20 seconds into injury time, France inexplicably scored. It was a blow, but all was not yet lost. Attack-minded substitutions had unbalanced the French team, I reasoned; extra-time would suit Italy. And although the game resumed with France in the ascendant, hopes of a breakaway goal were high.
Then, about 12 minutes in, disaster struck. Having calculated that the game would be over by now, my wife chose this precise moment to return with Roisin who, invigorated by the fresh air, launched a renewed offensive on the baby. I pulled him out of the way just in time, keeping one eye on the television, where Albertini was on the ball outside the Italian penalty area.
In the confusion, however, I hit the remote control, changing the channel to CNN. With the baby in one arm, I scrambled to find the right button with my free hand; but by the time the football was back on, France were celebrating and the Italians were on their knees. I stared blankly at the screen, not quite taking in what had happened, until the slow-motion replays confirmed France's "golden goal".
"Is it still on?" my wife asked. "Not any more," I said, dazed. It was around about this point Roisin finally saw her chance, taking advantage of the loss of concentration to slip behind the defence and smack the baby on the head. What drama! Suddenly it was all over bar the shouting, of which there was a lot.
Two-year-olds are like French strikers: you can't afford to take your eyes off them for a moment. If the baby could talk, he'd probably call me an "amateur". But it just shows you, you get away with nothing at this level.
Frank McNally is at fmcnally@irish-times.ie
