SURELY IT was for this, or something very much like it, that the Wild Geese spread a grey wing on every tide. Had we not for centuries allowed our brightest and best to fight the battles of every megalomaniac in Europe.

Now we had taken to heart at last, the lessons they had taught us and recruited the sons of our own Diaspora (Cornish, Celt, Liverpudlian and lascar alike) to swamp the colours of the old enemy on the plains of Stuttgart.

Those of us who could spread our wings no further than Scruffy Murphy in Dublin 2 were there in spirit nevertheless. Echoing Sarsfield at the end of our travail we proclaimed: "Would that this were for Ireland."

As soon as the computerised clock on the giant screen had told us that our long wait was over we went of the jugular. We had watched the match on RTÉ. Now we wanted the Brits.

We had no time any more for the breathless George Hamilton, the urbane Bill O'Herlihy, the analytical John Giles or the rather bewildered Don Givens. We wanted blood, we wanted embarrassment, we wanted to see them grovel, eating their hats and their words.

We should have known better. As soon as the switch was thrown and the baying had subsided, we heard Brian Clough tell us that we had lost. England had won by 18 chances to one he said. The gospel according the Ian St John was more or less the same.

"The (anonymous) goalkeeper lad was inspired," they told us.

"England played better football. They didn't play at all in the first half," we were informed.

We brushed foaming liquid from our lips and tears of mischievous laughter from our eyes. We were enjoying this better than the match. Bobby Robson appeared to tell us that all was not lost for his team. The Dutch and the Russians were not all they were cracked up to be. They were there for the taking.

"The Irish were always going to be a difficult proposition," he told us, contradicting his previously expressed view that we were eighth among the eight teams in the competition.

He fancied, or so he seemed to say, that his team and our team were favourites to reach the semi-finals. He wasn't asked, nor did he comment, on what his attitude would be to a second meeting in the final.

Finally we went back to our RTÉ source. There were Jack the Giant Killer and Bobby together. We were given only a short snatch of this with Bill O'Herlihy urging us to "tune in for more later."

Jack looked like a man who had found a Christmas stocking at the end of his bed in the middle of August. Bobby like one who had overslept and missed Santa Claus. "We did not take our chances," he told us again. He was beginning to sound like a tape which had stuck. Jack just beamed.

"That was just marvellous," said Liam Tuohy. "Bonner must be the man of the match but what a game Ray Houghton had, brilliant. A really great day."

Beside him, Shay Keogh nodded and smiled. These two had seen the greatest of the great days of the history of a Shamrock Rovers club in sad decline.

There is no knowing what the events in Stuttgart may have done for Irish soccer. For the moment it is enough that romance and courage and (a lot of luck perhaps) have left us with a day to be remembered.