It's a Vision Thing

It was mentioned last week - by some members of the mongrel pack that huddle at the side of Malahide United's pitch for gristly morsels of quotes from the Republic of Ireland manager - that Stephen Staunton seemed in relatively "good form".

Some speculated that it was due to the bludgeoning being dished out on Eddie O'Sullivan, that the erstwhile paragon of Irish international managerial excellence was now occupying the stocks to which Staunton was usually bound. That line sounds glib, but, by the infantile standards of Staunton's usual public justifications, nonetheless believeable.

More likely, however, is that the manager was enjoying the hubris of suddenly-realised invulnerability. The trip to central Europe had been characterised by similar - if not quite as disastrous - incompetencies to the Cyprus fiasco of 11 months previously, yet the support of Staunton's employers for their manager rang out more loudly than the clamour for his removal.

The same selectorial eccentricities, further erroneous substitutions and a continuing overwhelming lack of sense of purpose were evident.

This is not to suggest that the players' commitment to the cause was lacking in any way; one of the redeeming features of Staunton's management is the undoubted efforts his players continue to provide. But no-one questioned the commitment of the soldiers at the Somme as they were ordered towards their doom, neither does anyone credit their commanders for it.

The fact that a dismal return from the pivotal qualification matches resulted in voluminous backing from the FAI must surely have emboldened Staunton thereafter, perhaps explaining then his levity of mood last week.

Nothing that happened on Saturday will have damaged or abetted the manager. The attitude of the players was once again excellent; the performance of Joey O'Brien another success for the blooding policy of this campaign.

But that sense of purposeless is highlighted at home more than anywhere. The understrength Germans' general comfort with proceedings pinpoints the sad demise of the Irish international team. No matter how low we think we are, in these days when we are constantly reminded to redefine our expectations, no international side, especially one denuded of most of their best players, should expect to sleepwalk their way through an international in Dublin.

The lack of a vision for his team is something which our manager should now be eliminating. The fact that Andy Reid has gone from pariah to the central hub of the team in the space of two games demontrates the haphazard nature of Staunton's stewardship. The tossing in of Andy Keogh on the right wing another random, surreal whim of a selection.

By this stage we should expect - whatever the other flaws - to have a notion of how Staunton's Ireland would ideally line-up and play. That we don't is the fundamental problem with this ramshackle, irrational operation.

I Can Picture It Now...

One of keys to success, so they who know about these things claim, is to visualise it. That way, when it comes to the moment of truth, when your mettle is tested, it will feel like you have already done it before.

Being open of heart and generous of nature (just ask my servants) I have always longed for Steve Staunton to be a success as Ireland manager. Not just because, having the word "Eireannach" on my passport, it's expected; nor because of the long and dutiful service the lanky southpaw gave his country as a player.

Mainly, it was just so the poor wretch would not have to endure any longer the full, double-barrelled barrage of this nation's Industry of Ridicule, be they the amateur bar-room satirists of the general public and the (ahem) internet blogging community, or the professional firing squad of the media.

Such has been the torrent of denigration that Stan has endured (not all of it due to his 'interesting' team selections and 'minimalist' press conferences), it would not require Our Lady of Lourdes to wish for some mercy for the chap.

But back to the visualisation thing. In rooting for the guy, during those short interludes when his reign has been characterised by relative calm, I have often tried to picture success for the Louthman in the Ireland job. I have tried to visulaise Stan the Conquering Hero, striding onto the Croke Park turf - in Churchillian style, if you will - to take the acclaim after defeating Germany next month.

Or Stan the Master Tactician, who earns a respectful nod from Karel Bruckner, having just outwitted the grey Gandalf of European football in tonight's contest in Prague.

"A well deserved victory, Stephen, playing Richard Dunne up front - I had no idea. Alex Ferguson, Ottmar Hitzfeld, Capello and I are going for a Staropramen after the game, interested?"

"Ah no thanks Karel, I'd like to be with my boys."

Or Stan On The Late Late, spinning yarns to Pat about Mick Byrne's antics, recounting funny tales of the trip to the finals in Austria and Switzerland, holding the audience rapt, until Bono and Larry Mullen come in to present him with, I don't know, a saxaphone or something (I'm speculating on Stan having a rich cultural life, unbeknownst to his persecutors in the outside world).

But....I'm struggling. All I can see is Stan the Sacked, Stan the Bitter, Stan Blaming the Media, Stan the Newspaper Column Aimed At Taking Potshots At His Successor. I can see all them dancing in my brain like the results of a particularly bad acid trip. Stan the Success? He seems to have gone the way of Michael O'Leary the Humble, or Beckham the Publicity Shy.

I just hope Stan's better at this visualisation lark than I am.

Ireland Give Us a Smile

Stephen Staunton is probably still smiling this morning. Certainly, appearing in front of the cameras after last night's game, the grin that sat resplendently on his hitherto haunted chops seemed like one that would take some time to shift.

It was the smile of someone who'd just been defrocked from some religious order for whom the vow of non-smiling was sacrosanct. It was the smile of the reprieved man being unstrapped from the electric chair just moments after the call from the governor. It was the smile of the teenage boy with the newly-popped cherry.

It was also a different smile to the hollow sneer that had been deployed in the previous days during Staunton's futile game of cat-and-mouse with the media. This smile was pure in its expression and honest in intent.

Which, while we're at it, is pretty much a fair summation of his team's performance. Much like in the draw with the Czech Republic, Ireland played with that commitment and fierce drive which we once took for granted. Again, the fuel of criticism probably fired the display, but, leaving the reservations and problems aside for just a moment, the template for this team's future success seems just a little more apparent this morning.

Last night was also a redemptive experience for Irish soccer more generally, with specific reference to how the crowd and team did belated justice to their new home, providing a timely rejoinder to recalcitrant Gaels and nouveau rugger-lovers who'd expressed acidic glee at Saturday's damp squib.

I don't know if it was the lights, or just the fact that we'd had a few drinks, but my, you looked a lot prettier last night than in the cold light of Saturday. The awesome roar which accompanied the commencement of battle belied any notion that the supporters might have grown cynical and distant from their team. That said, even the loudest backing would soon have dissolved to nothing had Saturday's wan aimlessness continued on the park.

Instead, Ireland set about their task with aggression and conviction. Every player did their work with an appetite that suggests (although we made this same point after the Czech game) that Staunton's motivational abilities might yet be his making. Of course, picking the right team is more important than motivating the wrong team, and, largely, this time, Staunton's selection was correct.

Most remain confused as to the point of swapping John O'Shea and Steve Finnan. But that aside, Stephen Ireland revelled in his advanced role, Damien Duff was at his classic, tormenting best on the left wing, Kevin Doyle led the line brilliantly and dear old Kevin Kilbane put in one of those fulsome efforts that explains his attractiveness to embattled managers in search of honest toil.

Aiden McGeady was disappointing in comparison, yielding possession too often, and contrary to my thoughts yesterday, appeared not quite ready for the international arena. However, his presence gave balance to the side and, by holding a disciplined position on the right wing, helped allow Ireland to stretch the Slovaks sufficiently to provide Damien Duff with the space in which to conjure.

Stephen Hunt might seem worthy of his place right now, but, being purely a left-sided player, his deployment would require Duff's relocation, and the sleepy fella remains our best outlet on the sinister side of the field.

That's all fine and dandy, but what of that hair-raising spell in the second half in which the Slovaks laid siege to Irish territory? A pause here, before proceeding, to recognise the magnificient resistance of the Irish back six - Given, O'Shea, McShane, Dunne, Finnan, Carsley.

Resolute and pugnacious to a man (yes, even O'Shea), they set the tone.

But the fingernail-munching part? We come back to the charge against Ireland that remains unanswered: the lack of a ball-playing midfielder. Repeatedly last night, as the Irish defence repelled Slovak advances, the ball simply squirmed back into enemy possession and the onslaught resumed. With no-one in the Irish midfield able to take charge of the tiller and dictate the pace of the game, we listed badly before regaining buoyancy.

The vessel reached home port to the cheering welcomes of the multitudes, and the spoils of the journey see Ireland's group D campaign restored to reasonable health. And finally, Stan has something to smile about.

McGeady's Time Comes

As a player who has made his fledgling reputation through trickery and guile, you'd think timing would have been one of Aiden McGeady's strong points. Possibly, when he chose to represent Ireland schoolboys as a 15-year-old at Celtic youths, with the Irish senior team on their way to a World Cup and the country of his birth at its lowest ever footballing ebb, he might have reckoned he was hitching a ride on a gravy train of international success.

Instead, just as the young Glaswegian came to footballing maturity, he found his boxcar chugging to a halt down a rusty siding.

Of course, McGeady didn't quite - as is generally perceived in Scotland - 'snub' the country of his birth for the promise of glory in that of his grandparents. The winger had intended to play for Scotland schoolboys; however, because Celtic did not allow their youth players to play for their schools, and Scotland in turn did not select schoolboys who did not actually turn out for their school teams, the call of Erin beckoned McGeady.

Well, more accurately, the dulcet tones of Packie Bonner, he of Burtonport in Co.Donegal, just a matter of miles away from the McGeadys' ancestral home. Bonner, then goalkeeping coach to the Irish team, persuaded McGeady to try out for the Irish U-15 squad, and he remained largely anonymously involved with Ireland's underage teams until his sudden success at Celtic brought upon him the ire of Scotland's more self-righteous football observers.

Although McGeady's decision to pledge his allegiance to the FAI rather than the SFA could be excused on the technicality of the dilemma presented to him as a 15-year-old, it is probably inaccurate to rule out the role of personal ambition in his decision. Certainly, had Ireland and Scotland's relative positions at that stage been reversed, one wonders whether the ember of Irish patriotism would have burst so completely aflame.

Still, have no doubt that Scotland's loss will become ever more apparent over time, regardless of the general performance of the two nations. Stephen Staunton has turned to McGeady as part of the panacea to the malady that has laid Ireland's national side so low in recent times. Along with Kevin Doyle, the Celtic winger is one of two changes to the team that lulled 72,000 people toward an afternoon siesta last Saturday. The aim is clear: an improved performance, yes, but a little bit of excitement wouldn't go amiss either.

Already Staunton's friends in the media are nursing a Stephen Hunt shaped stick with which to beat the manager should McGeady not impress, and Ireland underperform again. Certainly, the Reading man's continued exclusion is harsh in the extreme, given not only his positive contributions in his two brief international cameos, but also the fact that he has been one of the Premiership's most consistently eye-catching performers (too eye-catching as far as Petr Cech was concerned). Hunt's innate enthusiasm would seem ideally suited to lifting the often mopish mood that afflicts the current Irish team.

However McGeady will not be lacking in enthusiasm either. His dribbling wizardry and attacking nature will provide a well-deserved entertainment factor for the long suffering Ireland faithful. Just as importantly, his control, ball-retention and passing ability will be invaluable in a team for whom such basics often looked alien on Saturday.

Three years on from his Celtic debut, 20-year-old McGeady remains a player of gigantic promise, rather than a finished product, for all that his ongoing improvement as been consistent and tangible in that time. Celtic supporters - aware of the fact that manager Gordon Strachan continues to spare the winger the more attritional of SPL conflicts - while delighted at the call-up, will worry that the carefully tended prize of their garden has been requisitioned to feed the malnourished Irish team, and that its ongoing turmoil might afflict him also.

Still, McGeady's manful display against AC Milan in the San Siro a few weeks ago suggests that he could be reaching the sort of maturity which relishes such challenges as this evening's. Perhaps his country's timing in picking the man could prove better than the man's in picking his country.

Careful With That Valaska, Marek!

Slovakia darken our door tomorrow night, and might hesitate at the threshold, muttering, "Oh, have we come at a bad time?" when confronted with the scene of domestic strife presented by the Irish football family.

But what do we know of our visitors, aside from the accepted wisdom about them being "technically very good" and armed with "dangerous movement" (these are recognised truths because, compared to us, pretty much everyone is technically good and dangerous. Apart from Wales. Thank God for Wales!)?

Velvet Divorce
If Czechoslovakia was Ike & Tina Turner (without the punching), it's the Czechs that went on to international chart success and scary hair upon their separation, and Slovakia that ended up doing stir on a drugs rap.

While the Czech Republic have been a serious power in European football since independence in 1992 (reaching the final of Euro 1996 and the semi-finals of Euro 2004, and producing noted players like Pavel Nedved, Karel Pobrosky, Jan Koller, Marek Jankulovski and Tomas Rosicky), their old flames in Slovakia have never so much as made the final stages of a tournament.

Notable Slovaks are restricted to Celtic hero Lubomir Moravcik, journeyman centre-half Stanislav Varga and non-scoring former Middlesbrough striker Szilard Nemeth.

River Deep, Mountain High
But unlike Ike, the Slovaks could yet achieve solo success. They went agonisingly close to making the short trip to Germany for last year's World Cup. As runner-up to Portugal in group 3 (beating out Russia into third) they advanced to a play-off against Spain, where alas, the wheels came spectacularly off. A Luis Garcia hat-trick in the first leg helped the Spaniards to a 6-2 aggregate victory.

I would Bratislava it if we beat them...
This time around it's been mixed, to be honest. The Slovaks seem eminently capable of disposing of the group's lesser lights, hammering Cyprus 6-1 and 3-1 home and away, and demolishing the Welsh 5-1.

However, when faced with the group's stronger sides, estranged spouse the Czech Republic and Germany, the Slovaks go to pieces. They lost 3-0 at home to the Czechs and 4-1, also in Bratislava, against the Germans.

Therefore, whether they will view Ireland as spankable minnows or frightening group overlords could determine much tomorrow night...

Are you Mintal?
Marek Mintal of FC Nurnberg is Slovakia's top scorer in the tournament so far, but, hallelujah, misses out tomorrow night due to a foot injury. The Slovaks' hopes rest on Mintal's teammate at Nurnberg, Robert Vittek, Brescia midfielder Marek Hamsik and Porto's Marek (the Slovak equivalent of Pat, obviously) Cech.

Mountains and Castles and Stuff
If Slovakia can leapfrog Ireland and begin to snap at the heels of the Czechs, it will be well overdue. As on the football field, so in other areas has the Czech Republic been more prominent than their neighbours.

Much of this is due to Prague, the Czech capital, being one of the must-visit destinations of post-communist eastern Europe, its magnificent architecture, historical fascination, delicious beer and fit women making it attractive to the coach-tour circuit, romantic city-breakers and lairy stag parties alike.

But much like its footballers in group D, Slovakia's attractiveness to tourists is coming up hard on its neighbour's shoulder. With the spectacular Carpathian Mountains home to countless mediaeval castles and untouched villages retaining much of their bucolic authenticity - and that's before one considers Bratislava itself - Slovakia's charms are obvious.

Presumably Irish fans visiting in September will take time out to enjoy Devin Castle, an 8th century fortress perched on a clifftop around 9km from Bratislava. Of course they will.

Valaska stupid question...
Slovakia even has a national weapon. The Valaska is a long, thin and light axe, which is mainly used nowadays in traditional dances (Dancing with axes? Someone could have their eye out with that carry-on!). It was also used by Slovak folk hero Juraj Janosik, a forest robber who stole from the rich to give to the poor. Hang on a minute...

TSA Report: Ireland v Wales

At some point during Saturday's mind-numbing afternoon at Croke Park, a mild commotion broke out up in the chilly top-left corner of Hill 16. Two spectators were refusing to sit and a steward was attempting to address the breach of stadium procedure. Howeer, the fans in question were not erect through uncontrollable excitement at the events on the pitch, nor were they engaging in an act of civil disobedience.

In fact, the two gentlemen were unable to sit because the seat corresponding to the number on their expensively purchased ticket did not, well, actually exist. Forced to take in the remainder of the Group D Euro 2008 qualifier with their rear ends perched on the icy concrete of the famous terrace, their good humour at the indignity was admirable.

For the rest of us, luxuriating on plastic, the incident seemed plum in keeping with the spirit of ineptitude abroad on the field.

Having missed out on the gluttonous feasts of history and resonance that the recent rugby internationals at Jones' Road were portrayed as, yesterday's first soccer international felt very much like nibbling stale scraps from posterity's table. Not entirely the fault of the team, of course; the sense of the bandwagon having blown town was inevitable given how the public imagination had steeped itself in the oval-ball hullaballoo of recent months.

But, much as I believed the case might be, where Ireland's rugby team had the force of personality to eventually inhabit the vast arena comfortably, their soccer equivalents looked like small boys wearing their Daddy's trousers.

But again, that's not entirely their fault. Where Six Nations rugby represents, if not the pinnacle of the sport, at least one of its higher echelons, the general quality of international football has long been negligible, especially when practiced by the two extremely limited teams who lined up under the Hogan Stand on Saturday.

But enough of the extenuating circumstances. There was far more to the limpness of Saturday's occasion that is not excusable. Ireland's inability to deal convincingly with such poor opponents was not surprising to anyone who has watched them recently, but that doesn't make it any less infuriating.

Most maddening of all was that classic warning sign of a manager bereft of tactical understanding: personnel being played out of position. For some reason, bad football managers often think putting a right-footed player on the left will outfox the opposition in some way, when in fact it is generally the player himself who ends up looking bamboozled.

Steve Finnan is a highly capable right-back for one of the Premiership's top sides, a Champions League winner who provides a useful threat when getting forward. Selected at left-back by Stephen Staunton on Saturday, he looked like a new-born foal who'd been asked to run the Grand National.

John O'Shea took Finnan's position, despite the fact that the Manchester United player has played left-back on many occasions for club and country. Stephen Ireland occupied unfamiliar turf on the right-side of midfield; Damien Duff was nominally a forward player, although he did drop off into wide positions to more useful effect.

More critical, however, than the eccentricity of the team selection, was Ireland's inability to dominate Wales from central midfield. Where you'd expect this part of the field to be a fiery battleground for supremacy in an international football match, on Saturday the struggle in the middle third resembled two punch-drunk heavyweights plodding through a bottom-of-the-bill prize-fight.

While both Lee Carsley and Jonathan Douglas are combative enough, and lack nothing in commitment, neither has the ability to control the game and provide forward impetus for their team. When Ireland's defenders had the ball at their feet, rarely did they find one of their central midfield colleagues demanding it be played to them, so that they may advance possession into the opposing half in a meaningful way.

Consequently, Irish defenders repeatedly 'knocked' balls vaguely in the direction of the strikers, and the sense of cluelessness quickly set-in. In fairness, Ireland are not over-endowed with options in this area, but the appointment of a ball-playing central-midfielder is urgent.

During the second half the crowd performed an extended Mexican Wave. Where normally I would grumble at the appearance of this tiresome phenomenon, it was hard to argue with the spectators providing themselves some alternative entertainment. Indeed, Stephen Ireland's tidy finish aside, the impeccably well-executed wave was one of the few accomplished sights of the day.

I'm pretty sure the two guys without seats joined in as well.

Can Ireland Rise To The Occasion?

Back to Croker we go, and another historic first. Not soccer at GAA HQ (the 1901 Irish Cup Final got there before St.Patrick banished the size 5 ball from Jones' Road), but rather seats on the Hill. Wittily, the bucket seats installed on the famous terrace are sky blue and navy, the favoured hue of the metropolitan hordes that normally occupy that storied facility.

Will we hear the sound of those seats appreciatively flipping upright tomorrow as their occupants stand in praise of Stephen Staunton's team? Or will that be more of a disgusted clatter as punters exit another rum Irish performance?

Certainly, the sense of foreboding is all-pervasive. If even Ireland's gifted rugby team were somewhat overwhelmed by the enormity of the occasion in the opening period of their first match in Croke Park, one must fear for our hapless footballers under the gaze of 70,000-odd pairs of eyes.

Jock Stein once said that "the Celtic jersey does not shrink to fit inferior players" (the great man was speaking many years prior to the signature of Regi Blinker). Equally, an arena like Croke Park will not shed any of its grandeur to accomodate an inferior team. Which begs the question: will this Irish team swell to perform at a level appropriate to the surroundings? Or will the mediocrity which has long been associated with the Irish soccer team see them lost in the vastness of the occasion?

There would seem to be little to suggest that this team have the capacity to deliver a performance befitting a venue of Croker's scale. The draw with the Czech Republic at Lansdowne Road last October stands as the only acceptable display of Stephen Staunton's stewardship, the debut victory over Sweden and the facile home win over San Marino aside.

Either side of that game we endured perhaps the two most embarassing evenings in the history of Irish soccer. In many ways, the win over San Marino was even more abominable than the humiliation in Cyprus. Cyprus could have been written off: wrong selection, bad formation, calamitous individual errors and a sense of freakishness in the way that every time a Cypriot entered our penalty box, he was wheeling away in celebration only moments later.

We hoped our young manager would learn quickly, that the return of Lee Carsley would stiffen the midfield, that Paul McShane might instill solidity at the back and, anyway, there was always Shay.

San Marino was so depressing because it felt like nothing had been learned, and the rudderlessness of the display represented a team bereft of leadership on and off the field. While we've grown to accept that Staunton - how sad it is to see a great servant mortified so - will be unable to positively influence matters, all hope seems lost when the players lack the footballing intelligence to put to bed a nonentity like San Marino.

All this doom is giving me a headache though. At least Ireland arrive without the weight of expectation that caused their rugby counterparts to initially buckle. But even though anything less than a win against Wales would be greeted with outrage, there is also a sense that any grim outcome is possible. This Irish team should, in normal circumstances, feel confident of overcoming the Welsh, but confidence cannot be an ample commodity in the camp these days.

Wales are fundamentally ordinary, however, with Ryan Giggs and Craig Bellamy backed by a supporting cast of journeymen and kids. Everything else aside, Ireland should win tomorrow, based purely on the quality available to both teams. Undoubtedly, big performances are required from the senior players, and one must hope those on the park have the wherewithal to engineer a victory suitable to the occasion. Recourse to the Croke Park sideline may be futile.

Stanworld: The General

The great general surveyed the battlefield. It was quiet now, but for the laughs and shouts of his loyal troops, running drills in anticipation of Saturday's skirmish. By then the noise would be deafening. Full of fans waving flags and going mad, as he perceptively informed the ranks of the press corps.

What fine men they were, he thought, looking on as his players gambolled on the Croke Park turf, and how they loved him! Robbie, his lion-hearted captain whom he had watched grow from precocious boy to leader of men. Dunney, barrel-chested and brave; Shay, the inscrutable lieutenant in goal; little Duffer, so eager, so keen. He knew these men would march with him unto the gravest peril, should he give the order; even unto Macedonia.

And how he would need them now. San Marino had been a pyrrhic victory, a bloody struggle for inches of no-man's land. According to some observers, the great generals of the past would have routed the guerilla forces on that Italian hillside, crushing the rebel bands without mercy. He cared not for the mythology of the past, however, for how his predecessors had been deified. Like Big Jack, who did great work for Bord Failte with the fishing and all.

But he sensed the forces ranged against him from inside to be as threatening as those crossing the Irish Sea to confront him in open combat. "How dare they?! How dare they?!" he thundered again and again when contemplating the insiduous plotting he suspected all around him. Et tu, Mick Byrne?

Don’t be ridiculous. No, he was safe in here, with his men and the backroom staff. Honest, happy faces, loyal to the last. Here he felt strong. Let the public chatter in their taverns and places of business, let them foment discord. Too rich, idle and fat for their own good, he sniffed, as John O'Shea stretched nearby.

They'd been spoiled in the past, that was the problem. They'd grown used to the plunder of victory. But there were no easy battles in international warfare anymore. Cyprus, who once capitulated at the merest grimace from Keano, now attacked with impudence.

His mind wandered to Saturday. He thought of Sun Tzu and The Art of War. "So it is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will win a hundred times in a hundred battles. If you only know yourself, but not your opponent, you win one and lose the next. If you do not know yourself or your enemy, you will always lose." For Sun Tzu there was no such thing as a potential banana skin.

If it was true that knowing both yourself and your enemies would lead to victory, what of the Welsh, that dragon-worshipping tribe his beloved men would face on Saturday? "They know us," he thought, "we know them, we know us, and they know them, so...." His head began to hurt.

He remembered another line from Sun Tzu, as the lads began to filter back towards the dressing rooms: "A military operation involves deception. Even though you are competent, appear to be incompetent. Though effective, appear to be ineffective." He laughed to himself. This was the central tenet of his generalship, and he fulfilled its instruction to the utmost.

On Saturday they would see exactly how competent he was.

StanWorld News: 46 With a Bullet - Ireland Soar in Rankings

Following last week's thrilling last-gasp victory over classy San Marino, the Republic of Ireland shot up three places to 46th in the FIFA world rankings, released today.

The latest figures represent further vindication of Stephen Staunton's management of the team popularly known as Stan's Army, with the former Liverpool and Aston Villa full-back credited with rejuvenating the fortunes of the Irish international side in the wake of the disappointing conclusion to Brian Kerr's reign.

Staunton's team are riding high in third in their Euro 2008 qualification group, perfectly poised behind Germany and the Czech Republic. Those two heavyweights have been given good reason to peek nervously over their shoulders at the closing Irish, whose unbeaten run of three games has fuelled their rankings rocket.

The new FIFA rankings are one in the eye for Northern Ireland, who were victims of the boys in green's upward march, being leapfrogged by their cock-a-hoop southern neighbours back into 49th themselves. As recent conquerors of England and Spain, it is a measure of the progress of the Staunton revolution that the North have been brought to heel by Stan and his merry men.

The FIFA rankings are accepted as the only true reflection of the merits of international footballing nations. They use complicated mathematical logarithms to ascertain the positions of every footballing nation on earth. Looking at San Marino, for example, the devastating nature of their defeat to never-say-die Ireland last week saw them plummet from 195th place to 196th.

For anyone who takes the FIFA rankings seriously the message is clear: Ireland are on the up!

The Match Report in Stephen Staunton's Head

San Marino.........................1
(Marani 85)

Republic of Ireland............2
(Kilbane 49, Ireland 90)

Stephen Staunton's Ireland snatched a glorious late win against crack continentals San Marino last night - and kept up the heat on Group D rivals Germany and the Czech Republic.

Showing the kind of character that made Staunton's name as a player, his team battled back from the body-blow of a late equaliser by the stylish Sammarinese, Stephen Ireland making it a night to remember for the travelling green army with a last-gasp winner.

The hard-fought three points hauls the Boys in Green up to third in the group, increasing the momentum for what looks to be a full-tilt bid for EURO 2008 qualification.

Ireland, sent out in an inventive 4-4-2 formation by shrewd tactician Staunton, set about their much-vaunted opponents with brio early on, Robbie Keane going close with two shots just past San Marino keeper Simoncini's right hand post.

Midfield general Lee Carsley, recalled to the squad in a masterstroke by Staunton before last October's match against the Czech Republic, controlled the central area, brushing aside the hosts' stars Muccioli and Bonini with a classy display. The Everton maestro came close to opening the deadlock with a well-struck drive after 20 minuntes.

The travelling hordes in green roared their men on, buoyed by the verve of their heroes' display. Damien Duff teased and tormented the home defence, setting up Keane on two occasions, while Steve Finnan probed with menace on the right.

Simoncini in goal was sparing the féted home team a hiding, leaping to deny Ian Harte's vicious free-kick and cutting out a Finnan cross to the back post as the first half drew to an end.
Cheered into the dressing rooms at the interval by the proud band of visiting supporters, Ireland - emboldened by one of boss Staunton's legendary half-time speeches - went for the jugular in the second half. The breakthrough soon came.

Finnan whipped in a vicious cross from the right, to which Stephen Ireland got a flick-on, before Kevin Kilbane arrived at the back post to apply a thumping forehead to finish. The crowd erupted in approval, and not just the away fans. Many of the home support were so taken with the character of the plucky visitors that they could only applaud such a well-crafted goal.

Ireland were not satisfied, however. On they marched, utterly dominant at this stage. Stephen Hunt, on for the mesmeric Kilbane, hit the post late on, but it seemed certain that the second was on the way.

However, the road to Austria and Switzerland is not without its dangerous diversions and Ireland were dealt a cruel blow in the 85th minute.

The dangerous home side sprang into attack and Marani managed to bamboozle Irish keeper Wayne Henderson and centre-half Paul McShane (sprung masterfully from the bench by Staunton at half-time) and knock in an undeserved equaliser.

The home fans and players alike celebrated wildly, but underneath their elation must have been relief, and a little embarassment at the prospect of snatching an undeserved point.

But they did not count on the acumen of the man on the Irish bench. Staunton had replaced young striker Shane Long with Anthony Stokes and it was the Sunderland man who poked the ball in to Stephen Ireland's path for the winner - and provoked jubilation in the stands.

The boos from the crowd were evidence of the home fans' displeasure with their team, but on another famous night in the annals of Irish soccer history, the Staunton revolution continues - and only a fool wouldn't know exactly where this team are heading.

San Marino: Aldo Simoncini, Carlo Valentini, Manuel Marani, Albani, Davide Simoncini, Muccioli, Bonini (Vannucci 76), Domeniconi (Bugli 88), Michele Marani, Selva, Gasperoni (Andreini 66).Subs Not Used: Federico Valentini, Ciacci, Nanni, Vitaioli.
Booked: Davide Simoncini, Selva.

Rep of Ireland: Henderson, Finnan, Dunne, O'Shea (McShane 45), Harte (Hunt 74), Duff, Carsley, Ireland, Kilbane, Long (Stokes 80), Keane.Subs Not Used: Colgan, Alan Quinn, Keogh, Gibson.

Att: 3,294

Ref: Peter Rasmussen (Denmark).

Some Fun Ways To Pass An Evening in San Marino

Without wishing to underestimate the 'potential banana-skin' that San Marino represent, tonight's is one of those going-through-the-motions kind of games. All the correct procedure must be followed, attention given to detail, attitude set to 'right'. But three points will inevitably follow.

So with the promise of one of the less thrilling international evenings in store, you'll need distraction. Much like a spread of glossy magazines in a dentist's waiting room, these activities will help you pass the time.

SAN MARINO JOBCLUB
TV commentators have one unbending professional principle: have UEFA press-pack, will waffle. Included in this evening's bumper compendium of cap totals, heights and weights and goalscoring records will also be, bless, the occupations of all the San Marino players. Apart from that one guy who plays for a Serie B team.

So this evening's commentator will shoehorn in various vocations like a moonlighting careers guidance teacher.

- "And Bonini chopped down Keane there - hardly surprising, as he's a butcher by trade."

- "Interesting to note that Vannucci normally earns his living as a chartered surveyor - as he surveys the field looking for the pass."

- "Like the fireman he is by day Palazzi extinguishes Ireland's hopes of a third."

Note and collate the different occupations as they are mentioned.

THE FUTURE LOOKS BRIGHT WITH THESE HERE KIDS COMIN' THROUGH
Wayne Henderson, Stephen Ireland and Shane Long are three of Ireland's next generation to make the first eleven for this evening, but with Stephen Hunt, Darren Gibson, Stephen Quinn, Anthony Stokes, Andy Keogh and Darren Randolph all vying for places on the bench, tonight should represent a good opportunity to separate the hope from the hype.

It seems that all the talk around the camp is of the new guys giving the soft and complacent oldies a kick up the underachieving posterior, with yesterday's training match between the newbies and the seniors apparently being exceptionally competitive. So tonight should provide a good opportunity to ascertain whether the next generation are Duff-like or just plain duff, like.

CHEER ON SAN MARINO FOR A BIT
The thing about having nations like San Marino (the world's oldest republic, I hasten to add, for all those who doubt their right to compete with us, a mere 85-year old stripling of a nation) playing international football is that it allows you, just about, to imagine yourself playing at the highest level.

Imagine it. You're a manager of a ceramic goods store in downtown San Marino, worrying about the latest delivery from Armitage Shanks, when the phone rings. It's the Gaffer. You've been called up for the match against Ireland. Reckons you could do a job on Keane, or maybe sitting in front of the defence, keeping it tight.

Next thing you know you're running about the Serravalle Olimpico Stadium, red faced, cheeks puffing, going in hard early on to let these Stars of Premiership and Other Lesser Leagues know you're there. Midway through the second half, five goals down, you win a corner. For once it reaches the penalty box, landing at your feet at the back post. Goal, and you write your name into San Marino's long history books and the next UEFA press-pack.

Can you picture it? Give them a little cheer then: it could be you.