Seoul Letter:Ah the things we've seen and the places we've been. Day whatever of the endless journey and we are in a cab to Soojong Gu Sanggok-dong Military Sports Facility. Out along the Olympic Expressway, the high rises of Seoul on one side, the broad, majestic Hangang river on the other, and the taxi driver barking merrily all the way, although we can't grasp a word.
When we get to the gate. the soldier, young Private Jumpy, with the authoritative Kalashnikov, wants to know what exactly we want. Given that the Irish team and the elite forces, the crack troops of the Irish press corps, are 300 yards up the road it seems like a silly question, but he's the one with the gun so he doesn't get a silly answer.
We show him our beautiful, laminated accreditation dangler which identifies us as part of the World Cup family, or a distant ne'er-do-well cousin thereof. He is not impressed. He wants the letter. No letter. No go. So we fish out the letter.
It is a photocopy of a letter, actually, and it is on FAI notepaper with the FAI logo attached. Not exactly a symbol which prompts the response "that'll do nicely thank you" everywhere you travel. The letter is short and is written in Korean script. We have no idea what it says. It may say: "I am an Irish journalist. I mean no harm. Please don't shoot me." Whatever. It works. We are ushered through.
The Irish team's presence here on the Soojong Gu Sanggok-dong Military Sports Facility needs a little explaining, apparently. It was one of those things which grew into a bush-fire of controversy when nobody in the FAI even knew that matches were being played with. Apparently, there were three training facilities on offer and the Turks who were here before us took one. Of the other two, both equidistant from the team hotel, Mick McCarthy liked the military set up best because: a) it suits Ian Evans' parade sergeant manner on the training field, and, b) the pitch wasn't bumpy and having lost a man already to a bumpy pitch it behoves us to be careful.
This all got passed down the information superhighway of rumours and Chinese whispers which links the team hotel to the media hotel 200 yards away. Mick had been asked to train in a disused quarry! The most frayed, overused words of the trip were pressed into action again. Farce! Fiasco! We lit the blue paper and waited to use the big one: Training Ground Bust-Up! Alas, the FAI intervened with the truth and those of us who missed the story altogether in the first place nodded our heads in disgust at the impetuousness of our colleagues. Not that McCarthy would thank us for it later.
At the Military Facility (which is what we call it for short), the training is overlooked by a man whom we shall refer to simply as the Brigadier General. He has a long surname attached to his rank and we wrote down that surname on a scrap of paper when we heard it, but we have since lost it, so he shall just be the Brigadier General, and if a long Korean surname creeps unaccountably into copy later in the week alert readers will know to whom it refers and that there are good security reasons for handling it this way.
The Brigadier General watches the Irish team train with a look of curious disdain on his face. Perhaps he has a combat course he'd like to push Richard Dunne through, perhaps he fancies Ian Evans as professor of square bashing. Either way, you suspect he'll be betting his hard-earned won on Spain. (The won, as you probably know by now, is the currency of Korea. Those of us who have tried to tip these proud people have been told: "No. You can keep your oul won.")
Various supplicants are taken to meet the Brigadier General as the training unfolds. Brendan Menton of the FAI is ushered forward and, in fairness, if you thought the Pope looked overawed to meet Paul McGrath back in 1990, you should have seen Menton turning on the reverence with the Brig General. It worked a treat and soon a large icebox of soft drinks was produced for the press.
Duff (knee), Keane (groin), Staunton (thigh), Quinn (agedness) and Kilbane (ankle) sit out training, and it occurs to many of us that we would prefer those five play and the rest be injured if it comes to the crunch on Sunday. The Brigadier General was unconcerned, though. He sits and watches it all as his translator/ flunky de camp comes and goes with mysterious titbits of info. "The Great Lee Carsley, Sir, they call him Geezer, Sir."
When the session finishes the squad race towards the air-conditioning of the bus. They lose anything up to half a stone training hard in these conditions, most of it running towards the cool of the bus at the end.
McCarthy waits on the pitch and the Brigadier General rises from his seat and walks down the steps towards him. The Mountain coming towards Mohammed. This is a moment which will have the North Koreans eating their hearts out. Stiffly (well Mick McCarthy), they pose for a photograph shaking hands. On and on the handshake goes as the cameras click. Both men smile tightly and gaze into the middle distance. By nightfall, we speculate, thousands and thousands of copies of this photo will be dropped on North Korean villages just to demoralise them.
We get another taxi back to Seoul. The driver is eating garlic chewing gum, and his armpits appear to be giving out scent of garlic. He keeps to a steady 30 miles an hour in the chaotic traffic and the only sounds out of him are the occasional parping of his horn and the burping of his garlicky breath.
Afterwards, back in the team hotel, there are two press conferences. One with McCarthy, one with the players. The FAI live in the stone age when it comes to press relations, so the team don't do separate press conferences for various types of media like other teams do. So most of these daily sessions are useless to the majority of us.
(True story. The other day in Chiba we had a similar set-up, Mick in first, then a group of players, and afterwards we walked the couple of miles back to the digs. Nearing said digs, we met Neil Silver of the Press Association [who, because we are the wittiest folk in the world, we all call Hi-Ho], and Neil had just finished filing all the press conference stuff for PA, who were at that moment bouncing it to outlets all around the world. The radio and TV guys were doing likewise. The old IT, with our version of events, wouldn't be hitting the streets for another 24 hours. And they wonder why we're so narky!)
The press conferences have been deteriorating as time goes on. Mick forgot himself earlier in the trip and fraternised shamefully with journalists at these press conferences. His spiritual advisers have reminded him, however, that we hacks are about Satan's work. He rejects us and all our deeds.
"What was the problem with the training facility?" asks some suicidal maniac straight off.
"I had a choice of three etc (for full explanation see paragraph five). The training facility is fine."
"There was a suggestion that there was a complaint to FIFA?" asks somebody else.
"Well," says Mick loudly, in a voice dripping with bitter sarcasm, "we had a great result the other day and we qualified for the last 16 of the World Cup finals and I'm here talking about bull. Again. I've not made any complaints to FIFA Any football questions?"
Somebody makes with a footie question. What did he think of the Spaniards?
"We couldn't see any weaknesses, so we decided we'll have to hide the ball!" says Mick, but it's the sort of joke Hannibal Lecter might make. Nobody laughs except Brendan McKenna, the press officer.
We have 30 minutes of very strained questioning in which the Spanish journalists present try to make contributions. We all hope one of them will ask about Ian Harte because we are afraid to.
The Spanish ask if Mick can remember playing against Jose Camacho in 1985. He can't. "I'm sure he's got a big dossier, though, on my days at Barnsley."
Any changes imminent?
"I've told you for the last two weeks our strength is in the way we play, why the hell anybody should want me to change now is beyond me. If I had to rely on people in here to give the team confidence we'd be knackered! I will not sit here and criticise my players. Never have, never will!"
The players are ushered in for some light relief. Shay Given has a calming effect everywhere he goes. "Packie mentioned to me after the game the next step is penalty kicks if it goes that far. I said I'd fancy taking one myself. He said, 'You just worry about saving one' with his grumpy head on!"
Given is fine value. And on penalties too. Three against him this season at Newcastle and he saved two. We're all obsessed with penalties all of a sudden.
Given plays along. Spanish penalties? "I've seen a few of Hierro (Spain's penalty taker). He looks a bit flustered when he goes up to take them!"
Packie's save? "I remember watching it back in Lifford. We went mad in the living-room. Then Dave O'Leary finished it and we went into Lifford in the car. I was out the garden that night pretending I was Packie Bonner."
What if it isn't penalties? "Is it golden goal on Sunday? Jeez, I'm learning everything in here!"
And we throw a few questions at Dunne and Finnan just to keep them happy. Wander off into the Seoul evening, making bad jokes about dog stew. Nearly a month together and the anticipation grows every day. Sunday can't come quick enough.
