SIDELINE CUT:The midfielder's struggle to find himself was more painful and public than most. The pity is, in the process, Irish football may have lost him for good, writes KEITH DUGGAN

“Ireland contributed to the sense of a doomed and dysfunctional campaign by infamously inventing the story about the death of a granny – who indignantly got in touch with Joe Duffy to declare that she was alive and well – to get himself excused from an international trip

IT IS a crucial week in the nation’s long- running and favourite soap opera; the Republic of Ireland football team and the self-imposed exile of Stephen Ireland is becoming one of the stranger and sadder stories in national sport.

Who can know the mind of Stephen Hero? In recent months, Ireland has vaguely hinted that he might play yet again for his country in much the same way as 20th century Irish working men in Kilburn or the Bronx held beery visions of one day returning to the old country; as if it is a desirable but impractical idea. Already, it seems Giovanni Trapattoni has decided to waste no more of his time courting the Manchester City man’s services.

After Ireland gave an interview to BBC’s Saturday morning show Football Focus a few months ago, Ireland old-boy Mark Lawrenson, affecting his always-entertaining mood of affable despair at the ways of the world, sounded perplexed about why such a talented 22-year-old player could be so indifferent to the international game. He had direct advice for the Irish management on how to lure the reluctant start back into the team. “I’d be camping on his doorstep,” Lawro declared.

As it stands, Ireland boasts perhaps the most bizarre international career of any football player from this country. Unless things change, he has retired at the age of 22. He won his first cap in February of 2006 for an infamous game against Cyprus and cut his teeth on an Irish squad during a particularly turbulent period marked by the failed ambitions of Steven Staunton, the distinguished football man who was treated as a national joke during his time in charge.

He cut himself a small, significant piece of history by becoming the first man to score a goal for the Republic in Croke Park on a sunny March day against Wales two years ago. Ireland contributed to the sense of a doomed and dysfunctional campaign by infamously inventing the story about the death of a granny – who indignantly got in touch with Joe Duffy to declare that she was alive and well – in order to get himself excused from an international trip to Slovakia and the Czech Republic.

The sheer peculiarity of the story served to obscure the fact that Ireland was struggling to cope with a genuine sense of bereavement, as it later came to light that his girlfriend had miscarried. He wanted out of the Irish camp and he wanted out fast, so he cooked up the excuse that he thought sounded plausible and was helpless to stop the furore that followed.

Perhaps the disenchantment he felt in the days after his big lie was gleefully exposed for the nation’s enjoyment led him to decide he didn’t need Ireland.

Maybe the poisonous cloud which followed the Irish manager during that period or the much-publicised dressingroom fracas he had when his teammates ganged up on him for some old-fashioned hazing made his mind up too.

But if the form he has displayed for Manchester City over the past season can be interpreted as a form of revenge, then it has been admirably executed. Mark Hughes, the taciturn Welshman gushingly declared Ireland to be “the shining light of the new club”.

After 2007/08, Ireland went off to contemplate another Man City season of forgettable mediocrity and emerged as a strong and super-athletic midfielder capable of producing goals and passes that delighted the local support. Suddenly, he had acquired dynamism and true confidence to match the skills. His most absurd goal celebration, when he dropped his shorts to reveal a pair of Superman trunks was a stubborn declaration of his right to remain slightly left field.

Ireland may well be eccentric – the “madcap midfielder” as the Sun newspaper referred to him. And God knows, sport can use all the eccentrics it can get.

As Damien Duff – or the “Toon Winger” as most of the newspapers would have it – limps disconsolately back to Tyneside after the latest disappointment in what is turning into a fractured international career, the Irish team’s chances in Italy next Wednesday have surely lessened. And Duff’s unavailability further illuminates how desperately the Republic’s honest but uncertain team needs a player of Stephen Ireland’s singular skill.

Perhaps he is egocentric or perhaps he genuinely cannot summon enough care or interest to involve himself with the Irish cause. When you see the gilded young stars of the Premier League revelling in the adoration of the terraces, you sometimes think it must be a very strange and lonely life. These players go through the fast and humbling school of apprenticeship and, for whatever reason, succeed where most of their fledgling companions fall. Against perhaps even their own expectations, they keep on getting the nods of approval, keep on moving through the teams and then, one dazzling afternoon, they are playing at Anfield or Old Trafford.

They are wealthy and they feel immortal and they move into cavernous mansions in the wooded suburbs of wherever their football club is located. And they are kids; they grow up publicly and without much guidance and they have to find their own feet.

Stephen Ireland’s struggle to stand up, to find himself, was more painful and public than most. The pity is that in the process, Irish football may have lost him for good.