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While we were the fact digesting,
And the Spanish were protesting,
Straight up to the ball ran Keano,
With an almost boyish bound.
Were the nerve ends taut and fraying,
While the Spanish were delaying?
Or did he think that he was playing
Just another kick-around?
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Did he realise the massive
Moment, as he watched impassive?
Did the niggly doubts start crawling
Through the portals of his brain?
Was he, as he seemed, uncaring
‘Bout the burden he was bearing,
As he waited, chewing, staring
At the angry men of Spain?
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Who, in Ireland, at that moment,
With emotions churned in foment,
Would have volunteered to try
To equalise the Spanish goal?
With the moments slowly dying,
Who’d have faced it, fate-defying,
While all those around were shying
From the challenge of the soul?
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Hail the boy that knows no jitters,
While the old man shakes and witters!
Glory to the New World where
The wrinkled angel fears to tread!
Confidently running, scoring,
Head upturned and both arms soaring,
With the adulation pouring
Down upon his uncrowned head.