Pandemonium explodes among the Irish in the packed stadium and among the Irish in our box. Everyone's screaming, hugging, jumping,

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almost weeping. I have to duck to avoid being kissed by Ossie Kilkenny. In soccer a single goal can mean the whole game, and the Irish immedi­ately switch to a completely defensive strategy to make sure that hap­pens. A couple of times Italian star Baggio makes fierce runs at the Irish goal—and the mood in our box becomes like that in the cabin of a crashing airliner. But the goal shots miss and elation explodes again. During half-time I ask Edge if it feels odd to look down at this stadium and realize he's played here too. He says it does—it looks a lot bigger from the stage—but it makes him feel even more connected to the Irish team. McGuinness is wearing one of the souvenirs on sale to celebrate the glory of Ireland: green Bono fly shades.

(One of the stories going around is that Bono, who is in London with Gavin today, was stopped by a TV reporter who in an attempt to trip him up asked if Ireland's most famous rock star could name three members of Ireland's beloved football team. Bono finessed the pharisee by saying, "Joyce, Synge, and Beckett.")

The Green hold the Blues at bay in the second half, and when the whistle blows giving Ireland its first win over Italy since they first met in 1926, well, New Year's Eve 2000 will have to go a long way to match the frenzy. Edge has been shaking a can of beer for about five minutes so that when victory is declared he can spray the whole box. Soon the Guinness is cascading like Vesuvius. "You have no idea what this means!" Edge tells me. "You have no idea!"

The hugging and spraying and weeping and laughing continues for a long, long time. Finally the guests of McGuinness and Kilkenny begin moving toward the parking lot. Larry and Joe have not turned up, but I am told not to worry about them: "Larry is probably in the shower with the team. We won't see them for a while!"

The mood of Irish ecstasy is best summed up by one beer-pickled son of St. Patrick, who I come across in the filthy, urine-splashed men's toilet, stumbling around the slippery floor as if in the presence of the Beatific Vision, exclaiming, "This is heaven! There is a God! This is heaven!"

Passing through the parking lot Edge keeps collecting ecstatic Irish­men who have no way of getting back to the city and offering them rides. There's Shane from Cafe Sin-e! There's Paul Brady! Ossie is appalled by Edge's generosity; we kept only two ten-seat minivans and we now have forty-eight passengers. Sweat-soaked, beer-drenched, glory-

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crazed Irishmen pile in on top of each other. Edge himself ends up sitting in the tiny crack between the seat and the door. "What are you doing down there. Edge?" Ossie calls halfway to New York. Edge's voice comes back, "I'm looking over the books, Ossie!"

The accountant has a portable phone and much of the ride is taken up with calling people in Dublin for trans-Atlantic shouting and screaming. Ned calls his better half, Anne-Louise, who is with Sheila and Chanty. They hold their phone out the window so we can hear the sound of every car horn in Dublin honking, and people dancing in the streets.

The gussied-up, furred-and tuxedoed guests of the Ritz-Carlton Ho­tel look horrified when these two van-loads of soaking Celts dislodge onto the sidewalk in front of them and tumble into the bar of the fancy hotel. It is quickly decided that the best place to go for dinner after such a glorious triumph over Italy is to an Italian restaurant—and nobody's to take off their sweaty green shirts and green hats. I call Carmine's, the best Italian restaurant I know, and try to convince them to do some­thing they will never do: accept a Saturday night dinner reservation for fourteen on one hour's notice. I finally get the manager on the phone and explain that I have a group of important Irish dignitaries who wish to experience the finest restaurant in New York. He gives in.

Oddly enough, we turn out to not be the only Irish dignitaries who thought it would be fun to come to celebrate at an Italian restaurant. Half of Dublin is in Carmine's when we get there. There are old soccer heroes at the bar, obnoxious drunken Irishmen singing football songs at the tables, and looks of incredulity from the regular patrons out for a night of theater and fine dining. Hooligan, after all, is an Irish name. Inevitably many of these people come by to jawbone with Paul, Edge, and the others. And just as inevitably, other drunks and groupies see that as an invitation to careen over to our table and pester Edge.

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