Chapter 8 – "Aftermath of Ireland v Australia"
The sun had barely risen over the team’s base in Saipan when a sombre mood set in across the Irish camp. The 4-1 win over Australia had come at a cost. David Connolly and Gary Kelly had both left the field with lingering knocks—each having picked them up in training, each aggravated in those short 25 minutes on the pitch.
In a makeshift meeting room beside the gym, David O'Leary paced nervously around a whiteboard with “Possible Replacements” scrawled across the top. Don Givens sipped a coffee, staring at the names listed. Chris Hughton leafed through a folder filled with scouting notes.
“I shouldn’t have risked them,” O’Leary muttered, breaking the silence. “We pushed Connolly. We gambled on Kelly. If that was Cameroon next week, we’d be stuck. Now we can at least replace them.”
Chris Hughton nodded. “True. It’s a blow, but better now than later. We’ve time to act.”
“We can’t just bring in bodies,” Givens said, setting down his cup. “We need lads who won’t shrink under the lights. Experience, or… something special.”
O’Leary glanced toward the door. “I’ve got one name. But I need to run it past Roy first.”
“Who?” Hughton asked.
“A kid at United. John O’Shea. Hasn’t been capped yet, but he’s looked tidy when I’ve watched him. Versatile—left, right, centre-back. Might sneak a few minutes if needed. Steven Carr isn't ready to play after his horror injury, but this kid can do a job.”
Hughton raised an eyebrow. “Worth a look. And the second name?”
There was a pause. O’Leary looked toward the whiteboard, hesitant.
“This one's a bit mad,” he said. “I saw him while scouting for Leeds. Plays for England’s Under-21s. Just 16. Hasn't made his Premier League debut yet. But I swear—he’s got something. A spark.”
Don Givens chuckled. “You want to bring a 16-year-old to the World Cup?”
“I do—if he’s eligible,” O’Leary replied. “I think he might be. Irish grandparents, maybe. I wanted to talk to someone who’d know. Someone who trains with him.”
Chris nodded slowly. “You thinking of Lee?”
O’Leary stood and called out the door. “Can someone get Lee Carsley and Kevin Kilbane, please?”
Minutes later, both Everton midfielders walked in. Carsley looked curious; Kilbane, towel around his neck, still catching his breath from the recovery session.
“What’s up, gaffer?” Kilbane asked.
“Need your honest opinion, lads,” O’Leary said. “There’s a kid in your squad. Just 16. Plays up top but can drop deep, powerful, sharp in the tackle. Scored a few belters in reserve matches. Irish roots, I’ve heard.”
Carsley’s eyes lit up. “You mean the young lad from Croxteth?”
O’Leary gave a tight smile. “You tell me.”
Carsley grinned. “He’s electric. Built like a tank, turns on a sixpence, and finishes like he’s 25. I’ve seen senior defenders bounce off him in training. He keeps asking me about Ireland—his grandparents are from Dublin. He’s serious about it.”
Kilbane backed him up. “He’s got a bite in him too. As tenacious as Roy, but he sees passes no one else does. You wouldn’t think he’s just 16. I reckon he’ll be starting games for us next season.”
O’Leary glanced at Hughton and Givens. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
He stepped outside the room and waved someone down. “Can you send Roy in?”
A few moments later, Keane entered. “You wanted me?”
O’Leary pointed at the whiteboard. “We’re losing Connolly and Kelly. Need replacements. One is John O’Shea—you know him from United. Thoughts?”
Keane nodded. “Agile. Reads the game well. Doesn’t panic. I’d back him.”
O’Leary continued. “Second… different story. Young striker at Everton. Played for England Under-21s already. Hasn’t made his debut, but Carsley and Kilbane think he’s the real deal. Irish roots.”
Keane thought for a second. “I think I’ve heard Ferguson mention him. Says the lad could be world-class. Brave call bringing him in.”
“I’m not asking him to start,” O’Leary said. “Just want to see how he handles the squad. Test him in training. If he impresses, maybe a spot on the bench.”
Keane shrugged. “Bring him. If he’s half as good as they say, we’d be mad not to look.”
O’Leary exhaled, finally settled. “Alright. Let’s make the calls.”
The whiteboard was updated. Two names were circled in red beneath the heading:
Replacements: 1. John O’Shea | 2. ??? (Everton Wonderkid)
The next day, David Moyes' phone would ring—and the real story would begin.
