There is now 60 minutes gone.
I look to the heavens and pray.
It doesn’t matter if the roof is closed, it doesn’t matter if you have faith or don’t believe in God.
I needed an answer. From the man upstairs, a higher power, anyone who would listen.
I just wanted Ireland to fucking score.
Nothing else.
I’m not the only one. There are thousands of Irish fans inside the Stade Pierre Mauroy pleading for the same thing. With an hour of football played, the scoreline is 0-0. Its the final game of the group stage for the Republic of Ireland and Italy. Ireland need to win to qualify for the last 16. Italy are already there. That situation is evident with the state of play. It’s Ireland who are on the front foot, playing superbly without getting the go ahead goal. They’ve created good chances, forced the keeper into good saves. They’ve even had two claims for a penalty turned down, both without question stonewall fouls all day long. Maybe it’s because the game kicked off at 9pm French time that the ref didn’t give them. No explanation of his would make sense. Murphy was man handled, McClean was clearly fouled, and my heart was on the edge of a precipice.
The Irish team are reeling from a 3-0 defeat against Belgium four days previous. I’m reeling from TWELVE days of extensive partying, drinking, travelling and football. And the story isn’t finished. I want this continue. I am at my wits end but I want to go on. Everyone does. Once again, the Irish support has taken over a major tournament, winning plaudits the world over for our good natured behaviour. On the field, we’ve performed better than we have at EURO 2012 and entered the final game with a chance of qualifying for the last 16. The format has changed four years later with the expansion to 24 teams. The EURO’s have expanded, a term not common for many countries finance institutions across the continent. Ireland want, no, they need to be there. We need to be at the top table once again. The country needs it more than ever.
We have a free-kick in a dangerous position, it’s rolled along the ground before being cleared. A mix-up, a fuck up, another chance gone a begging.
Surely we have to score? I mean, I’ve wanted desperately for Ireland to score before. Sometimes they do, late against Poland in Dublin. Sometimes they don’t, against Scotland in the same city. And I was ticking time bomb of agitation and nerves on both of those occasions. It’s different this time. As time ticks on, the scoreline remains the same. And there’s an ever growing galling pain building up inside. Maybe it’s because never before have I seen an Ireland match where the Boys In Green (or white) shrug off the shackles of being a small nation up against an elite like this before. We did it against France in 2009. And I still remember the agony I felt that night and for weeks afterwards. Maybe I’m afraid of that? That sense of devastation. The pain of travelling home on two flights and as many buses staring into space. Envisaging what might have been.
We’ve had famous wins before, and usually they came by way of an early goal followed by savage life on the line defending. Rarely have we come out and controlled a match like this one. Usually you were left to take deep breaths, clench the muscles in your arse and cross everything in your body hoping Ireland would hang on. This is different. Ireland are getting forward, moving the ball well. There is surely one outcome for a team playing like they are. And it is still only 0-0. Time ticks on regardless of the state of play, regardless of our emotions, regardless of momentum. And as it does, things are getting desperate. Every misplaced pass, Italian interception, shot off target and seconds spent without possession forces the tension to rise. There is no scale to measure tension in the stadium, it would have been broken before kick-off if there was. Wes Hoolahan is on for McCarthy, and McGeady is coming on for Murphy. One is a cultured playmaker, the other is a tricky winger who polarises opinion. And it’s McGeady who takes on the Italian defence and whizzes a shot over the bar. Another chance.
75 minutes gone and I’m begging. “Please, please, just let us score.”
My eyes are welling up. I’m exasperated in the stands, helplessly watching the game continue. Would Salvatore Sirigu entertain my pleas? You could have one of two extremes with an Italian backline. Either they’ll be mortally offended by the notion of losing a clean sheet. Or you pay them enough money to get what you want. I had no money left, I had no bloody idea how I’d get to Lyon. I had a contingency plan for flying home but no urge or desire to follow that up. I was going to worry about that afterwards when we qualified. Would we qualify? Please let us qualify! I didn’t care about the consequences to my travel plans or how I would tackle the next 24 hours. I would have sold my soul to get what I wanted. Only that soul was tortured enough throughout the game that it wouldn’t have been worth much anyways. The game enters a spell of Italian pressure, and the agony gets worse. They begin to control possession and Lorenzo Insigne manages to get away from Hoolahan. He’s bearing down on goal with space to shoot. He does…
and hits the post. It’s a let off. And a reminder. Please just score Ireland.
Don’t fucking lose the game either!
It’s a stark reminder that all of this could blow up at any second. We may not be counting down to the misery, it can strike at any second. It was a metaphor for life itself in a way. However, now is not the time to live in fear of misery. We need to win this game and take life and the second round with it by the balls. The Republic of Ireland heed my calls. Again we push forward. We continue to press high up the pitch. McGeady has a header that lands safely into Sirigu’s hands. Chances are at a premium, and we’re only managing to work small openings. Nothing clear cut. We’re coming into the last ten minutes and all we need is one clear chance. Shane Long is chasing Italian defenders in possession. Shane Long has been on fire all week and still to have a decent chance fall his way. He never stops running. He never gives up. His pressure forces the ball to be played across to Thiago Motta. A poor first touch from the defender allows McGeady to intervene. It’s a much ignored facet of his game, his pressing. This time you couldn’t miss it. McGeady is suddenly there hassling him and forces the ball loose and with it, Motta’s balance. It falls loose and Wes Hoolahan has it with a clear passage to goal. And he’s through on in goal. What! There’s just the keeper to beat? Where is the Italian defence? WHO THE FUCK CARES!!!? A massive roar of expectation goes up. The play as it unfolds before me is surreal. Hoolahan advancing on goal, Shane Long to his left and McGeady tracking him to his right. And NOT A BLUE SHIRT IN SIGHT. Only Sirigu in goal. This is it. The opportunity and moment of a lifetime playing out in front of us in slow motion. Send us to Lyon, Wes, work your magic………
He hits a tame shot at the keeper. The rebound falls gracefully into his chest.
Since the second half began, there has been a metaphorical knife prodding at away at my guts and across at my heart. As the ball falls into Sirigu’s hands, it jousts through, bringing me to my knees in disbelief and devastation.
That was the chance. That was it. And never will Ireland get an easier one like it. It seemed like an eternity for it to play out because Wes had so much time to pick his spot. He probably had too much time. The man is such crafty footballer he knows how to use the ball in pressure situations. This was a different kind of pressure. A collective gasp and shriek amongst the Irish fans immediately brought huge gravitas to a one-on-one situation. They say some strikers score the most difficult goals opposed to the easiest ones. One day, I hope to be a scorer of great goals rather than a great goalscorer. That’ll take a while, cause I’m hopeless. I’m not a striker, and neither is Wes. It was devastating, I can’t bear to look on any more cause we will not get a better chance.
Like Wes, I have my head in my heads. Like Wes, neither of us will get a chance like that again. Unlike Wes I would have fucking hammered it at goal. But then, I don’t have an ounce of that man’s composure on the football pitch. I’m about to crumble in agony only for a roar of encouragement to bring me upright again. Ireland on are the counter attack and Stephen Ward is bringing the ball out of defence. We won’t get a better chance but we need another chance itself. And we’re on the move. The roar is surged full of belief despite what’s just happened. It’s McGeady coming forward. Space and options ahead of him. He plays it forward to Wes out wide. Undaunted by what happened 50 seconds ago, he comes inside and whips in a cross with his left foot. I see it floating between three players converging in the box. Sirigu, Leonardo Bonucci and Robbie Brady. And Brady gets to it first. It bounces towards the empty net.
GOAL!
GOAL GOAL GOAL
GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL!
Everyone associated with convulses into a rapture. One of sheer exhilaration and emotion. The moment is so colossal that I am reduced to the most basic of motor functions. Variations of the word yes are all I can manage. YES. YES. YESSSS. YAAAAAA YAAAAAAAAASSSSSS. Anything more than a singly syllable would be incoherent. And this word is repeated ad nauseum until I can process what has actually happened. Until then, I am jumping up and down unable to control my emotion or delight that is consuming me. To restore some balance and control, many Irish fans are embracing other in hugs that would you usually see when someone’s life has been saved in a movie. This isn’t a movie. This is real life. Robbie Brady has put the Republic of Ireland a goal in front against Italy. Ireland are on the verge of qualification.
All across Stade Pierre Mauroy, a sea of green has erupted into wild euphoric celebrations. A slightly disorganised chaos has ensued. Irish fans jumping, over seats and over each other, anarchy everywhere. The ecstatic reactions reverberated in our ears inside the closed roof. An array of emotions, everything laced with the passion we’ve shown for years following the Boys In Green. Tears are coming. For some they are unstoppable. I haven’t enough energy or strength in my vocal cords to express what the goal means to me. I’m locked in a huddle with my friends from Galway. And that beautiful county is one we may not return to just yet. I’m crying out of joy. This is wonderful. This is why I follow my national football team and few else.
There’s been some cathartic moments in Irish football alone in the last 12 months. I was there when Shane Long scored against Germany. That was special. It came out of nowhere. Few expected it and an explosion of joy followed. This was different. This was something brewing in a pot of agony, pain, heartbreak, and desperation. All game we were waiting for the breakthrough. When the final whistle went against Germany in October 2015, fourteen years of frustration and disappointment since we last defeated an elite team disappeared. In the moment Robbie Brady scored for Ireland in the 85th minute, fourteen years since we last won a game in a major competition had passed. Fourteen years since we scored a critical goal with our participation in the balance. It was a goal that now put us within sight of ending 28 years without winning a game in the European Championship. All that time coupled with aforementioned pot of emotions laid bare to the scenes that unfolded in Lille. Robbie Brady has tears flowing from eyes because he understands the significance of the goal.
It’s a goal that can define a generation. This Houghton is Stuttgart and New York, Sheedy in Palermo, Keane in Ibaraki. I’ve recycled the greatest moments in Irish football history time and time again before Ireland games. The majority of which I wasn’t around for, or too young to appreciate. I’m 25 years of age and of relative sound body and mind, despite the best efforts of local off-licences in previous two weeks. This was a special moment none of us in the stadium will ever forget. Even those watching at home! A moment we never got close to four years ago in Poland, or on the streets singing or dancing. A moment on the pitch that Robbie Brady will never be allowed forget, even if he got a recurrent form of amnesia 50 years from now. His celebration showed it. Much like the rest of us, he had tears in his eyes running towards the Irish support. The significance was not lost on him or the rest of us.
The significance of the result at hand would curtail our celebrations for the time being. When Long scored against Germany, the passion that emanated from the stands in our sings, chants and support distracted me from the clock. I remember looking up at the screen to see the scoreline only to note 85 minutes were played. Celebrating Shane Longs goal that night made me forget about the passing of time. That was then, and this is now. 85 minutes have passed and nothing was secured yet. Robbie Keane, Irelands record goalscorer, was about to be brought on. The goal has changed things. Now Stephen Quinn is warming up to shore up the midfield. Robbie’s swansong can wait. It can happen in Lyon. The sheer emotion in all of us is brought to a halt when we realise the game wasn’t over. Now the Italians push forward with real purpose. Yet they cannot bring the same intensity to the game that the Irish have done all night. The momentum, the desire, and the noise is impossible to break down. The noise in question is a mix of “Ole Ole Ole” and a defiant “Come on You Boys In Green”. Somehow, some way, we are summoning the strength to roar those chants down across the stadium. The closed roof helps. Energy levels have been galvanised, there is no way Ireland can lose this now?
The pessimistic amongst of us have premonitions. The scene is Croke Park, October 2009. Sean St.Ledger scores a header that brings wild celebrations in the famous stadium. It’s in the 87th minute and Ireland lead Italy 2 goals to one. Despite the noise and celebrations in full flow, the Italians break on the counter and score an equaliser within 90 seconds to level the game and send them to the 2010 World Cup once and for all. Ireland are left to face the playoffs. The rest is history. A repeat of that scenario would fucking destroy me more than Henrys handball ever did before. The clock ticks into injury time. Tackles are flying, and not an inch is been given. McClean makes a perfect challenge from behind and the ball is hoofed clear for a throw. McGeady dispossesses Zaza and Randolph hammers it downfield. Anywhere will fucking do. It’s a throw in deep in the Italian half that goes long. Zaza barges into the back of an Irish man. Free-kick. Time is up. The free-kick is greeted with a roar of relief and appreciation but not one of celebration. The game is as good as over isn't it? Martin O’Neill is already celebrating, Antonio Conte already brooding? Is this real, I'm not sure if I believe this is real. It has to be over? It has to be real!
The free kick is taken and delivered towards the corner flag. The final whistle soon follows.
Republic of Ireland 1 Italy 0
Now the tears are coming non-stop.
It’s a moment I’ve waited for all my life. One I’ve agonised over, fantasised about, imagined endlessly what it would be like. And it’s happiness. Sheer and utter happiness with immense pride. The squad all converges together to the corner of the stadium where I am. Irish fans across the stadium celebrate, embrace, cry together. We’ve experienced something truly unforgettable and we all know what we’ll be talking about for the rest of our life. And that is something only International football can give to an Irish football fan. I’ve never truly had to justify the lengths I’ve gone to follow my country. Sure, I’ve gotten raised eyebrows, shakes of the head, condescending smirks, laughters of disbelief. And plenty of dismissals. And while I didn’t waste a millisecond thinking about them in the stadium, it hit me on the way back into the city centre that none of them would ever question my support again. Cause I’m pretty sure back home in Ireland they too were watching it as well.
However, I was there, and my body is still shaking. I’ve got 4% on my battery. I’ve got to ring my girlfriend and my father. And tell them I’m not sure if I’m coming home tomorrow.
I look to the heavens and pray.
It doesn’t matter if the roof is closed, it doesn’t matter if you have faith or don’t believe in God.
I needed an answer. From the man upstairs, a higher power, anyone who would listen.
I just wanted Ireland to fucking score.
Nothing else.
I’m not the only one. There are thousands of Irish fans inside the Stade Pierre Mauroy pleading for the same thing. With an hour of football played, the scoreline is 0-0. Its the final game of the group stage for the Republic of Ireland and Italy. Ireland need to win to qualify for the last 16. Italy are already there. That situation is evident with the state of play. It’s Ireland who are on the front foot, playing superbly without getting the go ahead goal. They’ve created good chances, forced the keeper into good saves. They’ve even had two claims for a penalty turned down, both without question stonewall fouls all day long. Maybe it’s because the game kicked off at 9pm French time that the ref didn’t give them. No explanation of his would make sense. Murphy was man handled, McClean was clearly fouled, and my heart was on the edge of a precipice.
The Irish team are reeling from a 3-0 defeat against Belgium four days previous. I’m reeling from TWELVE days of extensive partying, drinking, travelling and football. And the story isn’t finished. I want this continue. I am at my wits end but I want to go on. Everyone does. Once again, the Irish support has taken over a major tournament, winning plaudits the world over for our good natured behaviour. On the field, we’ve performed better than we have at EURO 2012 and entered the final game with a chance of qualifying for the last 16. The format has changed four years later with the expansion to 24 teams. The EURO’s have expanded, a term not common for many countries finance institutions across the continent. Ireland want, no, they need to be there. We need to be at the top table once again. The country needs it more than ever.
We have a free-kick in a dangerous position, it’s rolled along the ground before being cleared. A mix-up, a fuck up, another chance gone a begging.
Surely we have to score? I mean, I’ve wanted desperately for Ireland to score before. Sometimes they do, late against Poland in Dublin. Sometimes they don’t, against Scotland in the same city. And I was ticking time bomb of agitation and nerves on both of those occasions. It’s different this time. As time ticks on, the scoreline remains the same. And there’s an ever growing galling pain building up inside. Maybe it’s because never before have I seen an Ireland match where the Boys In Green (or white) shrug off the shackles of being a small nation up against an elite like this before. We did it against France in 2009. And I still remember the agony I felt that night and for weeks afterwards. Maybe I’m afraid of that? That sense of devastation. The pain of travelling home on two flights and as many buses staring into space. Envisaging what might have been.
We’ve had famous wins before, and usually they came by way of an early goal followed by savage life on the line defending. Rarely have we come out and controlled a match like this one. Usually you were left to take deep breaths, clench the muscles in your arse and cross everything in your body hoping Ireland would hang on. This is different. Ireland are getting forward, moving the ball well. There is surely one outcome for a team playing like they are. And it is still only 0-0. Time ticks on regardless of the state of play, regardless of our emotions, regardless of momentum. And as it does, things are getting desperate. Every misplaced pass, Italian interception, shot off target and seconds spent without possession forces the tension to rise. There is no scale to measure tension in the stadium, it would have been broken before kick-off if there was. Wes Hoolahan is on for McCarthy, and McGeady is coming on for Murphy. One is a cultured playmaker, the other is a tricky winger who polarises opinion. And it’s McGeady who takes on the Italian defence and whizzes a shot over the bar. Another chance.
75 minutes gone and I’m begging. “Please, please, just let us score.”
My eyes are welling up. I’m exasperated in the stands, helplessly watching the game continue. Would Salvatore Sirigu entertain my pleas? You could have one of two extremes with an Italian backline. Either they’ll be mortally offended by the notion of losing a clean sheet. Or you pay them enough money to get what you want. I had no money left, I had no bloody idea how I’d get to Lyon. I had a contingency plan for flying home but no urge or desire to follow that up. I was going to worry about that afterwards when we qualified. Would we qualify? Please let us qualify! I didn’t care about the consequences to my travel plans or how I would tackle the next 24 hours. I would have sold my soul to get what I wanted. Only that soul was tortured enough throughout the game that it wouldn’t have been worth much anyways. The game enters a spell of Italian pressure, and the agony gets worse. They begin to control possession and Lorenzo Insigne manages to get away from Hoolahan. He’s bearing down on goal with space to shoot. He does…
and hits the post. It’s a let off. And a reminder. Please just score Ireland.
Don’t fucking lose the game either!
It’s a stark reminder that all of this could blow up at any second. We may not be counting down to the misery, it can strike at any second. It was a metaphor for life itself in a way. However, now is not the time to live in fear of misery. We need to win this game and take life and the second round with it by the balls. The Republic of Ireland heed my calls. Again we push forward. We continue to press high up the pitch. McGeady has a header that lands safely into Sirigu’s hands. Chances are at a premium, and we’re only managing to work small openings. Nothing clear cut. We’re coming into the last ten minutes and all we need is one clear chance. Shane Long is chasing Italian defenders in possession. Shane Long has been on fire all week and still to have a decent chance fall his way. He never stops running. He never gives up. His pressure forces the ball to be played across to Thiago Motta. A poor first touch from the defender allows McGeady to intervene. It’s a much ignored facet of his game, his pressing. This time you couldn’t miss it. McGeady is suddenly there hassling him and forces the ball loose and with it, Motta’s balance. It falls loose and Wes Hoolahan has it with a clear passage to goal. And he’s through on in goal. What! There’s just the keeper to beat? Where is the Italian defence? WHO THE FUCK CARES!!!? A massive roar of expectation goes up. The play as it unfolds before me is surreal. Hoolahan advancing on goal, Shane Long to his left and McGeady tracking him to his right. And NOT A BLUE SHIRT IN SIGHT. Only Sirigu in goal. This is it. The opportunity and moment of a lifetime playing out in front of us in slow motion. Send us to Lyon, Wes, work your magic………
He hits a tame shot at the keeper. The rebound falls gracefully into his chest.
Since the second half began, there has been a metaphorical knife prodding at away at my guts and across at my heart. As the ball falls into Sirigu’s hands, it jousts through, bringing me to my knees in disbelief and devastation.
That was the chance. That was it. And never will Ireland get an easier one like it. It seemed like an eternity for it to play out because Wes had so much time to pick his spot. He probably had too much time. The man is such crafty footballer he knows how to use the ball in pressure situations. This was a different kind of pressure. A collective gasp and shriek amongst the Irish fans immediately brought huge gravitas to a one-on-one situation. They say some strikers score the most difficult goals opposed to the easiest ones. One day, I hope to be a scorer of great goals rather than a great goalscorer. That’ll take a while, cause I’m hopeless. I’m not a striker, and neither is Wes. It was devastating, I can’t bear to look on any more cause we will not get a better chance.
Like Wes, I have my head in my heads. Like Wes, neither of us will get a chance like that again. Unlike Wes I would have fucking hammered it at goal. But then, I don’t have an ounce of that man’s composure on the football pitch. I’m about to crumble in agony only for a roar of encouragement to bring me upright again. Ireland on are the counter attack and Stephen Ward is bringing the ball out of defence. We won’t get a better chance but we need another chance itself. And we’re on the move. The roar is surged full of belief despite what’s just happened. It’s McGeady coming forward. Space and options ahead of him. He plays it forward to Wes out wide. Undaunted by what happened 50 seconds ago, he comes inside and whips in a cross with his left foot. I see it floating between three players converging in the box. Sirigu, Leonardo Bonucci and Robbie Brady. And Brady gets to it first. It bounces towards the empty net.
GOAL!
GOAL GOAL GOAL
GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL!
Everyone associated with convulses into a rapture. One of sheer exhilaration and emotion. The moment is so colossal that I am reduced to the most basic of motor functions. Variations of the word yes are all I can manage. YES. YES. YESSSS. YAAAAAA YAAAAAAAAASSSSSS. Anything more than a singly syllable would be incoherent. And this word is repeated ad nauseum until I can process what has actually happened. Until then, I am jumping up and down unable to control my emotion or delight that is consuming me. To restore some balance and control, many Irish fans are embracing other in hugs that would you usually see when someone’s life has been saved in a movie. This isn’t a movie. This is real life. Robbie Brady has put the Republic of Ireland a goal in front against Italy. Ireland are on the verge of qualification.
All across Stade Pierre Mauroy, a sea of green has erupted into wild euphoric celebrations. A slightly disorganised chaos has ensued. Irish fans jumping, over seats and over each other, anarchy everywhere. The ecstatic reactions reverberated in our ears inside the closed roof. An array of emotions, everything laced with the passion we’ve shown for years following the Boys In Green. Tears are coming. For some they are unstoppable. I haven’t enough energy or strength in my vocal cords to express what the goal means to me. I’m locked in a huddle with my friends from Galway. And that beautiful county is one we may not return to just yet. I’m crying out of joy. This is wonderful. This is why I follow my national football team and few else.
There’s been some cathartic moments in Irish football alone in the last 12 months. I was there when Shane Long scored against Germany. That was special. It came out of nowhere. Few expected it and an explosion of joy followed. This was different. This was something brewing in a pot of agony, pain, heartbreak, and desperation. All game we were waiting for the breakthrough. When the final whistle went against Germany in October 2015, fourteen years of frustration and disappointment since we last defeated an elite team disappeared. In the moment Robbie Brady scored for Ireland in the 85th minute, fourteen years since we last won a game in a major competition had passed. Fourteen years since we scored a critical goal with our participation in the balance. It was a goal that now put us within sight of ending 28 years without winning a game in the European Championship. All that time coupled with aforementioned pot of emotions laid bare to the scenes that unfolded in Lille. Robbie Brady has tears flowing from eyes because he understands the significance of the goal.
It’s a goal that can define a generation. This Houghton is Stuttgart and New York, Sheedy in Palermo, Keane in Ibaraki. I’ve recycled the greatest moments in Irish football history time and time again before Ireland games. The majority of which I wasn’t around for, or too young to appreciate. I’m 25 years of age and of relative sound body and mind, despite the best efforts of local off-licences in previous two weeks. This was a special moment none of us in the stadium will ever forget. Even those watching at home! A moment we never got close to four years ago in Poland, or on the streets singing or dancing. A moment on the pitch that Robbie Brady will never be allowed forget, even if he got a recurrent form of amnesia 50 years from now. His celebration showed it. Much like the rest of us, he had tears in his eyes running towards the Irish support. The significance was not lost on him or the rest of us.
The significance of the result at hand would curtail our celebrations for the time being. When Long scored against Germany, the passion that emanated from the stands in our sings, chants and support distracted me from the clock. I remember looking up at the screen to see the scoreline only to note 85 minutes were played. Celebrating Shane Longs goal that night made me forget about the passing of time. That was then, and this is now. 85 minutes have passed and nothing was secured yet. Robbie Keane, Irelands record goalscorer, was about to be brought on. The goal has changed things. Now Stephen Quinn is warming up to shore up the midfield. Robbie’s swansong can wait. It can happen in Lyon. The sheer emotion in all of us is brought to a halt when we realise the game wasn’t over. Now the Italians push forward with real purpose. Yet they cannot bring the same intensity to the game that the Irish have done all night. The momentum, the desire, and the noise is impossible to break down. The noise in question is a mix of “Ole Ole Ole” and a defiant “Come on You Boys In Green”. Somehow, some way, we are summoning the strength to roar those chants down across the stadium. The closed roof helps. Energy levels have been galvanised, there is no way Ireland can lose this now?
The pessimistic amongst of us have premonitions. The scene is Croke Park, October 2009. Sean St.Ledger scores a header that brings wild celebrations in the famous stadium. It’s in the 87th minute and Ireland lead Italy 2 goals to one. Despite the noise and celebrations in full flow, the Italians break on the counter and score an equaliser within 90 seconds to level the game and send them to the 2010 World Cup once and for all. Ireland are left to face the playoffs. The rest is history. A repeat of that scenario would fucking destroy me more than Henrys handball ever did before. The clock ticks into injury time. Tackles are flying, and not an inch is been given. McClean makes a perfect challenge from behind and the ball is hoofed clear for a throw. McGeady dispossesses Zaza and Randolph hammers it downfield. Anywhere will fucking do. It’s a throw in deep in the Italian half that goes long. Zaza barges into the back of an Irish man. Free-kick. Time is up. The free-kick is greeted with a roar of relief and appreciation but not one of celebration. The game is as good as over isn't it? Martin O’Neill is already celebrating, Antonio Conte already brooding? Is this real, I'm not sure if I believe this is real. It has to be over? It has to be real!
The free kick is taken and delivered towards the corner flag. The final whistle soon follows.
Republic of Ireland 1 Italy 0
Now the tears are coming non-stop.
It’s a moment I’ve waited for all my life. One I’ve agonised over, fantasised about, imagined endlessly what it would be like. And it’s happiness. Sheer and utter happiness with immense pride. The squad all converges together to the corner of the stadium where I am. Irish fans across the stadium celebrate, embrace, cry together. We’ve experienced something truly unforgettable and we all know what we’ll be talking about for the rest of our life. And that is something only International football can give to an Irish football fan. I’ve never truly had to justify the lengths I’ve gone to follow my country. Sure, I’ve gotten raised eyebrows, shakes of the head, condescending smirks, laughters of disbelief. And plenty of dismissals. And while I didn’t waste a millisecond thinking about them in the stadium, it hit me on the way back into the city centre that none of them would ever question my support again. Cause I’m pretty sure back home in Ireland they too were watching it as well.
However, I was there, and my body is still shaking. I’ve got 4% on my battery. I’ve got to ring my girlfriend and my father. And tell them I’m not sure if I’m coming home tomorrow.
