Words: Luan Rogers
Photos: Offside
Tuesday’s dead rubber ties between the European playoff losers were the latest in international football’s long history of meaningless friendlies. These cruel contests called on shattered opponents from across the continent, still reeling from the misery of defeat.
As an admittedly masochistic Irish fan, I immediately took the bait, dialing in for some UEFA-mandated punishment. Our national broadcaster’s heart-rending montage clip of the defeat in Prague had already done enough to rile me up for a mouth-watering clash against the mighty Macedonia!
The fixture fell just a day before April Fools in what felt like a cruel prank on Ireland’s nearly men. A whole Summer of begrudgery now lies ahead of us, looking on from the sidelines as the party descends on the New World. Don’t worry, we’ll eventually get over it, just as long as England doesn’t win.
I had been nursing an emotional hangover since Thursday, my voice still in remission after the penalty shootout heartbreak against the Czechs. When Ireland went two-nil up 23 minutes in, delirium quickly turned to dread with the almost immediate concession of a needless penalty. We promptly shut up shop, manfully defending until an 86th minute header snuck in at the near post. Either way, the path to penalties seemed inevitable, and well, the rest is history…
Across the world, football represents a vehicle for nostalgia, though the Irish indulge like no other. Look no further than the recent “Saipan” film as evidence of our insatiable appetite to feast on our own heartbreak. What other proud footballing nation collectively yields to the urge to memorialize failure? I’ll leave it up to postcolonial theorists to figure that one out.
For nearly a decade now, Irish football fans have been living off scraps – memories of past glories and flashes of hope to sustain us through successive failures. The halcyon years of the 90s, where we once voyaged as far as the World Cup quarterfinals, still loom large in the collective consciousness. With now a decade passed since our last appearance at a major tournament, Irish fans appear increasingly desperate to have something to cheer about.
Ireland’s qualification campaign got off to a stuttering start in September – a salvaged draw against Hungary preceded humiliation against Armenia. The dream had seemingly died, before we even had the chance to get excited. Then came that magical week in November which will live long in the memory of the Irish football faithful. Troy Parrott bagged a brace against Portugal before that hat-trick in Budapest sent Irish fans into hysteria.
Parrott’s emergence as a national folk hero embodies the sense of excitement that surrounded the Irish team. Ireland had finally found a talisman who could bear the weight of the nation’s expectation. This team, coached by an Icelandic dentist and made up of mostly mid-tier Championship players, had somehow managed to recapture the public imagination. The resounding calls for “Belief” in the build-up to the playoff carried echoes of Obama’s 2008 election campaign.
In the aftermath, Hallgrimson compared the playoff defeat to a car crash, reminding us that “the best thing to do is drive again.” Either way, I buckled in for a match that was by no means a rollercoaster.
Though nearly 40,000 trooped out for the occasion, the game against Macedonia struggled to ever come to life. Parrott bungled a few chances before slotting in two deft finishes, denied by the offside flag on both occasions. The toy parrots, brought to the stadium by endearing fans, could do little to cheer up the star man who looked on despondently.
Ireland relish their reputation as disruptors, thorns in the side of technically superior opponents. Our best performances tend to be rewarded with backhanded compliments – a Danish player once likened playing us to “opening a can of baked beans with your bare hands.” It’s only when we come up against a team, like Macedonia, whom we are expected to beat, do we really shit the bed.
The second half saw the introduction of 17 substitutes from either side, effectively bringing the game to a standstill. 37-year-old stalwart Seamus Coleman departed the pitch in typically modest fashion, making way for debutants in what may have been his last game in green. A lighthearted pitch invasion in the dying embers of the game at last gave the crowd something to cheer about.
Thankfully, the referee spared us the misery of much additional time, blowing it up before the ground completely emptied out. That was finally that, as the curtain fell on Ireland’s World Cup fantasy. The long wait continues.
