On March 27th, Stephen Kenny’s Ireland will face World Cup finalists France in a sold out Aviva stadium. 50,000 fans will watch on expectantly as the boys in green begin their Euro 2024 qualification campaign against Didier Deschamp’s international heavyweights, a hopeful anxiety burning in their chest which comes at the start of every campaign, though deep down they know there is only one possible result. Bar stool pundits will deliberate in the days before as to which 11 players have the best chance of beating this French team, “What’s his name, something Ferguson, the Brighton fella, he’s doing well isn’t he?”, though deep down they know, no matter the starting team, they will be crying into their beer at the end of the 90 minutes, wondering why they don’t support the Irish rugby team instead. Fans will drive from Cork, Galway, Limerick, Mayo, recounting miracles of the past to pass the time, “Jason McAteer against Holland to qualify for Japan back in 02, that was some goal that was”, as if these memories will manifest themselves into the present, as if France will fall like the Dutch did twenty years ago,though deep down they know they will drive home defeated, in the small hours of the morning, too tired to sleep, too old to give it up. The younger fans, too young to remember the peaks and troughs of before, will aproach the game with a hopeful naivety, eager to see what the nations best talents have to offer. I feel bad for them, it’s the hope that kills you. Before the game, Kenny will talk his usual spiel, “we gave Portugal a good game, I thought we were very unlucky to lose that one, we drew with Serbia, beat Scotland and Azerbaijan well, we definitely have the capacity to beat big teams”, and we will all nod along half-heartedly, because he is half right. Except he has forgotten to mention the unforgettable losses to Luxembourg and Armenia , and the number of goalless draws we suffered through against the likes of Finland and Wales, teams Ireland should at least be scoring once against. Yet Seamus Coleman will lead the team out onto the pitch, before a glorious rendition of the national anthem, each word filled with an overzealous sense of national pride, and the referee will blow his whistle, and the tragedy will begin. And when Shane Duffy scores a glancing header from a corner, (because that’s the only way Ireland can score), Landsdown road will erupt into a chorus of ‘Walking in a Kenny Wonderland’, the euphoria of the moment eclipsing all previous disappointments and failures, and we will forget, for a minute at least, what it feels like to lose. Until one of France’s millionaire mega-stars wakes up momentarily to swat that small, persistent fly out of their face, and blaze down the wing in a flurry of pure athleticism and skill, once, twice maybe more, silencing the jubilant sea of green, and Kenny will stand stunned on the sidelines thinking to himself, I never get any luck, and the Irish team will throw themselves at the French’s goal in one last desperate attempt of a comeback, and we will all cheer along half heartedly, though deep down we know that they can try the best they can but it’s not, it’s never enough. And at the full time whistle we will applaud the team for their valiant effort, “sure we’re only a small country, only 4 million sure”, and Kenny will lament all the shots that didn’t go in during his post-game interview, “Ye I thought we were a bit unlucky, y’know?”, while 50,000 fans stream out of the stadium in a sombre haze, dejected but not surprised, before returning home to sit in a dark, dark, room. And in the morning they will wake, and begin the recovery, try to argue the insignificance of a football, “sure it’s only a game”, swear to not get so disappointed next time, though deep down they know it will hurt them again like it has hurt them now.
There is a poetry in watching the Republic of Ireland, the slow death, the long falling, the repitition of the same act expecting different results each time – there’s a name for that isn’t there?