The Cruellest Game
There’s fewer tests of faith in life than following the Irish national football team.
There was a moment in Saturday night’s Portugal and Ireland game where Cristiano Ronaldo, frustrated by Ireland’s time wasting, retrieved the ball for Caoimhín Kelleher and dramatically stamped it on the six yard box, gesturing at the Irish goalkeeper to hurry up his play.
It was a quintessential Ronaldo moment, the now 40-year-old still dragging his chiselled frame into international duty. It drew a huge cheer from the home support, was somehow missed by the television directors, and in many ways was a pure Ronaldo moment - going above and beyond for the good of his team, while also still somehow craving the attention for himself. Part self-sacrifice, part self-promotion. It was a dutiful move which sparked a rise out of the fans, but also, nobody else was really going to do that.
Yet somehow, Ireland rode that wave, huffing and puffing their way towards a precious point. With their World Cup ambitions hanging on by a thread, a point - a POINT! - against Portugal would have left like lifting the Jules Rimet trophy itself.
But with 15 minutes left, the familiar cruelty of fate arrived. A dubious 75th minute Portugal penalty seemed to shatter the dream, but Kelleher matched Ronaldo with a save with his feet, levitating into the air in celebration and rare release of emotion from the cool Corkman.
That penalty felt dodgy, even well beyond full time. The referee, an Ivan Kružliak of Slovakia, was determined to give it - pointing defiantly at the white spot when Dara O’Shea appeared to handle the ball in the box. However, replays proved inconclusive, with one side-on angle appearing to show the ball hit him square in the chest. A real borderline decision that would’ve warranted at least a screen visit for the referee was waved away and, almost typically, little old Ireland were to just suck it up and face the music for their non-offence.
Portugal were running out of time as the clock flicked towards 90. And then, Trincao, one of a trio of subs on the hour mark who until then had made no impression of the game, found enough space to swing a cross from wide, which millimetre perfectly met the head of Rúben Neves, a blink ahead of Kelleher, and his header hit the net.
Defeat, again. Deflation, dismay, depression, again.
In 60 appearances for Portugal, Neves had never scored a single goal. Not least a header, for a holding midfielder and long range specialist, it was nosebleed territory. Yet he ventured upwards and scored the winner.
On his calf, a tattoo of himself and Diogo Jota. On his back, the number 21 - Jota’s number for his country. Portugal, playing at home for the first time since his passing, remembered their past countryman on the 21st minute.
Sometimes the script is written and there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes you’re just Ireland and nothing, nothing will go your way. You are consigned to a life of misery and pain and unrelenting hardship following a team that, for whatever reason, just can’t find that stroke of luck.
The problems go far deeper than missed penalties or last-minute heartbreak. They run from a dysfunctional football association and a domestic league that’s had to fight for survival, to a threadbare academy system that barely produces elite talent. Meanwhile, Europe’s so-called minnows, the Faroes, Armenia, Luxembourg, are getting smarter, more organised, and better funded.
And, sadly for us fans and followers of the most painful show on earth, there is no reprieve. No slice of luck that might give us hope. Another World Cup will come and go without our renowned best fanbase in the world. We will, to at least some upside, have a home Euro tournament to look forward to in 2028 but even that isn’t just guaranteed yet, and may need the moving of mountain and sea for us to make it along with the other host nations.
Right now, we await Armenia in Dublin on Tuesday night. A draw or defeat just about buries any hope and leaves the latest manager, Iceland’s Heimer Halgrimsson, possibly out on his tot before the final two group games next month. I suspect he won’t be missed, nor will he miss his beat with maybe the hardest job in Irish sport.
As we look around at the likes of Faroe Islands beating Czechia, sides well above and below Ireland in the FIFA world rankings, you see two teams that Ireland would be unfancied to beat.
Looking around at a European continent of minnows, who are slowly but surely getting better, looking more organised, and enjoying funding and investment in their local game, there are few teams around Ireland that you’d back with certainty for them to win, especially not 103rd ranked Armenia who, after feeling Ireland out for about 30 minutes in Yerevan last month, came to realise that they are no great shakes and proceeded to put in a solid if unspectacular performance and win, 2-1.
And yet, despite it all, the Irish fan will turn up. Bloodied, beaten, broken, they’ll still turn up and watch the team. Support and will the team foward. They’ll track the Irish players across Europe’s leagues, dissect team sheets, cling to hope where none exists. Following this team is one of the cruellest pursuits in sport, a test of faith and resolve with no reward, a habit that can’t be broken. Because no matter how much Irish football gives us nothing, we’ll keep coming back for more.