Sideline Cut:Immediately after watching Ireland commit floodlit robbery against poor San Marino on Wednesday night, I turned on the newly-released Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait. Broadly speaking, both shows involved watching soccer. But talk about a game of two halves.

One was a compelling examination of the essential loneliness at the heart of football, a gloomy and disturbing hour riveted to one man's journey through the primal, unforgiving landscape of the beautiful game, with a haunting soundtrack broken by occasional grunts and sighs of despair. The Zidane film wasn't bad either.

This being a Gallic-themed weekend, we might as well take our chapeaux off to the French. Not alone are the French incontrovertibly cooler than every other race on earth, they wear the shades to prove it. You watch them on Croke field tomorrow: they'll fling that pervy-shaped ball around the sacred ground like they own the damn place. They have the weather, the food, the beauty, the beaches, the philosophers, the films and the fashion. They all smoke like fiends but live until at least the age of 125. But most importantly, they know exactly how to treat their sports heroes.

For almost a decade, Zidane has been a cultural icon for the French, and since he nutted Marco Matterazzi in the climactic moments of the World Cup final, he has been elevated to outright genius.

The making of A 21st Century Portraitpredated that gesture by a full year but in the course of playing a typical league match for Real Madrid, Zidane is presented as just about the most troubling French bloke since Albert Camus sent a man walking the beach. It is moody, thoughtful, artsy as hell and one of the best sports films ever made.

And it made me think that maybe we are treating the Boys in Green all wrong. Instead of the derision and scorn heaped upon them in the days since San Marino, maybe we should regard the Irish team as existential heroes, valiantly struggling on through what is always going to be a futile task, a journey ending in death.

After all, Ireland will never win a major football tournament. We may never even appear in one again. During the dream days when everyone in this country shamelessly worshipped a thrifty, fish-loving Geordie with an impish grin, we briefly flirted with the notion we could challenge the mighty nations of Europe and the world for the big prizes. Eamon Dunphy, then the radical of the media scene whose dissent got him ejected from the court of Charlton, wrote as much, memorably declaring, "We are talking about medals now, Jack." He argued that in players such as Keane, McGrath, Houghton, Aldridge and the tyros like Phil Babb, Jason McAteer and Gary Kelly, we had the stuff of which dreams are made.

In retrospect, it may look dubious but in that heady time of high emotion and goodwill, it seemed plausible. In any event, we weren't talking about medals. We were talking the tragi-comic sight of Big Jack sweltering in Orlando and a second-round exit at the hands of the Dutch. A year later came 0-0 in Liechtenstein, the de facto end of the Charlton administration and a deafening slap in the face of the illusion of Ireland as a big-time Johnny in football.

What happened in San Marino on Wednesday night inevitably evoked memories of that black day in gorgeous Liechtenstein, not least from Steve Staunton, who looked like a man in need of a stiff brandy after San Marino converted that muddled, historic equaliser.

When Staunton last wore green, Irish football gave this country a chance to enjoy its better nature. The Best Fans in the World and all that. A decade of wealth and self-congratulation has hardened and made more conceited the collective mindset. And the inference, from the serious RTÉ news interview with FAI chief executive John Delaney to the phone-in shows, has been clear: that for Ireland not to pistol-whip a team of useless part-timers like San Marino is a national embarrassment.

Maybe it is. Except here is the thing: the world doesn't care. Ireland have probably discovered their natural football habitat right now, existing in that ultimately pointless third tier of borderline respectability, capable of almost drawing against Germany in one match and almost drawing with San Marino the next. There is no denying Staunton's leadership qualities are open to question right now.

But the idea - unconventional but at least not dull - was that he would journey through this campaign with Bobby Robson at his side. The Englishman's illness has prevented that. And Staunton has been cruelly struck with a litany of injuries.

Had Shay Given been playing, for instance, Ireland would not have conceded a goal to San Marino and might not have lost in Cyprus. Had Kevin Doyle been playing, Ireland might have won 4-0 and the show would have trundled on.

But what difference would any of that had made? The hard truth is that even if Staunton is fired tomorrow and Delaney follows, Ireland won't get better at football.

Those Irish players should have been able to fly to San Marino without any manager, hit the nightclubs, wake up the next day and still put four or five past the amateurs. But they could not.

We watched Robbie Keane slide that early chance the wrong side of the post and realised yet again that for all the feints and touches, the Tallaght man lacks the pure striker's coldness in front of goal. And all that shimmer and dazzle of the younger Duff: what has that amounted to?

Ireland is made up of journeymen professionals, all perspiration and precious little inspiration. Perhaps had Brian Kerr been allowed to continue his good, subtle work, the picture would be different today. But most of the soccer press wanted rid of Kerr, and the players privately complained the Dubliner was cramming their heads with too many tactics.

Now they are unburdened of almost all tactics but it has made no difference. And Kerr has managed to do his duty as a television commentator without once putting the knife in, although he must be seething and angry at what has happened.

It was foolhardy of John Delaney to promise "a world-class manager", a phrase that will haunt him until the end. It is like the owner of a burger joint promising a Michelin star chef. Who would want to manage Ireland? It is tough enough just watching them.

So maybe it would be easier for us all to accept the failings and fortunes of Ireland as a simple reflection of the disappointments of life. Why not a film called Stan: A Twenty-First Century Portrait? Why not ring up Joe Duffy to chat about the melancholy of Robbie Keane or the suicidal tendencies of the back four? Why not accept that the Irish football team are doing their best and that their best is not very good at all.

Soon, the Ireland team and the garrison game will move to the vast sporting palace of Croke Park. But there is a real possibility that the revolution has come 10 years too late and now that the GAA doors have been busted open by popular demand, nobody will be bothered turning up to watch the once-beloved boys in green.

If that happens, Michael Cusack will be laughing in his grave. And the French would probably appreciate the joke as well.