You know what they say ... it’s the hope that kills you. And there was no end of it at the start of the evening, albeit fused with a bottomless pit of anxiety. But, come the end of it all, it was not to be. Two-nil up, 2-2, lost on penalties. Hearts? Crushed. But if even one of you complains about this team’s efforts in Prague, you’ll be getting a strongly worded letter - and it might even feature expletives.
The upshot, though, is that all we have to look forward to now are glam friendlies against North Macedonia, Grenada and Qatar, and another against Canada in Montreal on the eve of a World Cup that we won’t be going to. Sport is rubbish.
A measure of the monumental nature of this game was that RTÉ released Darragh Maloney, Didi Hamann and Shay Given in to the wild, sending the trio to Prague rather than having them holed up in Montrose.
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Even the Nuacht crew were there, bumping in to a bunch of chancers who insisted they were fluent so they’d get on the telly. One of them: ”Tá ticéad agam! Tá craic go maith! COME ON IRELAND!” That sounded like some of us in our Irish Inter oral exam (ask your granny). No mention of Ó Troighthigh Pearóid, though, “Troy” now more than plenty to identify the fella in any language, an improvement on the days when Stephen Carr was called Gluaisteán.
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Coverage of the game opened with one of those montages that would leave you feeling like you’d just diced 12 onions. There’s something about Uilleann pipes and flutes, they set you off in a way that no accordion or synthesiser ever could.
Team news from Tony O’Donoghue. Ryan Manning and Jack Taylor in for Ireland, Didi noting that the Czech side was rather large. “Chory, the striker, 6ft 6ins, a big lump.” But Shay assuaged fears of a damaging aerial bombardment by pointing out that Ireland had three big lumps at the back. Comforting.
“This is as big as it gets,” said Didi, a man who played in a World Cup final, his confidence in a mighty night for Ireland somewhat balanced by Shay and Ronnie Whelan when they chatted on the pitch. Hopeful, yes. Stomachs in knots? Certainly.
Teams out. Anthems. Amhrán na bhFiann. Only 1,024 Irish fans in the 19,730-capacity stadium? As the young people say: “Lolololololol.” A very mournful Czech anthem, anyone would think they had a difficult history.
Off we went. Ireland hunting down the ball like a Labrador on the loose when the dog warden isn’t looking. Troy ... hold it ... Nathan Collins was proving to be the chief attacking threat, first nearly sending the crossbar in to Slovakia and then coming close to scoring from the resulting corner. And then he won a penalty. Leixlip abú.
Troy, need it be said, converted it, his 59th goal in his last three internationals (Corrections and clarifications department: This is not true - it’s only six in his last three.). And two minutes later Ireland only went and scored again, the hosts kindly turning the ball in to their own net. By now you’d have been deleting all your social media stuff to ensure entrance to the USA.
“Don’t do anything silly,” Ronnie warned four minutes on when the Czechs won a corner. Manning did something silly and gave away a needless penalty. Patrik Schick scored. Ronnie sighed. “It was never going to be straightforward tonight,” said Des Curran.
Second half. And you had no doubt that this would feel about 74 times longer than 45 minutes. Especially when the Czechs started a little like that off-leash Lab. When the Athenry tune grew louder, you sensed the 19,730 Irish fans in the stadium sensed the lads were in trouble, not least when the right post saved Jayson Molumby’s shot from the edge of the box. Even the woodwork was defying us.
Half an hour to go. “It’s absolutely relentless, Ireland cannot get out,” said Ronnie as the home side applied mountains of pressure, Ireland’s press but a memory.
Ten minutes to go. The Ole Oles were growing cacophonous by now, as was the sound of our beating hearts. Which skipped several beats, and not in a good way, when the Czechs equalised with four minutes to go. “All those predictions of a long night in Prague might come to fruition,” said Des, Ronnie briefly unable to speak.
Extra-time. Excruciating. “I don’t know if the Irish lads are strong enough to get through this,” said Ronnie, who could have been talking about ourselves.
Penalties. No words. The World Cup will just have to do without us. Truly, sport is indeed rubbish.
