I don’t drink. I don’t really understand football. And yet there I was, in the Foggy Dew on a Thursday night, surrounded by people who had been waiting for this moment for 23 years. Some of them, I realised later, had been waiting their whole lives.
My friend, Laura, explained the basics on the walk over, speaking slowly, the way you do to someone arriving from another planet. Ireland was playing Czechia. Win, and there’s one more game to go to the World Cup. Lose, and we don’t. Simple. Except nothing about it was simple. You could feel the moment you walked through the door.
Ireland went 2-0 up, and the pub became something I will never be able to describe to someone who wasn’t there fully. Grown men openly wept, without embarrassment, without apology. A man old enough to be my grandfather stood with his fist pressed into his mouth, shoulders shaking. This was it. This was finally it.
Then Czechia scored. Then, four minutes from the end, they scored again. I have never watched joy leave a room so completely, so cruelly, so fast. The man with his fist to his mouth sat down heavily, like something in him had given way.
It went to penalties. Szmodics was stretched off injured before the shootout, sirens audible on the broadcast. Azaz missed. Browne missed. And that was it. Around me, people were crying. The one I couldn’t stop watching was an 18-year-old. He had been pure joy an hour ago, the kind of fan who makes you understand why any of this matters. Now he sat completely still, head down, crying quietly in the way that hurts the most to witness, the way that has no performance in it at all.
Ireland hasn’t been to a World Cup since 2002. There are people in that pub who were children then. They are no longer children, and they are still waiting. On Thursday night, in the Foggy Dew, I finally understood what that waiting costs.
We walked to the Quays in silence to get a taxi. Someone said we’d qualify next time. Nobody answered.
Across Europe that same night, another green army had gathered. Our writer was among them, in the city where it all fell apart.
In the days leading up to the match, a sea of green swept Prague. From Charles Bridge to the kebab shop, you couldn’t go very far without hearing an Irish accent. For a few days, it felt as though the city had been quickly taken over, the colonised becoming the colonisers.
Even Prague’s many Irish bars could not accommodate this crusade. On match day, queues for Irish pubs formed hours before kick-off, snaking down the streets of the old town. Not a single Czech jersey could be seen anywhere, and you would be forgiven if you thought you were in Dublin.
Late to the party, my friends and I arrived at Durty Nelly’s at 4 pm for the 8.45 kick-off. The pub, like elsewhere, was already packed beyond capacity, so we joined the queue. What could have been a tedious two-hour wait was far from it. We stood on a packed square full of lads with parrots on their shoulders, joining in on the chants as the queue slowly crept forward.
Inside, the atmosphere was even better. It was full of fans who had quit their jobs and taken routes around the continent to get there. Songs like Grace and Fields of Athenry rang around the pub until kick-off. Then we went 2-0 up, and there was nothing but pure belief in the room, until we slowly watched the lead slip away. Extra time. Penalties, and the pub went silent before each one. Kelleher saved. There was an eruption of cheers. But very quickly, the joy turned to heartbreak as Ireland were denied two scores.
That was it. The crowd funnelled out. The streets that were full of chanting just two hours ago are now practically silent.
But by God, it was good while it lasted. Maybe in 4 more years.
Hannah Costello – Co-Editor
Aisling Murphy – Turbine Editor