It is, indeed, only a game and, yes, those of us who are besotted with it are wholly incapable of applying any sense of perspective to our infatuation with some folk lumping a spherical object around a patch of grass. But then along comes an afternoon like the one we witnessed in Budapest and you can only conclude that those who don’t share the same ardour are missing out on a slice of life’s loveliness.
It being a chilly day, there’s a fair chance that every window on this road was closed. But still, when Troy Parrott scored that winner, there was a Mexican wave of hollers from number one to number 40.
It could be that better soundproofing is needed – you can hear Eamonn next door brushing his teeth in the morning – and there’s probably now a subsidence issue after the road bounced with unmitigated joy. But underpinning is a small price to pay for observing Troy Parrott sling us several miles over the moon.
“Troy Parrott. I don’t need to say any more. Just Troy Parrott.” So said Dara O’Shea when he spoke with Tony O’Donoghue after the game, the most noticeable thing about himself and his team-mates how utterly drained they were. Elated, needless to say, but drained.
READ MORE
Drained, probably, from the emotion of it all, and drained, maybe, from all the doubts we had about them through this campaign. When they lost in Armenia, they became a laughing stock. And then they took six points from Portugal at home and Hungary away and no one’s laughing any more. Just swoonin’.
“Have you managed to identity that unfamiliar feeling that has been percolating the air since Friday night?” Joanne Cantwell asked us when she introduced RTÉ’s coverage of the game. “It might be ... hope?”
That it was. But, as we know, it’s the hope that can kill you, so Didi Hamann and Kevin Doyle’s optimism before the game could only render you nervous. “Hungary thought they were home and hosed ... is there a sense of trepidation in Budapest?” Kev asked Tony, and you’d be like, “stop”. “I think we’re going to win, I think they can do it,” he told Joanne, Didi not disagreeing.
Teams out. It felt like forever since a game meant this much, nor had an atmosphere quite like it, Tony noting that Stradbally, Crumlin and North Tipperary were in the house, aka the rather glorious Puskás arena.
But going a goal down after three minutes might have put a pin in the buoyancy balloon. True, it was offside, VAR needing a trip to Specsavers, but it stood. A Kilimanjaro to climb. Troy took us up to base camp with that penalty, but Barnabás Varga left us needing crampons to get back up again.
“Don’t go down without a fight,” Didi advised at half-time, but then Chiedozie Ogbene went down with a hamstring injury and it felt like our footballing world was crumbling. Ten minutes to go, two goals needed. A bit like the odds against you winning the Lotto.
But. And not often in the history of our national team has there been a bigger one. There’s a chance that Pope Leo XIV will be certifying this as a miracle come Monday morning.
Nine minutes to go, Troy with a dink sent from the heavens. “GAME ON!” Ray Houghton bellowed, by now Darragh Maloney on the cusp of losing his voice. And it nigh on vanished when Dénes Dibusz’s right elbow kept out Johnny Kenny’s shot. Excruciating.
But then, in the 96th minute of the game, on the 16th day of November in the year of Our Lord 2025, Troy ... ah, look, no words. There was pandemonium on the pitch, pandemonium in the stands, and pandemonium in the commentary box. It was a moment that was right up there with the most joyous Irish sport has ever gifted us.
“THERE’LL BE SONGS WRITTEN ABOUT THIS,” Darragh croaked, and there should be too. Back in the studio, Kev, no more than the players, sounded utterly drained too, Heimir Hallgrímsson pushing him over the edge by congratulating Ireland on producing lads like the ones who produced the miracle of Budapest.
One of them, Dara, was just left shaking his head. “I wish I could bottle up this feeling,” he said to Tony. If someone could crack that code, we’d live forever on cloud nine. Glorious.
