This was never meant to be fun

Keith Duggan TV View: It was a day of surprises. The first was the reappearance of Eamon Dunphy. We had feared the worst for Eamo. Word was he had defected to Deutschland, parachuting in at the dead of night to try out life in lederhosen. Since he went underground late last weekend, the rumours had been unstoppable.

Eamo somehow became the Keyser Soze of modern football punditry, more myth than man. He was supposed to be on top of the FAI's most wanted list. Reported sightings of Eamo cropped up all over the world. Tribute songs were planned. There's a Guy Down the Chip Shop Swears He's Eamo. We had actually started to miss him.

So we should have known he would be there, plonked in the middle of Bill and Gilesy, unbroken and still browed. Same old Dunphy. Achtung, Baby.

"They are a pretty ordinary side," he scoffed of the Germans before the kick-off.

No flying pens, no treasonous outbursts. It was all rather disciplined and sensible and efficient, all rather German. Maybe he had been turned.

As Ireland flicked the "off" switch to the national economy, television ran endless pre-match tributes to Steve Staunton, who has been playing in green for a hundred years now. Or something like that. He definitely reached some sort of auspicious milestone.

"It doesn't really get to grips with me at this moment in time," confessed the man of the moment who, as usual, would finish up as man of the match.

Kick off, fast followed by a realisation that last hit home in the summers of 1990 and 1994: watching Ireland in massive World Cup games isn't fun. It is precisely the opposite of fun. The wave of optimism and pride that surges for all of three seconds after the national anthem is quickly replaced by a vague but persistent feeling of nausea.

You feel faint and queasy. You are starving but you couldn't face a thing. You aren't thirsty but still, you'd kill for a pint. You really don't want to watch this, but short of standing alone on the street there is no alternative. On days like this, we are force-fed World Cup football.

After 20 minutes, the strong reserve of Irish fatalism kicks in. That's why it is easy be stoic in the face of Klose, the German goal-scorer. Klose heads a goal that a handful of Irish people (Keane, Quinn, Kinsella) might just emulate, and then he celebrates with a high-speed summersault that not one person on this island could manage. It was like something you'd see at the Olympics.

Klose's goal we could accept - be honest, we were half expecting it - but the gymnastics were unnecessary and made us all feel bitter and inadequate. And pale, because Klose had this great tan as well.

As passing waves of depression numbed us in a way that was not unpleasant, we were treated to the revelation that Klose had been a roofer up until a few years ago. This bit of news we regard as typical and, as a nation, we curse.

Half-time. We have been in this house before, half the country beered up and the rest wishing they were and just wishing in general. Feeling noble and somehow patriotic, that we are all in this together. World Cup days are like our very own Blitz. We weren't quitting. We would watch until the grim end.

"They are not a good side," snapped Dunphy. He wasn't talking about us. He meant the Germans.

"Forget about the eight goals - they are there to be beaten. I think we are well in this game."

And we are, but at the same time we are not. We can't score. Oliver Kahn keeps on getting in the way.

After 70 minutes, we begin to feel resentful of the Germans. Make a mental note to rent the German episode of Fawlty Towers as a small consolation.

Wonder if Roy Keane is watching.

The seconds tick down. Stan Staunton wins man of the match and then is substituted. Mick McCarthy is standing alone in front of 40,000 people. He has his gloomy face on, the one that could stop the Rio carnival. We fear the worst.

Then something happens on the field. Big Niall Quinn rises. Robbie has the ball and he is belting it and, for once, Kahn can't stop it. Then Robbie is doing his tumbles, these heavy-arsed Irish cartwheels that are messier and flashier than Klose's but still pretty cool.

It is incredible. A replay shows McCarthy watching the goal. All alone one second and then all astonished, his mouth a big, perfect zero.

And, of course, we suddenly realise why we put ourselves through this. Pandemonium breaks loose. People hug. Family members profess love for one another, as do complete strangers. Bosses begin to fear a flood of no-shows for the afternoon. Young children begin to fear another four-hour football lesson from fathers who insist on calling them Duffer. Everyone fears another trilogy from Roddy Doyle.

But these are small prices. The dream is back on. Eamo is smiling, and allows that while he still misses Roy, he is kind of delighted. Bill O has tears in his eyes.

On the field, so do the Germans.

"They deserve it," spits George Hamilton.

The heroes deliver their verdicts.

"Best feeling of my life. Buzzin' " goes Damien Duff.

"The fighting Irish - we were fighting 11 Germans and a referee out there tonight," declared Gary Kelly.

And they thought we were neutral.