A Grand Old Stretch in the Evenings

Simon Dymond

Right. Here we go again. The long march towards the 2026 World Cup starts for real in 2025. It’s a proper cod of a journey, that one. You’ll shell out fifty quid for a seat at the Aviva, just to watch us hoof it about in the drizzle. We all remember Egan’s thumping header against Portugal, pure bedlam in the local down in Cork. Thought we’d conquered the world that night. Funny thing is, I’m pretty sure FIFA already did the draw for the big show. Or was that for the women’s tournament? My head’s wrecked thinking about it.

And dont even get me started on the other palaver. The European Championship qualifiers are a more intimate affair. Less globetrotting, more gallivanting to nations that sound made up, battling it out on some bog of a pitch. We expect nothing and somehow, were still let down. But then, some young fella from the Championship pops up with a thirty-yard screamer and it’s all worth it for a week. It’s the hope that kills you, it always is. Get the pints in. It’ll be grand.

world cup 2026

â–¶ The Ins and Outs of This Whole Malarkey

It’s the scale of the World Cup dream that’s so preposterous. You’re up against behemoths. Teams with players whose weekly wage could buy half of Leitrim. We wheel out our lads, bless their cotton socks, who play with grit and pure stubbornness. It’s a beautiful, doomed enterprise. We don’t ask for poetry on the pitch just a bit of heart. And maybe for our centre-half to not get a red card in the first twenty minutes. That’d be a nice change of pace.

The Euro qualifiers though, that feels like our turf. It’s a family feud. A scrappy, glorious mess. The away trips are a pilgrimage. A flight to some far-flung corner of the continent for less than a train to Galway, singing songs in a square you cant pronounce. You just know we’re destined to lose 1-0 to a flukey, deflected goal in the last minute. But you go anyway. You have to. Is there any other way to be, really. It’s our magnificent curse.

â–¶ The Last Pint of Hope

So we look to the future for that World Cup business. We pin our hopes on some seventeen-year-old from the Bohemians academy who can do a few step-overs. His Da probably spent a fortune in Elverys on his gear. We’ll build him up into the next big thing before he’s even played a full ninety minutes. It’s a cycle. A mad, beautiful ritual based on pure, uncut optimism. Maybe the new manager will try something radical. Like playing with two goalkeepers. Nobody’s tried that yet have they.

But the Euros, that’s different gravy. It’s more real. That’s about the here and now, the grit. It’s about that shared, knowing look with a stranger on the bus back from the stadium after a draw that felt like a win. It’s not about glory, it’s about enduring. You go, you freeze, you probably lose, you wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s our thing. Another round, then.

Simon Dymond
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