The quiet that follows a European exit is a special kind of hollow. Bohemians gave it a proper go, didn’t they. A precipitous campaign built on grit ended with a single, deflected shot in Belgium. A moment of cruel artifice. So you stand there in the away end, your flag suddenly feeling a bit heavy. The dream evaporates. The long trip home begins.
Índice
That return journey is a meditation on what might have been. The budget airline seat feels smaller on the way back. The air hostess’s smile seems mocking. You just spent a few hundred quid to have your heart professionally broken in a city whose name you can barely pronounce. This is the authentic fan experience.
A thought from the trenches: Before a match, always locate the stadium’s grimmest-looking food stall. Buy something. Anything you eat after that, even a lukewarm pie for €10, will taste like a Michelin-star meal by comparison. It’s all about managing expectations.
â–¶ A Look at the Contenders
Elsewhere, the tournament’s group stage offered its usual desultory drama. AS Roma are playing a pugnacious style of football this season, it’s not beautiful, it is brutally effective. They grind out wins. Then you have a team like Fenerbahçe. They possess immense defensive solidity and structure. They also concede goals at an alarming rate which makes no sense.
So what happens now. The knockout phase is where tactics go out the window and raw nerve takes over. Can an Irish team ever hoist this thing? Probably not in our lifetime. But hope is a stubborn thing. We’ll be back next year, saving our euros, ready for another glorious, doomed pilgrimage. It’s the only way we know.
â–¶ Notes on a Scheduled Disappointment
The way a stadium sounds after a goal is disallowed by VAR is the purest distillation of the modern game. A roar is born, it lives for three seconds, and then it is murdered by a man in a room miles away looking at a screen. What’s left is a gelatinous, confused murmur. This is the new drama. We have traded raw, incorrect passion for precise, sterile justice. It feels like a terrible bargain.
There is a particular shade of green on the pitch in Trondheim that you dont see anywhere else. It’s a deep, almost melancholy green, it looks weary from the long winters. You watch the players scurry across it, their legs pumping, and you wonder if the grass notices. If it feels the pressure of their studs as a minor, quotidian annoyance. The ball itself is an agent of chaos with no allegiance, it skids on this damp surface with a mind of its own.
So it will culminate in Bilbao. Two tribes will descend on the city. One will leave sanctified, the other will leave with a powerful thirst and a story about how they were robbed. We will observe this transaction from afar. The trophy will be lifted, confetti will fall, and it will all feel as real as a dream you can’t quite remember upon waking. Then, mercifully, it will be over. Until the itch starts again in August. And it always starts again.
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