We were daring to dream about Budapest. We’d write a book and call it, ‘Our Night in November’. Manners would be put on Ronaldo in the Aviva too, and, whilst we were at it, ‘feck the play-offs’; we’d go on ahead and win the bloody group.
Last night, those people with giddy notions were sharply brought back down to earth. I guess it’s indicative of how starved of success we’ve been recently, when our draw against a second-string Senegalese side had set the nation’s pulse racing. But there’s nothing wrong with a bit of the feel-good factor.
Things were certainly looking good before kick-off last night, with news that Max O’Leary was getting his much-deserved call up, along with a first start for Killian Phillips adding a sense of energy and excitement into an already promising line-up. In his pre-match interview, a rogue water sprinkler rained on Hallgrímsson’s parade. ‘Is that just the first of your birthday surprises?’ laughed Tony O’Donoghue. ‘Probably, yeah,’ a dripping Hallgrímsson smiled casually. It would prove to be his Nostradamus moment.
Heimir had the auld good jumper on him, a tidy little back number. Head bowed and eyes shut during Amhrán na bhFiann, the hoor sang every word. What a man. 17 minutes later, and Hall-Grimace-sson had a scowl across his face, as the match director’s camera panned to the frustrated Ireland boss. Luxembourg were proving difficult to break down, and this was turning into a real scrap. Worryingly, Luxembourg began to show real moments of danger as the half wore on. Indeed, Sinani was a constant threat, forcing a clever save from O’Leary at one stage. Moreira, as well, was allowed to run in behind our back four far too easily. Who’d said we were going to cruise this two or three-nil? Seriously.
I took the toddler in my arms and went upstairs. Bedtime and a bottle of warm milk. Both of those options sounded increasingly tempting. Back downstairs and, suddenly, with forty minutes gone Will Smallbone used his footbone to land a peach on Dara O’Shea’s head; with a nod on from Collins who hit the post. It was as simple as that. Our first threat on goal, and then it was halftime. Unfortunately, our forward play was curtailed for much of the second half, with Seid Korač content to pull Parrot’s feathers all night. Ferguson (who, like Parrot, never stopped working) eventually ran out of steam.
It was encouraging to see Festy Ebosele try to make a difference when he came on, and it didn’t take long before he fed Jack Taylor at the edge of the box, who dragged his shot just wide. It was a real injection of purpose into a lethargic game. As this turgid affair was winding towards its inevitable conclusion – you know the one; that familiar tale of anxiety, self-loathing, and apathetic misery – it was nice to see the youngster Matt Doherty come on and get a chance to show his potential (one to watch for the future).
Whilst John Joe Patrick Finn may only have had a few minutes on the pitch, he was very lively and did a lot right. Out of nowhere in the 88th minute, Jack Taylor must have thought he was in Hamas, because he fired a mighty rocket towards goal and was dreadfully unlucky to see it come off the bar. That would have been harsh on Luxembourg, you feel.
Upon the final whistle, our lord and master Ronnie Whelan delivered a damning obituary: ‘It became what we hoped it wouldn’t – an end of season friendly.’ Whelan’s dramatic pathos is the only beautiful thing we can take from this dreary night, because the football was certainly ugly. It also makes you worry a bit about picking up those precious three points against Armenia Away, let alone Hungary in Budapest. But perhaps it’s a little mean spirited to say that, given the context of this Luxembourg game. Papa Hallgrímsson was understandably NOT happy. And still, by the end of his post-match interview, Tony O’Donoghue had Heimir smiling once again. Their burgeoning bromance is another little cherry on top of an Irish football experience that has been enjoying its journey, finding its feet, and may still find its way to the promised land yet.