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The 1996 film ‘Crash’ follows a group of degenerates who are aroused by car crashes, horrendous accidents, and near-death experiences. Irish football fans must enjoy a similar perversion, as it’s the only way to explain why we keep watching these catastrophes on the pitch. Sometime around half eight on Tuesday evening, Shay Given, grey-faced, had taken Peter Collins’ hand in the RTÉ studio. Like a man who knew his beloved relative was slowly dying, Given whispered, “It’s not looking good at all, Peter.” By half-time Ireland were gone, and this time there’d be no coming back from the dead.
The static crackle of the match blared through on the car radio as I made eagerly for home, having slipped out of work early. It sounded like a bright start for Ireland, with Ferguson on form. To arrive back and see the score still tied at 0-0 felt a bit odd. These boys would roll over, we were told.
Armenia ran through Ireland like Argentina. They’d carte blanche over the Irish midfield and looked the real deal. Grant-Leon Ranos (of the Bundesliga, no less) rocked Kelleher’s crossbar. The twitchy feeling in the tummy had returned. The clenching of the butt cheeks was back. Armenia’s manager Yegishe Melikyan was roaring and waving, with the auld belly hanging out over his bottoms. A man of the people, an ordinary bloke (who played a bit of ball himself, to be fair). The camera immediately cut to Heimir, engrossed in his notebook of sketches, diagrams and magic spells. There were unfortunate shades here of Ruben Amorim in the rain at Grimsby with his tactics board, and on Tuesday night we saw an image of an Icelandic mercenary lost at sea.
Later, we’d see John O’Shea fiddling with a big arm on a tripod, as he and Heimir studied the iPad. All this gear – and the FAI’s genuinely impressive social media output and video content – reflect the professional trappings of a serious international team. But with ‘lowly’ Armenia utterly dominating Ireland, all that slick n’ fancy whizz-bang stuff only compounds the humiliation.
“Penalty Armenia!” screeched Darragh Maloney.
I went out to the garden at half-time, contemplated taking up smoking again. RTÉ Radio 1 Extra stuck to my ear like an old wireless. Then, Breaking News: “Some pictures coming into us now from Yerevan… Idah is deep in conversation with Heimir Hallgrímsson.” Instead, it was Ranos who got his goal for Armenia shortly after and, despite Ferguson’s tickle of hope, Ireland strangely went away. Like the quiet-quitting trend you see in the workplace.
Yes, Collins conceded the penalty and, yes, he’s come in for a serious shedload of stick over these two games, but you felt for the man as he fronted up to the cameras after the game; sweaty hair pasted to his forehead and eyes hollow, afraid. At twenty-four Collins is just a young cub himself, sure. Let’s not make him the scapegoat.
On Tuesday the Republic of Ireland had no substance, and no meaningful middle; despite looking good on the surface (much like this article, really). As the Armenian players, staff, and fans went wild at the whistle, their manager Melikyan was embraced by all, and carried off into the Yerevan yonder. Darragh Maloney, perfectly, caught the moment: “They’ll be writing songs about him. Theatre plays about him.” For the Irish, it was Les Misérables.
Perhaps the cruellest part of this terrible drama was the final exchange between Tony O’Donoghue and Heimir Hallgrímsson, two romantics surveying the wreckage of what could have been.
Tony came straight out with it: “Is that the World Cup dream into the bin?”
The gaunt looking Icelander, now painfully old, admitted, “Yes…nearly”.
But it’s grand. The Ryder Cup will be with us next. And The Ashes will be on soon after. As for the football? Well, there’s always Euro 2028. And we don’t even have to qualify for that.