It was never supposed to happen, Ireland winning two games in a row to take them to a World Cup playoff, writes Hannah Stapleton. Yet, here we are facing down the barrel of a dream that has been building for 24 years. We couldn’t, could we?
On the Sunday afternoon in November, the day when Ireland would play Hungary for a place in the World Cup play-offs, I had taken over a speaker in the house, playing Put ‘Em Under Pressure as a pre-match warm-up. My Dad sat beside me and said something along the lines of, “we haven’t a chance.” I reminded myself of the heartbreak we have endured in the years since the feats of Martin O’Neill’s 2016 Euros team. All I’ve ever wanted is to see the Ireland men’s team at a World Cup in my lifetime. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that. The dream quickly turned into a nightmare when Hungary took the lead, a mere three minutes into the game. My dad still sat beside me, whispering incoherent lines about how we were in trouble and this was going to be a long evening.
If you had told me of what was to come, I’d have laughed in your face. Troy Parrott wrote his name into the history books, becoming a hero to millions, bringing tears to people who hadn’t shed a tear in years. He created a lifelong memory for millions of people spread across the globe, proving that those who dare to dream are the ones who can be rewarded. I’ll always remember bouncing around the sitting room with my Dad, the joy unmatched, tears in both of our eyes, pinching ourselves, just to be sure and texting anyone who would listen, just to make sure that this was actually happening. There really was no feeling like it.
Seeing an emotional Troy Parrott speaking to RTÉ’s Tony O’Donoghue after the game was the final straw for me, as the tears flowed. “This is why we love football, because things like this can happen.”
I’ve watched St Patrick’s Athletic win the FAI Cup, watched Ireland win rugby grand slams, watched Euro 2016, when Robbie Brady brought us to our feet in Lille. I have been in the Aviva Stadium as the Ireland ladies line out on the famous pitch for the very first time. I have watched Rory McIlroy win the Irish Open at the K Club. I have seen many sporting moments and events that will stick with me for life but that Sunday afternoon, at home, on the couch with my Dad, tops them all for me.
Sport has never just been about the results. It’s always been about the feeling it provides, a sense of belief, even when the odds give us no chance. It gives me freedom to dream, though more often than not, I am absolutely terrified to get my hopes up. It’s given me a connection to family members and to strangers and an escape during times of grief, and taught me more resilience than I ever could have expected it to. It’s allowed me to express myself when I felt as though the world was against me. It’s given me heartbreak, happiness and core memories.
This week has been one of reflection for me, reflecting on my life, existential crisis style. Watching ads on the TV, videos on social media, and reading articles online, I finally understand what’s on the line in Prague and what this means to people. This has never been just about football. It’s been about dreaming, hope, joy, togetherness, pride and love of your country. I didn’t even feel this type of nervousness when sitting my Leaving Cert. We’ve dreamt – for the last 24 years – of seeing the boys in green line out at the World Cup. We’ve become afraid to dream, for fear of disappointment. I often think of a line from Spider-Man, where MJ says, “if you expect disappointment, then you can never really get disappointed.” The life of an Irish football fan summed up in one short quote. As I imagine the prospects of an Italia ’90-esque summer, I envision Beatlemania, or Bieber Fever, and of course, Italia ‘90 itself. Packed pubs, seas of green, queues outside the Credit Unions.
We are a nation that has taught ourselves to expect disappointment when it comes to our sports teams, a nation that has become afraid to dream. So, as Ireland line out on Thursday, ready for whatever may be thrown their way, I will be sitting somewhere, crying at the national anthem, Put ‘Em Under Pressure playing in my head on loop, wearing my Japan 2002 jersey inspired Pellador Jumper (of course!). I won’t be afraid to dream. I’ll be dreaming on behalf of those who’ve shaped my life as a sports fan. For 10-year-old me, with STAPLETON 16 on the back of her first Liverpool jersey. For a 12-year-old me, who cried as Ireland were knocked out of the Euros after defeat to France. For my Grandad, who is 15 years gone this year – a lifelong Shamrock Rovers and Arsenal fan – who introduced me to Jack Charlton and Italia ‘90. For a 19-year-old me, who sat in awe of Katie McCabe and the Ireland ladies team, as they made history in 2023 at their first World Cup. For my auntie, who introduced me to the League of Ireland. For my Dad, who has willingly sat through many an Ireland game, which usually ended in heartbreak. To the dreamers who never thought this would be possible, to the people in the mood for a fairytale, win or lose, this one is for you.
Photography by FAI.
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