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The village of Quin was awake early that morning, long before the sun had fully risen. A soft mist hung over the green fields and narrow roads, but it was no ordinary day. Ireland were back on the world stage, and Quin—like countless others across the nation had embraced this wholeheartedly.
All week the village had been preparing. There was a sense that something bigger than the match itself was taking place—something ceremonial, ancestral. The paint on the footpaths had been drying in long rainbow rows, laid down after sunset by gangs of teenagers and middle-aged dads alike, armed with brushes, buckets, and takeaway cups of milky tea. Green, white, and orange stripes now framed every junction with the same precision you'd find at a county fair judging table. They wrapped around lampposts, wound down alleyways, and peeked out beneath cars parked along the main road.
The parish priest, Father Donnacha, had offered a special prayer the evening before at Vigil Mass, invoking saints both popular and obscure—Brigid, Patrick, and the lesser-known Macartan, patron of sportsmen. “May the boys play fair, play proud, and play like warriors,” he’d declared, earning himself a round of applause and a rare smile from Nora Glynn, who hadn’t smiled at a sermon in living memory.
The mist had begun to lift by eight o’clock, and the sky was brightening with that pale, shy light that only August mornings could manage—soft and golden, like the promise of a goal before the shot is taken. The crows atop the abbey ruins had fallen silent, and the donkey in the O’Donoghues’ paddock let out one long bray as if announcing the day’s importance to all within earshot.
There was an intimacy to it all—something communal and wordless, passed from glance to glance, from the grizzled nod of an old hurler to the shy grin of a little girl in a too-big jersey. In Quin, for that morning at least, time had slowed down. History, hope, and green paint on old stone had become the same thing.At the edge of the village, Colm Flanagan was standing beside his wheelbarrow, holding a small battery-powered television, tuning it against the breeze.
From the stone cottages clustered around the abbey ruins to the terrace houses along the Ennis Road, the tricolour flew proud and unrelenting, not merely as a flag but as a declaration, a stitched banner of hope and belonging. It hung from upstairs windows, half-caught in the morning breeze like laundry possessed by patriotic spirits, fluttering above pots of red geraniums and chipped sills where lace curtains stirred. It draped over low limestone walls, its fabric pinned gently under flowerpots or with stones placed just-so to hold it in place. The people of Quin had learned from years of Mass and matchmaking fairs how to make do and how to make beauty out of little—no one was short of a flag when the country needed lifting.
Children had tied it to bicycle baskets and scooter handles, the flags trailing in their wake like streamers as they looped the roads, their tyres clicking against the pavement lines now fresh with colour. Three young lads, out since just after dawn, had knotted small hand-sewn tricolours to their hurls and were seen tearing up and down the lane behind McKeown’s barn, pretending to be Duff, Keane, and McAteer in turn, their shouts echoing across the fields and bouncing off the hay bales like the ghosts of a thousand matches gone before.
The trees along the school wall were wrapped in bunting, tiny paper lanterns with player names drawn on them in marker by first-years. The names didn’t always match the squad, but no one corrected them. For once, perfection wasn’t the point—only faith, and the kind of belief that needed no logic.
At Frawley’s shop, Mary Frawley had opened early, propping the door with a crate of Tayto crisps, her fingers red from stringing flags across the doorframe the night before. The bunting stretched from the telephone pole at the corner to the shop’s old wooden sign: green, white and orange in faded triangles fluttering in the breeze. Boys from the housing estate had helped her string them up, in return for two free bottles of Club Orange each and a promise to keep quiet about the broken window they’d caused the previous weekend.
Old Mick Clancy, wrapped in his brown cardigan and cap, was already leaning against the postbox with a cigarette dangling from his lip, arms folded across his chest. “It’s a day for it,” he muttered, watching the traffic thicken—well, three cars and a tractor in the span of fifteen minutes. “The whole country’ll be watching.”
From the gate of St. Mary’s National School, Sister Concepta—long retired but ever dutiful—stood squinting toward the rising sun. She had on her Ireland scarf from Italia ’90, a little moth-bitten now but cherished. In her gloved hands she clutched a prayer card. “It’s a holy day in disguise,” she whispered, nodding to herself. “They’ll need Our Lady on that pitch.”
The butcher’s shop opened early to hand out rolls of sliced ham and buttered batch bread, all wrapped in brown paper. Bernadette McMahon, the postmistress, had converted the post office’s front window into a shrine: team posters, fairy lights, and a plastic replica of the World Cup trophy nestled beside a statue of St. Anthony. She was praying to both.
Inside Healy’s Garage, the radio played through the thick fug of oil and cigarette smoke. Martin Healy, all elbows and gravel voice, wiped his hands on a rag as the familiar voice of the RTÉ morning show filtered through.
“And in less than twenty-four hours, Ireland will walk out in Sydney for their first major tournament since Euro ’92 in Serbia. Ten years in the waiting. Ten years of ‘what ifs’ and nearly-there’s. But now, Mick McCarthy’s boys are there, and this whole country—north, south, town and parish—is behind them.”
Up at Duffy’s Butchers, the window display was patriotic madness. Sausages arranged in tricolour spirals. White pudding stacked into goalposts. And in the centre, a rugby ball (no one had the heart to correct old Pat Duffy) with a toothpick flag stabbed in it: “UP THE LADS – QUIN BELIEVES.”
Out front, Peg Casey, just shy of ninety and never one to miss a moment of national drama, was wrapped in three cardigans and a hat with a pom-pom the size of a cabbage. She waved her cane in the air as a group of passing teenagers strolled by, wearing replica Ireland kits over their school uniforms.
“Bring back Packie Bonner, I say! None of this modern flapping in the net. Packie would’ve caught it with one hand and smoked a pipe with the other!”
“We’re playing Tunisia, Peg,” said one of the boys, Conor Hanly, trying not to laugh. “Packie’s retired twenty years.”
“Retired? He’d rise from the grave if it meant stopping a penalty. And don’t think I don’t know how long twenty years is—I’m older than the abbey.”
At the parish hall, the setup was nearing completion. A borrowed projector from the secondary school. A white sheet tacked onto the wall. Rows of folding chairs, mismatched and creaky, but carefully set in formation.
Near the schoolyard, a hand-painted banner was being raised by two dads on ladders. “2002 – Our Time. Come on you Boys in Green!” Underneath, Mrs. O’Driscoll, the principal, tried to manage a rowdy classroom through the open window.
At Nestor’s pub, barrels were being rolled out of the cold room. The air still smelt of bleach and anticipation. Brian Nestor, sleeves rolled up, was chalking the blackboard:
TODAY’S SPECIAL: Hope. Served with Pint.
He paused, then added beneath:
If we win, chips are free.
At the corner just past Martin’s Garage, a reluctant goat—white, muddy, and eternally unimpressed—stood tethered by a length of blue rope to a rusted pole. Someone, most likely one of the Walsh twins, had pinned a tricolour to its head with a clothespin, the fabric flopping down over its ears like a soldier's plume. The goat, unfazed by national pride or public opinion, chewed solemnly on an empty crisp packet, its long-suffering eyes a study in indifference. Still, passing children saluted it like a mascot.
The old water pump at the square, normally neglected save for its utility, had received a new coat too—shiny black on the iron itself, but at its base, someone (rumoured to be young Ciara Fahy, who rarely spoke at school but was said to have a steady hand) had painted a tiny football in perfect proportions. Around it, in careful block lettering, the words "Believe, lads." stood out in white. No signature. No need. It belonged to everyone now.
Shop windows gleamed with decorations: crepe paper streamers, balloon arches in green and orange, and taped-up newspaper clippings of past glories laminated in plastic sleeves to guard against dew. “World Cup Fever!” declared a sign in the chemist’s window beside a pyramid of paracetamol and muscle rub. Across the street, Donnellan’s butchers displayed a tray of “lucky sausages” next to hand-lettered signs promising "Footballer's Breakfast Deals" — rashers, black pudding, soda bread. The GAA hall had its doors flung open, a hand-painted mural now adorning its front wall: a lone figure in Ireland green raising a clenched fist to the sky, flanked by the words Quin Backs the Boys.
Everywhere, it was visible: in the drawn curtains and turned-up radios, the flurry of text messages exchanged between cousins and neighbours, the hurried arrangements for fry-ups and watching parties. Mrs. Tierney at number twelve had baked four loaves of brown bread and left them cooling on her windowsill like some fable of rural plenty. She’d be bringing them to the pub later—wrapped in tea towels printed with shamrocks—to soak up the pints.
Down by the riverbank, a handful of older men had gathered with transistor radios. Their voices were low, reverent, as they recalled matches long past—MacCarthy’s goal in '88, the heartbreak of Paris, the near miss in Belgrade. They spoke in terms of fate, as though the gods of football might be swayed by memory alone.
Even the animals seemed to know something was different. Cows in nearby fields gathered by the hedgerows, watching the road with placid curiosity. Dogs barked from yards as streams of villagers passed by. A cat leapt up onto a windowsill draped in an Ireland flag and settled down as though to wait for the starting whistle.
By half five, lights flickered on in every house along Abbey Street and Church Hill, kettles boiled, radios tuned in. A pale bluish light hovered over the village green, dew clinging to the grass like silver thread. The old Abbey loomed in the near distance, its ancient stone skeleton standing in quiet approval. Swallows darted low through the cool air, and the familiar smells of turf smoke and fried rashers began to drift from kitchen windows. The hum of anticipation was not loud, but it was everywhere—palpable, like the hush before Mass or the long pause between a penalty kick and its outcome.
Inside the pubs, televisions were being wheeled out and adjusted. Tommy Moloney, owner of The Green Hart, fiddled with the aerial, trying to catch the RTÉ feed before half the village started filing in. The screen flickered, danced, and settled at last on the grainy, green-tinged face of the early morning presenter. “There we go now,” he grinned, wiping his hands on his apron. “Let the madness begin.”
By six thirty, a slow tide of people had begun moving down toward the square—some in full green kits, others in dressing gowns with flags over their shoulders, children barely awake and clinging to thermoses of hot chocolate. Grandmothers held court on benches, debating the squad selection. Young fellas painted their cheeks and arms, their mammy’s eyeliner and lipstick pressed into patriotic duty. Someone had rigged a speaker to play “Put ‘Em Under Pressure,” the anthem of a generation, and the crowd began to sway with the beat, chanting along half-asleep, half-hysterical.
The bells of St. Finian’s tolled once at seven, solemn and proud. Somewhere on the edge of the village, a single firework cracked across the pale dawn sky, its echo bouncing off the hills and stirring the birds into flight. That was when the singing began, low and earnest at first—“Come on ye boys in green”—spreading like a slow flame through the crowd. By the time the sun broke over the ridge to the east, Quin was alive, surging with pride and hope, bound together by history and hunger and something older than either.
This wasn’t just about sport. Not really. It was about being seen. Being counted. A small village, a small island, daring the world to take notice.
And in the front window of a tidy two-storey house on the edge of town, nine unused hurleys and one dusty football sat beneath a hand-lettered sign in a child’s handwriting:
“BELIEVE.”
“Ah go on,” he whispered, twisting the antenna. “Go on, you divil, show me the boys. Just once, just the warmup. Come on, RTÉ, do it for Quin.”
Behind him, his collie let out a bark, staring at a group of toddlers waddling past in matching green hats. They were too young to know why everyone was grinning today, too little to grasp the weight of a decade’s wait. But they knew something big was happening. That something mattered. That the village had come alive.
Ireland were back. And if that wasn’t a miracle, nothing was.
The sun was high over Parramatta that day, burning down onto the green shirts and painted faces gathered in stadium rows like a displaced island had set anchor on Australian soil. From the upper stand, just left of the goalposts, Siobhán O’Dea from Kilnamona, County Clare—hair in a ponytail, cheeks streaked with green and orange, and jersey clinging with sweat—clutched her Nokia to her ear, fighting the stadium roar with every sentence. A quick breath, and then:
“Hello? Can ye hear me now?—It’s Siobhán, yeah, I’m in the stand! Oh Jesus Mary and Joseph, you should see it here. There’s feckin' thousands of us. I swear on Mam’s life, it’s like every parish in Munster pooled their savings to get here.”
The connection was surprisingly clear, patched through the Kilrush Garda Station of all places, who’d set up a campaign allowing discounted phone calls to loved ones at the World Cup. A cheeky garda named Tiernan had remembered that Siobhán’s aunt Breda still worked at the phone desk in the post office, and he’d got word through. So now, her voice was piping through to a crowded back room in west Clare, filled with a half-dozen folks hunched over a speakerphone: Breda, Tiernan, two lads from the fisheries board, and one old woman who said she’d known Siobhán’s father when he played minor for Clare.
“We’re lined up now,” Siobhán continued, narrating like a seasoned broadcaster, “kickoff’s just happened—Tunisia in red, sharp-looking crowd, mind—but we’ve got the hill. I mean the fans, we are the feckin’ hill. I don’t care how many of them are here, it’s all green from my seat. My arms are wrecked from holding the flag, but I wouldn’t put it down for love nor money.”
Below her, the stadium roared and swelled with every touch of the ball, the Irish section vibrating like a chorus line of kettles about to boil over. Horns blared, drums thudded in tribal syncopation, and someone behind her had taken it upon themselves to sing the chorus of “The Fields of Athenry” on loop since they’d sat down.
“You should’ve heard the anthem,” she said, her voice briefly tight, moved. “I know I’ve heard it a thousand times, but here, with all these strangers who aren’t strangers... It felt like church. Not the kind with guilt and kneelers—the kind where everyone’s crying and laughing and waving at a camera back home.”
There was a swell in the crowd, a sudden intake of breath—then an explosion.
“GO ON! GO ON!!” she shrieked into the phone, her voice momentarily lost to static and a tsunami of celebration.
“The first goal! I—wait, wait—who was it? Number eleven—Jaysus, that was O’Donoghue! You should’ve seen it. From the left flank, took it around two of them like he was walking her dog, and—BANG! bottom corner. I’ll never say a bad word about his brother again, even if he did rob my headphones.”
She was on her feet now, flag waving, nearly losing grip on the phone as the green wave surged around her. “The place is gone mad, absolutely feckin’ mad! The fella beside me’s crying and he doesn’t even know why!”
Over in Kilrush, the phone line crackled with the distant sounds of euphoria—drums, horns, and singing now clashing together in a wall of joyful noise. “Breda? Tell Mam I’m safe! Tell Dad I wore the socks with the shamrocks, and that I’ve still got the photo of Nan in my bag.”
She paused, catching her breath, the rush of heat and adrenaline pouring from her voice.
“And you can tell the whole town this too—we’re not just here to show up. We’re here to feckin’ win.”
Siobhán wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her jersey, the sweat on her brow now mingling with tears. Around her, the stadium pulsed with raw, living energy—something close to spiritual. She was hoarse already and only halfway through the match, but her voice kept pushing through the static and distance, carried across oceans on that crackling Kilrush line.
“They’re still singin’. They haven’t stopped, not for a second,” she said breathlessly. “A fella behind me’s blowin’ a vuvuzela made from an actual traffic cone, I swear on Mammy’s grave. There’s green smoke curling up near the away section. The Tunisian fans—fair play to them—are givin’ it socks with their drums, but we’ve more rhythm, and I don’t care who hears me say it.”
Down below, the match resumed after the second goal celebration stretched on into a mini-carnival. Tunisia had made a substitution, a wiry number 10 who looked hungry and irritable, darting into channels and pushing for a lifeline. The Irish defence responded with the unyielding presence of Gavin Reid and veteran centre-half Séamus Delaney, who was built like a stone wall with legs and the temperament of a school principal.
“They’re comin’ at us harder now,” Siobhán reported, breath catching as the Tunisian winger cut in from the right. “But Reid—oh sweet divine—is after puttin’ in a tackle like he was pullin’ a child outta traffic. Beautiful. Textbook.”
The crowd responded with thunderous approval. Carmody, the Sligo keeper, took his goal kick with casual confidence, rolling his shoulders and glancing up at the scoreboard like a man checking his watch during Mass.
“You should see Carmody down there—pure ice in the veins, that man,” Siobhán said. “He just winked at someone in the stands. Winked! Sure we’ll never live this down back home.”
Half-time arrived to a standing ovation. Siobhán used the brief lull to catch her breath, sipping from a warm bottle of Ballygowan while shouting over the din.
“Eileen, can ye still hear me? They’ve gone in two-nil up. Jesus, the joy in the place. There’s fellas singing rebel songs beside Ulster flags and not a cross word. It’s like somethin’ from the Gospels. One of the Donegal lads’s wearin’ a sash and a tricolour. What would Dev say!”
She laughed, full-bellied and delighted.
“And listen—don’t tell me Da, but I’ve been flirtin’ with a Waterford fella down the row. He's a plasterer, smells like sunblock and chips. We might get married if we win the whole feckin’ thing.”
Back home, her running commentary had become the village’s unofficial broadcast. In Kilrush, the station replayed highlights from her first half: her guttural scream after McKittrick’s goal, her poetic eulogy of Carmody’s save, her declaration of love for the Protestant forward from Antrim. Down in Moyasta, a neighbour scrawled “Go On McKittrick Ya Beautiful Bollocks” across his barn in chalk.
Then the second half began.
From the whistle, it was clear Tunisia had been told to raise the tempo. The ball zipped across midfield. Ó Loingsigh, the Newry winger with the quiet eyes and soft touch, took two rough tackles in the span of three minutes, but never flinched. Instead, he floated out wide again, dragging their left back into no man’s land.
“Look at this now,” Siobhán warned, standing tall, phone jammed tight to her ear. “Ó Loingsigh’s dancing. Watch this now, watch it—JAYSUS!”
What followed happened almost too fast to describe. Ó Loingsigh flicked the ball past his marker, darted inside, then chipped a perfectly weighted pass over the top to substitute Enda Kilroy—a nineteen-year-old from Ballina, barely in the squad until last month. Kilroy didn’t take a touch. He volleyed it clean, one time, a rocket that screamed into the top corner before the keeper had even moved.
And for the second time that evening, the world exploded.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH—OH MY GOD OH MY HOLY GOD—KILROY! HE’S A CHILD! HE’S A WEE INFANT AND HE’S AFTER MURDERIN’ THE BALL!”
The line crackled again, her voice lost to the roar of tens of thousands leaping to their feet, of drums, of flares, of sobbing grown men. On the far side of the stadium, green smoke rose into the late sun like incense at an altar.
When her voice returned, it was choked with emotion.
“Three-nil. Three. Nil. I think I’m havin’ heart palpitations, and it’s worth it. It’s worth every feckin’ bit.”
Siobhán’s voice trembled as she held the phone closer, as though trying to send heat through the line.
“They’re playin’ for the crowd now. Passin’ it round like it’s a puck-around behind the church after Mass. Tunisia are winded. They look like they’ve seen a ghost—and I suppose they have, in a way. An Irish team that knows itself, north and south, city and bog. Saints, sinners, protestors and priests, all on the same bloody pitch. United, Eileen. United since ‘66 and today ye can feel it. It’s comin’ off them like steam.”
The ball was back in Irish possession, slowed now, comfortable. McBride was bossing the midfield, boots light but posture regal. He tapped it short to Ó Loingsigh, who backheeled it toward McKittrick with a grin. They were grinning now, the players, not arrogantly, but in disbelief—at the beauty of what they were building, pass by pass. And the fans mirrored it in kind.
Siobhán exhaled in wonder. “Eileen, there’s a child near me with tears down her cheeks and her face painted like a flag. She’s squeezin’ her granda’s hand like she’s holdin’ onto a lifeline. And he’s just starin’ out there with this—this look, like he’s back in 1954 watchin’ Clancy’s donkey give birth. I don’t know, there’s history in this. I can feel it in my chest.”
She paused, eyes flicking over the players. “Ó Loingsigh’s limping a bit now. Ah no. Hope it’s just tightness. But look—Reid’s over, givin’ him a clap, whisperin’ in his ear. This is what makes it, isn’t it? Not the scoreline. The graft. The care.”
There were minutes left, but the mood had shifted from hunger to celebration. The singing took on a sweeter note—more lullaby than war cry. “The Rare Auld Times” began somewhere behind Siobhán, picked up gently like a ripple across the section. The green smoke had faded into soft dusk. Even the Tunisian fans, many of them now standing quietly, were applauding the artistry of Kilroy’s goal on the big screen replay. This, it seemed, was no ordinary rout. It was communion.
And then the whistle blew.
“FULL TIME! That’s it!” Siobhán cried. “Three feckin’ nil! I don’t believe it. I do, but I don’t. The lads are huggin’. Reid and McBride are pointin’ up to the crowd. Carmody’s throwin’ his gloves like he’s launchin’ prayers. One of the Tunisian fellas swapped shirts with Kilroy—bless him, it’s hangin’ off the lad like a priest’s nightgown!”
Back in Clare, bells were ringing. Literally. Someone in Kilkee had snuck into the church and was hammering away at the rope. A bonfire lit near Cooraclare. In Miltown Malbay, three elderly women stood on a picnic table in the SuperValu car park, waving flags and cheering like teenagers.
On the phone, Siobhán was still trying to speak through the tears.
“Ireland. Three. Tunisia. Nil. And no matter what happens next, they’ll talk about this match in every school and shed and pub and prison across the island. We came together and showed the world we’re not just here for the scenery. We came to play.”
There was a pause as the players made their lap of honour, flags slung over their shoulders, clapping the fans with red faces and wet eyes.
“Tell them in Kilrush to keep that line open,” Siobhán said, voice soft now. “We’ve more to say yet. It’s only the first step.”
And just before the feed cut out, she added, almost to herself, “Tá siad ag teacht le chéile arís. At last.”
They are coming together again.
The line went quiet.
But across Ireland—from Quin to Kilkee, from Belfast to Ballina—the echo of her voice remained.
Andrea was just three years old, barely tall enough to climb onto the battered armchair in the living room of the Flannery cottage, though she tried it a dozen times a day regardless, legs swinging. The chair was old and threadbare, smelling of wool and damp turf, its arms worn shiny from years of elbows and cat scratches. But on this morning, the chair felt like a throne. The room was different, charged with something silent and weighty, a kind of quiet tension even her toddler's heart could sense. It wasn’t just a match day. It was something deeper—something Glen Flannery, her da, hadn’t even said out loud.
He had been up since before sunrise, padding about the little stone cottage in his socks, moving with a purpose that made no sound. The telly had been dragged an inch closer to the hearth, its coiled cord looped carefully behind the kettle stand. The fire had been lit—not out of necessity, but ritual—and the kettle had boiled three times already, sending clouds of steam curling into the chilly corners of the kitchen. There was no music on the radio, no crackle of Morning Ireland. Just the low murmur of RTÉ’s World Cup coverage filtering through the static.
Andrea stood barefoot on the cold flagstone floor, her breath puffing faintly in the morning air. Her pyjamas were mismatched—one sleeve covered in cereal stains, the bottoms sliding down her waist—but she clutched her stuffed fox, Finnian, like a mascot, his head already singed from being dropped too close to the fire once. She could hear the hum of voices from the television, distant crowds and the sharp, tinny pings of a warm-up. Her da’s figure was a shadow in the armchair, his shoulders hunched, one hand resting on a mug, the other held close to his mouth like he was already in silent prayer.
There was something sacred in the air. Not in the holy-water-font or chapel-scented way Andrea sometimes saw in Mass, but in the way Glen breathed through his nose, slow and steady, eyes fixed ahead like he was standing on the edge of something huge. He’d shaved that morning. His jersey was freshly washed—dark green with a gold crest and a small stitched shamrock near the shoulder. The last time he wore it, he'd come back from the pub crying and didn’t say why. Today, he wore it differently. Like armour.
He leaned forward now, elbows on knees, muttering quietly: “Come on, lads. Come on.”
Andrea watched him, not the screen. She didn’t understand the rules. She barely knew what a tournament was. But she knew that something was happening—something that made her da speak low and stand for a song coming out of the telly. When the first bars of Amhrán na bhFiann began to play, Glen stood from the chair slowly, reverently, like standing in front of a grave or a holy relic. His hand went to his heart. Not in a dramatic way, but like it belonged there. The television speakers buzzed with the sound, a little crackly, a little thin. The camera swept the Irish squad, young faces in green kits, eyes burning. Andrea saw one player close his eyes and mouth the words slowly, like a promise.
Glen whispered along—barely audible, barely breathing. Andrea didn’t know the words, but she stood too, copying his hand to chest, blinking solemnly at the light dancing off the screen. The flicker from the fire made the green of the kits glow brighter. Outside the window, a robin trilled softly. Somewhere down the lane, a dog barked once and then fell silent.
The anthem faded. Glen sat again, slowly, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Andrea clambered into the chair beside him with great effort, her small hands gripping the arm as she hoisted herself up with a grunt. She curled into the crook of the seat, Finnian squished under one arm, watching the colours move on the television.
The match began. Glen leaned in. Andrea leaned on him.
The sound of the stadium filled the room, echoing like a cavern. She didn’t know the teams. She didn’t know the stakes. But she knew when Glen clenched his fists that something was close. When he muttered “Good lad,” under his breath. When he sighed and rubbed his eyes like he was wiping away years.
And when the first goal came—McBride slicing a perfect low shot past the Tunisian keeper—Glen leapt to his feet with a shout that made Andrea squeal. He raised both arms to the sky and shouted “YES!” like a man receiving good news from the doctor. Andrea giggled in delight and shouted too, no idea why, only knowing that her da was happy and the world was golden in that moment.
She shouted, “We win! We win!” without knowing what had been won.
Glen swept her up into his arms, kissed her curls, and said, “Not yet, a stór. But we’re dancin’ now.”
They watched the rest together. Andrea lying sideways, her legs across his lap, Glen still murmuring names and tactics like a poem. There was more shouting. More pounding on the arms of the chair. He scolded the referee once under his breath, then laughed to himself for doing it in front of her. He wiped his eyes when Kilroy scored the third, holding her tighter. At full time, he let out a long, low breath, like a weight had left his chest.
She remembered that most of all. The relief in him. The stillness after the storm.
And in that silence, as the post-match analysis droned faintly and the fire crackled low, Andrea lay with her head on his chest and whispered, “Did they do it?”
Glen stroked her hair and nodded.
“They did, love. They did. For all of us.”
And though she wouldn’t remember the final whistle, or the way the crowd roared, or even the names of the players, Andrea Flannery would carry that moment with her—her father’s heartbeat under her ear, the warmth of the fire, and the certainty in his voice that, just for that morning, Ireland had won something that mattered.
Her father, Glen, had risen early. Earlier than usual. There were no fried eggs, no tea. Only the hush of movement: kettle boiling, telly pulled closer to the hearth, a folded throw blanket arranged just right over the armchair where Andrea liked to perch. The cottage smelled of turf and toast crumbs, and outside, the mist clung to the windows like breath. Andrea shuffled in wearing her dinosaur pyjamas, and Glen, still in his vest, crouched down to her height.
The morning of the Iran match came with a different kind of stillness. It wasn’t the buzzing, golden tension of the Tunisia game; it was quieter, heavier—like the air knew this one would be trickier. Quin was still flying flags, still humming with pride, but underneath it all, there was a murmur of caution, of “we’ll have to be sharp today, them lads are no pushovers.” The television experts were cagey in their tone. The newspaper headlines more restrained. Even Glen, who had bounded through the door shouting after the 3–0 Tunisia win, moved more slowly this morning. He laced his boots with a frown.
But Andrea was skipping.
She had been awake since half-six, already in her little green jersey, hair brushed, mismatched socks pulled high. She had stuffed her fox, Finnian, into her backpack and insisted on wearing her sparkly runners, even though they squeaked with every step. Today, they were going to Eimear’s.
Eimear and Andrea, one was rarely mentioned without the other. Quin called them “the twins” though they looked nothing alike—Andrea all wild curls and freckled cheeks, Eimear smaller and darker, with sharp eyes and long fingers that tapped against her knee when she was thinking.
Eimear’s mam, Majarni, had invited the Flannerys over to watch the match, insisting Glen shouldn’t have to watch “in that cold little parlour again like a prisoner.” Glen had laughed and protested, but relented when Andrea tugged at his hand and whispered, “Please, Daddy, I want to see it with Eimear.”
Majarni greeted them with her usual warm smile, dressed in her cream jumper and gold earrings, already in the kitchen layering Tayto crisps into pieces of fresh flatbread. It was her match-day invention—crunchy, salty, perfect—and the girls devoured them without complaint, even as crumbs rained down their jerseys.
“Tea for you, Glen?” she called, already pouring it.
“God, you’re a lifesaver,” Glen muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he took the mug. “I didn’t sleep right. Was dreamin’ about own goals.”
In the front room, Eimear had already set up the TV with the help of her older cousin Liam. The picture was better than Glen’s set, clearer and less prone to flicker. Two scarves—one for Ireland, one for Iran—had been draped along the top of the bookcase. The girls sat cross-legged on the carpet, each with a Tayto flatbread in one hand and a juice box in the other. Finnian and a toy unicorn named Sáirse sat between them like neutral observers.
The match began under grey skies in Brisbane. The stadium was tight, the Iranian supporters loud and rhythmic, their drums echoing like distant thunder. Ireland, still riding high from the Tunisia victory, looked sharp early on—but Iran were organised. Disciplined. Hungry.
“They’re holdin’ their shape well,” Glen said, voice low, watching with narrowed eyes. “Don’t like the way we’re pushin’ too high.”
Sure enough, just before the break, Iran broke through. A slick one-two down the left flank, a burst of speed, and suddenly Carmody was wrong-footed. The ball rippled the net, the Iranian fans exploded, and Glen’s knuckles turned white around his mug.
“Christ,” he muttered. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Andrea leaned against Eimear, wide-eyed. “Are we losing?”
“Just a little bit,” Eimear said calmly. “But we’ll score. They always score.”
Majarni brought in more sandwiches, pretending not to be tense, though she hadn’t touched her tea.
Halftime came and went, Glen pacing now, mumbling to himself. But then, almost as soon as the second half began, Ireland came alive. It was like someone had flipped a switch.
First, it was Reid with a storming run through midfield, brushing past defenders like blades of grass. He fed McBride, who curved a perfect ball toward Ó Loingsigh on the edge of the box. A touch. A turn. A shot that screamed past the keeper. One–one.
The cottage erupted. Glen let out a whoop that startled the dog two doors down. Andrea leapt to her feet, arms in the air. Eimear stood too, staring at the screen like it was a miracle. Even Majarni shouted, “Go on, mo chroí!” from the kitchen.
And before anyone had time to sit down again, Ireland struck again.
Kilroy, the teenage sensation from Mayo, fresh off the bench, stole the ball off a hesitant centre-back and slipped it into the bottom corner. Two–one.
Andrea screamed.
“We did it! We win again!”
Glen shouted, “YEEEEAHHHHHHH!” and pounded the sideboard once with his fist.
But then—it changed.
The camera cut to the linesman. The referee raised his hand. The crowd was still cheering, but the players had stopped. The commentators began to speak quickly, anxiously. A replay showed Kilroy inches ahead of the last defender. Marginal. Too marginal.
Andrea sat down hard on the rug.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
Eimear was silent.
“They’re checkin’ the goal,” Glen said, voice tight. “Offside, maybe.”
Another angle. The stadium waited. So did Quin. Then—
Goal disallowed.
Two–one became one–one again.
A hush fell over the room.
Glen exhaled slowly through his nose and didn’t speak. Andrea looked from him to Majarni, who placed a soft hand on Glen’s shoulder and squeezed once.
Eimear simply muttered, “That’s wrong. That’s so wrong.”
The final twenty minutes were cagey, both teams trading chances but neither willing to risk too much. Carmody made one brilliant save in the 87th minute. Ireland had a late corner that came to nothing. And then, the whistle.
One–one.
A draw.
Glen stood quietly and rubbed his neck.
“Well,” he said finally. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been better.”
Andrea sat curled on the rug, arms around Finnian. Eimear rested her chin on her knees, eyes still fixed on the screen.
Majarni passed around small bowls of strawberries she’d kept chilled in the fridge.
“We’ll take it,” she said gently. “We’re still in it.”
Andrea looked at Glen.
“Are we still winning?”
He smiled, tired but kind.
“We’re still in it, a stór. That’s what matters.”
And though she didn’t fully understand the table standings or the permutations of group points, Andrea nodded, her heart settling. The match hadn’t gone the way she'd hoped. But she had watched it beside her oldest friend, in a room filled with sandwiches and shouting and love.
And in its own way, that still felt like a kind of victory.
Brisbane Roars as Ireland Stun Mexico with Historic Victory
By Aoife Hanratty, Senior Football Correspondent
The Irish Times (June 17, 2002)
Three seconds.
That’s how long it took for Conor McBride to etch his name into the annals of World Cup history. Three seconds. One touch. One audacious strike from just inside the halfway line. The fastest goal ever scored in a men’s World Cup final tournament.
It was the kind of moment that freezes time—before the clocks have fully started, before the broadcasters finish their opening line, before the second sip of tea has even reached the lips of a stunned nation waking up to catch the final group match. As the ball left McBride’s foot, a hush swept across the Brisbane stadium, across living rooms from Ballycastle to Ballycotton. Then, as it dipped and spun into the net over a scrambling Mexican goalkeeper, that hush was shattered into thunder.
The crowd erupted. The Mexican defence stood motionless. And on the sideline, Ireland’s manager Cathal Brennan simply placed a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with disbelief. McBride didn’t celebrate right away. He turned slowly, eyes scanning the stadium like a man unsure whether the world was real. Then, as his teammates piled onto him in stunned jubilation, the bench cleared, and the green-clad faithful in the stands were swept into rapture.
Three seconds.
It was a statement of intent. A shot fired across the bows of the tournament’s elites. It was also the beginning of what would become one of Ireland’s most impressive World Cup performances in living memory: a 2–1 victory over Mexico that sealed top spot in Group H and sent the Boys in Green soaring into the knockout rounds with the wind at their backs and history in their boots.
The goal came straight from the kickoff. McKittrick rolled the ball backward just a foot, and McBride stepped into it with the ferocity of a man swinging for his country’s soul. The ball arced high, caught perfectly with the laces, and dipped at the last second, catching Mexican goalkeeper García out of position and off guard. It was a strike so clean and so precise that even the neutrals gasped. The kind of goal that belongs on murals, postage stamps, and pub walls.
When asked post-match if it had been planned, McBride grinned: “It was meant to be a long ball forward. But I saw the keeper off his line and thought, ‘why not?’ So I hit it.”
Why not, indeed.
The Mexican players, visibly shaken, struggled to compose themselves in the minutes that followed. Ireland, sensing blood, pressed high and hard, with Ó Loingsigh and Harty menacing the flanks and Kilroy constantly buzzing around the backline like a hornet. Carmody in goal barely had to touch the ball in the opening quarter hour as Ireland dominated possession and pace.
Glen Flannery, father of three-year-old Andrea and a veteran of many heartbreaking Irish campaigns, told us from Quin: “I’ve watched Ireland since ‘88. I’ve never seen us start a match like that. Never. I spilled me tea all over the floor. And I didn’t care.”
In the 28th minute, Ireland doubled their lead.
It was Kilroy again—still just nineteen, still playing like he’d been born in boots. Ó Loingsigh danced down the left wing, leaving two Mexican defenders in his wake, before squaring it to the penalty spot where Kilroy arrived like a train. He smashed the ball into the roof of the net with his left foot and turned to the crowd with his arms wide, mouth open in disbelief and joy.
2–0. Ireland were flying.
And then came the nerves.
This is the World Cup, and nothing good ever comes without a sting in the tail.
The Mexican side, to their credit, refused to wilt. By the 35th minute, they had begun to settle, stringing together the quick, intricate passes they’re known for. Carlos Hermosillo and Jesús Arellano began pulling strings in midfield, testing the Irish full-backs, looking for space in behind. The heat in Brisbane—humid and heavy by Irish standards—began to take its toll. McBride, brilliant though he had been, was doubling over between plays. Ó Loingsigh rubbed at his calf. Even the tireless Gavin Reid, ever the granite pillar at centre-back, was barking more than running.
Then, in the 42nd minute, Mexico struck.
It began with a long diagonal ball from Márquez that caught Delaney out of position. Hermosillo, ghosting into the channel, beat Carmody with a low shot that kissed the post on its way in. For the first time in the tournament, Carmody looked beaten—not angry, just resigned.
2–1. The crowd shifted. The air grew thick with dread.
In households across Ireland, nerves set in like fog. At Eimear Jones-O'Shea's house in Quin, where half the neighbourhood had gathered, Andrea Flannery reportedly whispered, “Da, will they be okay?” Glen had no answer—only a quiet nod and a white-knuckled grip on his mug. In Kilkenny, a man refused to open the chipper for the second half. “Not until we see it out,” he said.
The second half began with Mexico on the front foot. They attacked in waves, weaving in and out of Ireland’s defensive shape. Reid made a crucial interception in the 49th minute, and Delaney slid to block what looked like a certain equaliser just moments later. Ó Loingsigh dropped deeper to help, essentially turning Ireland’s 4-3-3 into a makeshift 5-4-1.
Ireland, so fluid and bold in the first half, were suddenly pinned back. Brennan’s touchline shouting turned frantic. McKittrick was booked for a tactical foul in midfield. Glen Flannery, pacing in Eimear’s kitchen, kept muttering, “We need fresh legs. We need them.”
And they came.
On the 61st minute, Brennan made the switch—off came Kilroy, exhausted and cramping, and on came Niall Merrigan, a bruising 24-year-old from Derry with a mullet, a mustache, and the temperament of a nightclub bouncer. It wasn’t elegance Ireland needed now. It was defiance.
Merrigan delivered.
He pressed. He harried. He shouted instructions like a seasoned captain, despite having fewer than ten caps. He cleared a cross in the 68th minute with a bicycle-kick-turned-clearance that had Irish fans in Brisbane singing his name for the rest of the night.
Still, Mexico came.
In the 74th minute, Carmody made what might be the save of the tournament—a full-stretch dive to his left, fingertips brushing a curling shot destined for the top corner. He landed hard, and for a terrifying moment, he didn’t get up. But when he did—roaring like a banshee, thumping his chest—something shifted again.
Ireland believed.
The final fifteen minutes were siege warfare. Reid and Delaney throwing bodies in front of every ball. Ó Loingsigh limping but still chasing. McBride, dead on his feet, urging the crowd to lift them.
And the crowd did.
A wave of noise followed every tackle, every clearance, every second won on the clock.
Then, the fourth official’s board: FIVE MINUTES ADDED TIME.
It felt like fifty.
In those final, breathless moments, Ireland clung to their 2–1 lead with a ferocity born not just of desire, but of memory. Of generations who’d fallen short. Of heartbreaks past.
Now they stood on the brink of something else.
Mexico, to their immense credit, did not stop. They pressed and pressed, pouring everything into the final assault. Substitute Medina whipped in a cross that skimmed dangerously through the six-yard box. Carmody rose and punched it away with both fists, crashing into the post as he did. Reid, battered and bloodied after an earlier clash of heads, screamed at his teammates to “hold the fcking line!*” in a voice that could’ve raised the dead.
Then, in the 93rd minute, Mexico won a corner.
The crowd went quiet.
The ball curled inward—high, looping, dangerous. For a second, it seemed no one would reach it. Then Merrigan rose, elbows out, and met it with his forehead, sending it skyward. As it dropped back down, McKittrick booted it clear with such force it nearly reached the halfway line.
Three more seconds.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips.
One more breath.
FULL TIME.
The Irish bench erupted. Cathal Brennan dropped to his knees, overwhelmed. Players embraced, wept, shouted to the heavens. McBride, the hero from the first second, stood with hands on his head, eyes glassy. Carmody punched the air and pointed to the sky. Merrigan ripped off his shirt and flung it into the crowd. Reid collapsed to the turf, laughing.
They had done it.
Ireland 2. Mexico 1.
Group winners.
Unbeaten.
Quarter-finals next.
They said Ireland had no business topping this group. That they were rebuilding. That too many young players had been blooded too soon. But from the first second to the last, this team defied the odds.
In three seconds, Conor McBride made history.
In ninety-five minutes, the team made belief.
Now, they head to the quarter-finals, undefeated, unbowed, and unafraid. Whatever happens next, they’ve already given Ireland something to remember forever.
And across the island, in kitchens and cafés, on tractors and barstools, a single phrase is being repeated—over and over again:
“Did you see the goal?”
Yes. We did. And we’ll never forget it.
“What’s Mexico?” Andrea asked that night, blinking sleepily as Glenn set down his cup of tea.
“It’s a big country, love. Far away. Hotter than here.”
“Like ‘Lanta?” she asked, referencing a cartoon she'd seen.
“Maybe a bit, yeah. But full of real people. And today, we beat ‘em.”
Andrea beamed. “We won ‘gain!”
Aisling’s gran, Clodagh, didn’t believe in television during the day and didn’t care much for football at any hour. “Grown men running about in shorts, screaming at each other like eejits,” she’d mutter, folding laundry on her knee, the sound of the match turned to a whisper, if it was allowed on at all.
Her mother, Niamh, worked long shifts as a nurse at the Regional in Limerick. She came and went with kisses and tired smiles, always smelling of lavender hand cream and antiseptic, her green scrubs clinging to her like a second skin. When she was home, it was mostly to rest, her eyes heavy with the burden of too many nights spent tending to strangers. She’d ask Aisling how her day was, smooth her hair, heat up some leftover stew—but football, World Cup or not, wasn’t something Niamh had space in her mind for. She said she loved it when Ireland won, but she didn’t watch.
Her backyard was small, walled on three sides by faded concrete, the kind that turned slick with moss when it rained and shimmered in dusty warmth when the sun made its brief appearances. The yard wasn’t much—a raised clothesline, two cracked flowerpots, and a squeaky rusted gate that never quite shut right—but it was hers. In the hours before the matches, when other children were inside eating dinner or doing sums, Aisling would be out there in her little blue jersey with the sleeves rolled up, kicking a semi-deflated ball over and over against the back wall, chasing it down, sending it back again.
There were no goals, no teams, no shouts from sideline parents. Just her, the ball, and the sound it made each time it slapped against the wall: thump, roll, scrape, turn, thump. She imagined herself on TV screens, her name called out by excited commentators. She mimicked their voices under her breath—“Lynch takes it past two—she shoots, she scores! The crowd goes mad in Brisbane!”
Before each match, Aisling would wander into her own back garden, where the patchy grass gave way to a strip of poured concrete near the back wall. It wasn’t pretty—just a dull, gray barrier separating the garden from the field beyond—but it was hers. There, she would kick a semi-deflated plastic ball, blue and white, against the wall over and over again, imagining she was scoring goals in front of a roaring crowd. She’d whisper the names she’d heard Rory shouting the day before—McBride! Kilroy! Merrigan!—and mimic their movements, arms flung wide after each goal. The ball barely bounced anymore. It was faded from the sun and warped from rain, but it was her companion. Her ritual.
She liked the silence, in a way. The thud of the ball against the wall. The scuff of her runners on the ground. The occasional cheer from a radio drifting in on the wind. Gran Clodagh would sometimes appear at the kitchen door, hands on hips, and call her in for supper, her voice as sharp as a hurley. Aisling always came—but never quickly. She’d wait until the ball came back one last time. One final goal.
But in the real world, there was no crowd. No one watching.
So when the matches came on, Aisling slipped quietly out the back gate and down the alley to the next street over, where the Murtaghs lived.
The Murtaghs were a loud and loving family of six, ruled by the indomitable Mrs. Bernie Murtagh, who had four boys ranging from fifteen to six, and an endless supply of biscuits and Vimto. They had a bigger telly than anyone else on the street, a couch that sagged in the middle like an old boat, and a living room wallpapered with newspaper clippings and family photographs.
The first time Aisling wandered over, shy and quiet, Bernie had opened the door and looked down at her with a knowing smile.
“Ahh, come in then, little beanpole. You here for the match?”
Aisling had nodded solemnly. From that night on, it was unspoken: she was one of them, part of the clan.
She always arrived early. The boys would be bickering over snacks or elbowing each other on the couch, but Bernie always made sure Aisling had a seat—right in the middle, blanket over her knees, a mug of squash in her hand. She rarely spoke during the matches. She just watched—watched—eyes wide, legs curled up, her heart galloping with every near miss, every goal, every slow replay that showed a boot making impossible contact with the ball.
And then she’d go home.
Back through the alley, through the gate that creaked, into the kitchen where Gran Clodagh would be asleep in her chair, the radio playing some sad ballad about lost love and Irish rain. Aisling would tiptoe to her room and lie in bed, the images still playing in her head: green jerseys flying down the pitch, a ball curling into the top corner, a keeper diving and missing by inches.
The next day, after school, she’d be back out in the yard, kicking that tired old ball, copying the moves she’d seen, narrating her every touch.
In Paris, the sun lingered in the sky well into the evening, casting soft gold light through the vast windows of the Walsh family’s 7th arrondissement apartment. It was an elegant space—cool marble floors, tall bookcases, and the scent of lavender diffused from a hand-cut crystal bowl in the foyer. From the balcony, one could see the rooftops of the Left Bank and, if they leaned far enough, a sliver of the Seine. But on this particular evening, three-year-old Ciara Walsh saw none of that.
She was pressed into the plush cushions of the sitting room chaise, knees drawn to her chest, a France jersey a size too big hanging from her shoulders like a cloak. Her hair had come loose from its morning ponytail and curled in soft tufts around her tear-streaked face. Her small fists were clenched at her sides, and her eyes—blue as the Irish coast but wide with Parisian defiance—were locked on the television.
France had lost. At home. In the round of 16. To Japan. Three goals to two.
And in the final fifteen minutes, too.
The Walsh household had watched the match together—Ciara with her knees pressed to her mother’s thigh, her father seated cross-legged on the floor like a college boy again, the French commentators roaring and gasping with every turn of the ball.
But when the third Japanese goal slipped past the French keeper—an unfathomable howler, the ball trickling in like a slow betrayal—Ciara’s face crumpled.
“Non…” she whispered, blinking fast. “Non non non non non…”
Cormac, let out a low whistle and leaned back against the ottoman with a sigh. “Well. That’ll go down in history. Absolute collapse.” His voice was even, diplomatic, but he gave a little shake of his head that said he’d been hoping for a different outcome.
Her mother reached instinctively for the remote and turned down the volume as the post-match analysis began. She glanced at Ciara, whose bottom lip trembled as she buried her face into her jersey.
“Ma chérie…” her mother murmured, gently pulling her daughter into her lap. “C’est d’accord. C’est seulement un match.” (My darling… It’s alright. It’s only a match.)
“Mais je voulais qu’ils gagnent…” Ciara sobbed. “Je voulais que la France gagne pour moi…” (But I wanted them to win… I wanted France to win for me…)
Her mother held her close and let her cry, her hands running soothingly over Ciara’s back. Outside, the sky began to fade into streaks of lilac and gold, and somewhere below, a car horn blared as though in protest.
Cormac stood slowly, brushing biscuit crumbs from his trousers. “Poor kid,” he said softly, his accent still Cork-tinged despite two decades abroad. “You’d swear she played the match herself.”
Ciara’s sobs had softened into little hiccups, her cheeks flushed and damp. Her mother kissed the top of her head, then pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her blouse and dabbed gently at her face.
“Tu sais…” she began, tucking a curl behind Ciara’s ear. “Ireland are playing in a few days. Contre la Colombie.”
(You know… Ireland are playing in a few days. Against Colombia.)
Ciara blinked up at her.
“Ils peuvent gagner, peut-être.” (They might win, maybe.)
“Tu crois?” (You think so?)
“I do. I think they’re very good. And brave. And very clever with the ball.”
Ciara sniffled again. “Mais je suis française…” (But I’m French…)
Her father stepped forward then, crouching in front of her with a little grin. “You’re Irish too, pet. The best kind of both. And when Ireland take the pitch, you’ll cheer for them too. For Mammy, and for me, and for all your cousins back home. They’ll be watching in their kitchens and halls. And they’ll want to know you were cheering with them.”
Ciara was quiet for a moment, then looked to the TV again, where highlights played: the third Japanese goal replayed from every angle, the crowd stunned silent.
“I can wear vert?” she asked. (I can wear green?)
Her mother smiled and kissed her again. “Oui, chérie. You can wear as much green as you like.” (Yes, darling…)
Ciara nodded solemnly, climbed off her mother’s lap, and padded away down the hall, wiping her eyes with the hem of her jersey. Her father straightened up, watching her go.
“She’ll bounce back,” he said, amused. “They always do at that age.”
Her mother tilted her head. “That age never really leaves us, not when it comes to football.”
In her bedroom, Ciara pulled open her drawer and tugged out the wrinkled green Ireland jersey she wore when she played in the courtyard with the boys from downstairs. It was a little small now, but she held it up with both hands like a banner.
She whispered to herself, in French, then in English:
“Allez l’Irlande… Go Ireland…”
That afternoon, the house was dressed as if for Christmas. Green tinsel wrapped around the stair banister. The telly had been shifted two feet closer to the couch, for “maximum luck.” Mammy laid out cocktail sausages, popcorn, and red lemonade. Da warned the boys not to get “too bloody mad” this time. And Anna—well, Anna was dressed head to toe in green, whether she liked it or not.
Her brothers had painted little shamrocks on her cheeks with lumpy face paint from the pound shop. Her jersey was oversized, drooping at the shoulder, and her socks were slouched around her ankles. She scowled through it all, arms folded, legs swinging off the couch. But she let them do it. That was the strange part.
Anna Maguire was two years and eight months old the summer Ireland made it to the World Cup semi-finals.
She didn’t like shouting. Or crowds. Or heat. Or any of the things that seemed to define her family's football rituals. The group stage had been an ordeal. Her three older brothers—Kieran, Fiachra, and little-big Oisín—had turned the sitting room into a fortress of flags, bunting, crisps, and roaring. Her mother tried to keep it gentle for Anna’s sake, but the lads were too swept up to tone it down. Every goal was a tribal howl. Every foul, a courtroom drama. Anna mostly sat cross-legged in the kitchen with her plastic farm animals, her face like thunder, chewing solemnly on a strawberry lace.
But the quarter-final was different.
Brazil.
Even Anna knew that word. She’d heard it on every radio, telly, and lips of the neighbours since last Tuesday. Brazil was the big one, her da said. Brazil were dancing feet and golden shirts, gods in boots. The first team left that the bookies truly feared.
The house was already vibrating with tension when the anthems played. Her da stood with hand over heart. Kieran tapped the side of his can with his fingernail like a metronome. Oisín had both palms on the carpet, kneeling as if to a shrine.
Anna sat between her brothers like a reluctant oracle, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her mother handed her a juice box and gently tucked a pillow behind her back.
Then the match began.
Brazil came out with fire. Passes zipping. Tricks spinning. Twice in the first ten minutes, Carmody had to punch the ball away like a man boxing the wind. The tension knotted around the room like steam.
Then, in the 26th minute, it happened.
Ó Loingsigh whipped in a cross so clean it might’ve been drawn with string. McBride leapt like a salmon, beat the Brazilian centre-back to it, and slammed the ball into the net with the full weight of the island behind him.
The room exploded.
Kieran launched a cushion at the ceiling. Oisín tackled Fiachra to the ground. Mammy shrieked. Da cursed in praise. The dog barked. And Anna—
Anna jumped.
She jumped, startled, popcorn flying from her lap.
And then she clapped. Just twice. Sharp, perfect little claps, like she didn’t know what else to do with her hands.
She didn’t smile. Not yet. But she looked at the screen. Really looked. She watched the replays. She tugged her jersey back up over her shoulder. Her cheeks still bore the faint outline of shamrocks, now half-smeared with butter and pride.
As the second half ticked on—anxious, brutal, breathless—Anna stayed rooted in place. Her juice box was half-sucked and forgotten. She didn't flinch when Oisín shouted at the referee. She didn’t even mind when Da banged his knee on the coffee table leaping up to celebrate a near-miss. Her eyes were fixed. She was there.
And when the final whistle blew—1–0, Ireland through—her brothers didn’t even scream.
They just stared at the screen, then at each other.
Then at her.
“You’re our lucky charm, you know that?” Kieran said, leaning in close.
Anna blinked. Her ears were ringing.
But she didn’t protest. She didn’t shrug. She didn’t scowl.
She just blushed.
And in the noise that followed—neighbours shouting, radios blaring, fireworks going off half a street away—Anna stood up on the couch, arms akimbo like a tiny captain.
SBS Australia News — “Green from Buenos Aires”
Aired: 9:07 a.m. AEST — Correspondent: Tahlia Nguyen
The sun had barely crested the eastern horizon over Brisbane, but the city was already thrumming with energy. Tricolours fluttered from high-rises. German fans, painted in black, red and gold, filed into trains and buses with military precision. And yet, in the shade of the South Bank’s fig trees, the most eye-catching group was not German or Irish at all—but Argentine.
A knot of young women—five in total—stood near the river, all dressed in Irish jerseys of various vintages: some from the ‘86 campaign, one with “KILROY 19” freshly printed across the back, another bearing the classic green-and-gold crest worn in this very tournament. They waved small Irish flags. One had a green bandana knotted through her hair. Another wore shamrock earrings. The sound of a tin whistle version of “The Rocky Road to Dublin” played from a tinny speaker tucked into a mesh tote.
Curious onlookers paused, and an Australian news crew spotted the group. Camerawoman Ava Li zoomed in. Correspondent Tahlia Nguyen approached, microphone in hand.
“Excuse me—ladies, you’re clearly supporting Ireland today, but I take it from the accents you’re not actually Irish?”
The young women laughed. One stepped forward—tall, with bold cheekbones and bright lipstick in Irish green. She grinned at the camera.
“No, not Irish,” she said in a warm Argentine accent. “We’re from Rosario. Except for Sofía—she’s from Córdoba.”
“And your names?”
“Luciana, Belén, Rocío, Emilia, and Sofía,” the woman answered, gesturing to each of them. “We’re all twenty-two. We’re backpacking across Australia this year.”
“So why Ireland?” Nguyen asked, clearly intrigued. “You’re not supporting them just because Germany knocked Argentina out in the quarter final?”
The women exchanged looks and gave a collective little scoff.
Luciana shook her head. “No. That’s not why. We support Ireland for a reason, not revenge.”
Sofía stepped forward, holding her flag to her chest. “We grew up knowing that part of us is Irish. You know—Che Guevara’s family, the Brown family in our independence, Admiral William Brown. San Patricios. That story—it’s in all our schools.”
Emilia added: “There’s a street named O’Higgins in almost every city in Argentina. There are Irish schools, Irish surnames, Irish sheep farmers. Our grandmothers used to play Clancy Brothers records, we don’t know how they even got them!”
“We feel connected,” Rocío said. “Even the way people are. The same kind of sadness, and humour, and hospitality. And love of football.”
Nguyen smiled. “You’ve really done your homework.”
“No homework,” Belén said proudly. “Just heart. My great-grandfather was from County Mayo.”
“And it’s not just that,” Luciana said, quieter now. “When the Falklands happened, Ireland didn’t send troops. And when Ireland played England in ‘94, our dads were shouting for Ireland. Always.”
The segment cut briefly to footage of the Argentina–Germany semifinal, where the South Americans had fallen 1–0 in a bitter, hard-fought game. The camera then panned back to the five Argentine women, now forming a neat line with their flags and jerseys, standing side-by-side as if in formation.
“We don’t hate Germany,” Sofía clarified. “They played better than us. But today… we’re with Ireland.”
Nguyen nodded. “Because of shared history?”
Luciana nodded back. “Because of love. Because of spirit. Because… I don’t know. Maybe because we see ourselves in them.”
Rocío chimed in, lifting her phone speaker. “And also, they’re fun. Irish people know how to celebrate. If they win, the world is going to dance.”
The five of them raised their flags as a nearby Irish drum group started up. Behind them, a sea of green was growing. Irish fans spotted the Argentine flags and jerseys and began waving. Someone yelled, “Rosario abú!”
Nguyen turned back to the camera.
“Well, there you have it. This World Cup final has brought out the best of international camaraderie—and the Irish support isn’t just confined to the island or the diaspora. From Buenos Aires to Brisbane, the green tide rises.”
The final shot lingered on the five women, now arm in arm, singing a slightly off-key but deeply heartfelt version of “Molly Malone.”
And in that moment, the world seemed smaller, kinder, and very, very green.
RTÉ Sport — "The Final Four"
Colm Mac Giolla Bhain (RTÉ):
We’re into the final four now. The 2002 World Cup has already given us one for the ages—Palestine’s miracle run, Ireland beating Brazil, and of course the ever-present power of Germany. But standing tall among the giants is a team that’s made history not just for their football, but for who leads them: Australia, managed by the first woman ever appointed as head coach of a senior men’s national team, Tess Hallett.
We’re joined now via satellite from Sydney by Tess herself, ahead of their semi-final clash with Germany. Coach Hallett, welcome to RTÉ.
Tess Hallett:
Thanks, Colm. Pleasure to be here—though you’ve got a better view from Brisbane than I do, I reckon. My boys got stuck on a sightseeing walk this morning and came back pink as lobsters.
Colm:
Well, that’s the Irish sunburn gene talking! (laughs) First things first: semi-final against Germany. How does that sit with you?
Tess:
It sits like a lion on your chest, Colm. But we wouldn’t be anywhere else. We’ve played like we belong, and now we have to prove it once more.
Colm:
Let’s talk about your own journey. You were appointed in 1999. At the time, there was a lot of noise—some praise, some scepticism, plenty of headlines. But here you are. First woman to manage a men’s national team at a World Cup. How did it all start?
Tess:
Look, I didn’t wake up one day and say, “I’ll break a glass ceiling.” I was just coaching. I came up through the A-League Women’s system in the late '80s and '90s—had a good run at Sydney Storm. The Football Federation asked me to help out with youth national squads, and from there I was in the system. In ’99, they were in a mess. Sacked the old manager, didn’t have a plan. I was asked to lead them through Copa Oceania, interim at first. We won that. Then qualified for the 2000 Olympics. I think people figured I’d be polite and make way for a man again.
But we kept winning.
Colm:
Since 2000, three more nations have appointed women to lead their men’s sides—Bolivia, Swaziland, Bahrain. But you’re the only one at the World Cup.
Tess:
It’s lonely company at times, but I know I’m not the last. Those women—Luz María Torres in La Paz, Nomusa Dlamini in Mbabane, Huda Al-Mahari in Manama—brilliant tacticians. They’ve made the leap. It’s not about gender anymore, not in the locker room. Players want vision and results. Full stop.
Colm:
Has the reaction changed over the years? From media, from fans?
Tess:
Oh, completely. In 2000, I had journos asking if I made the boys nervous by “being in the dressing room.” Actual question. In 2002? The papers print our heat maps and argue whether I should bench Liam Tran or not. We’ve normalised it by succeeding. But I won’t lie—there were doors slammed early on. Plenty of murmurs behind closed meetings. You just keep walking.
Colm:
Let’s talk about this squad. They weren’t favourites coming in, but you topped your group and knocked out Spain in the quarters. What’s working?
Tess:
They trust each other. And they trust the system. We’ve got creativity in wide areas—Jules Madaki on the left wing, god bless his ankles. And a midfield spine that’s relentless—Darren March and Rhys El-Sayed, both of whom could’ve played for England or Egypt but chose Australia. That means something. We defend with heart and attack with our heads. We’re not here by accident.
Colm:
Germany next. They're big, brutal, efficient. Still the only side yet to concede a goal this tournament.
Tess (smiling):
Aye, they’ve built a fortress. But every fortress has a weak door. We’ve found it, we think.
Colm:
Care to share?
Tess (laughing):
Nice try.
Colm:
Back home in Australia—what does this run mean to the country? To young girls watching?
Tess:
It means everything. My niece is eleven. She rang me last night and said, “Aunt Tess, the boys at school were pretending to be you at lunchtime.” She didn’t say that like a joke. She said it like it was normal. That’s what’s changed. We’re not anomalies anymore. We’re possibilities.
Colm:
That’s powerful. And on that note—your message to Irish fans, who may be facing your team in the final?
Tess:
Be ready. Because we are. And if it comes to that—well, I married a Galway lad once. Still know the words to “The Fields of Athenry.” So if it’s Australia v Ireland, I’ll cry either way. But I’ll still be fighting to win.
Colm:
Tess Hallett, thank you. Australia’s coach, trailblazer, and maybe—just maybe—a future World Cup finalist.
Tess:
Thanks, Colm. Best of luck to the Irish boys. And tell your keeper not to get too comfortable—we’ve got plans for him.
Back in studio, Colm turns to camera, smiling.
Colm:
Well, you heard her. From underdogs to giants, Australia has belief, swagger, and a manager rewriting history. Next up—Ireland v Holland. We’ll be live from the pitch in 30. Don’t go anywhere.
It was the largest gathering in the village’s history.
From early morning, the heart of Quin had been transformed. The main street had been closed to traffic by half-seven, not by decree but by consensus. There were no gardaí on hand, just local lads in reflective vests—Ollie Frawley and Liam from the petrol station—diverting the occasional tourist with cheerful shrugs and the directions to Ennis. Old Mick Clancy had offered up his trailer to serve as a makeshift control centre, while two dozen teenagers hoisted bunting across the roofs of the chipper, the chemist, and Frawley’s shop, threading green, white, and orange like sacred thread.
And there, in the centre of it all, beneath a rising sky of summer blue, stood a massive screen—borrowed from an AV hire company, paid for with a scramble of parish donations and one generous anonymous benefactor (though everyone suspected it was Dr. Sweeney’s sister, home from Boston for the summer). It towered over the cobbles like a shrine. Beneath it: benches, hay bales, deck chairs, camp stools. Families arrived in waves. Children were painted, faces blotted with sun cream. Tricolours fluttered from prams. And in the air: that delicious, nervous quiet of a day not yet begun.
Glen arrived with Andrea and Eimear in tow, the girls skipping ahead, holding hands, jerseys freshly laundered. Andrea wore her hair in two neat plaits—an act of trust, as Eimear had done them—and Eimear had draped a scarf over her shoulders that dragged along the ground as she walked.
Majarni followed behind them, carrying a thermos of strong tea and a Tupperware of homemade date scones. Her scarf was tied with purpose and her earrings flashed in the sun. She waved to neighbours, some of whom she had known for twenty years, some who still greeted her with hesitant warmth—but today, everyone was Irish, and all barriers fell away.
They found a place near the front, on the edge of a low stone wall, beside the Farrell boys and two of Eimear’s cousins. Glen settled onto a hay bale, his back creaking in protest, and passed around flasks and biscuits. He was pale, almost twitchy.
“Second I saw this draw, I said it,” he muttered. “Holland were the one I feared.”
Andrea, mouth full of scone, nodded solemnly. “They’re fast.”
Eimear kicked her heel playfully. “So are we.”
By kickoff, the village had swelled beyond anything anyone could remember. Folk from outside had come—people from Sixmilebridge, from Ennis, even a family from Limerick who’d pulled up in a camper van and parked in Nora Glynn’s field. The screen flickered into life. The anthem rose, and Quin rose with it. Hundreds stood shoulder to shoulder in reverent silence, eyes lifted, voices shaking. Glen put his hand over his heart. Andrea held her breath.
The first twenty minutes were taut. Holland’s passes were crisp, clinical. Ireland pressed, harried, lunged. Ó Loingsigh carved out a chance early, threading it to Kilroy, who missed by inches. Then came the sucker punch.
27 minutes.
A fast Dutch break. A cross. A flicked header. 1–0.
The crowd fell still.
Glen exhaled like a wounded animal. Andrea frowned and squeezed his hand.
But Ireland didn’t crumble.
The team pushed back. Reid stormed through midfield like a man possessed. Kawash pulled the strings with cold-eyed grace. The clock ticked into the 44th minute.
A free kick. Left flank.
Ó Loingsigh stepped up.
The wall shifted. The Dutch keeper barked orders.
Ó Loingsigh ran, clipped it in—not curling, not direct, but arcing across the box like a tossed coin.
McBride rose. Time froze.
The header was clean. The net bulged.
The street erupted.
Andrea screamed and dropped her cup. Eimear jumped so high she lost a shoe. Glen hugged Majarni without thinking, lifting her clean off the ground as she laughed and cried at once. The crowd shook with song.
Come on ye boys in green!
Halftime was a blur of lemonade and tears. People rushed to toilets and queued for chips. Glen stood, hands on hips, staring at the sky.
“We’re in it,” he whispered. “Jesus, we’re really in it.”
The second half began with nerves. Holland surged. Carmody saved once, twice, flung himself a third time like a cat to deny a near-certain goal.
Then—minute 72.
A quick Irish counter. Reid to Kawash. Kawash slipped a pass to Kilroy. The lad feinted, pulled left, dragged his marker, then turned—slamming it low into the far corner.
Quin exploded.
Glen roared so loud he frightened the toddlers. Andrea stood stock-still, mouth open. Majarni knelt, sobbing quietly into her scarf.
Three-one.
The Dutch looked shaken.
Then—six minutes later—Kilroy again.
This time, a simple finish. Kawash again the architect. A one-two. The keeper dived the wrong way.
Four-one.
There was no sound for a second.
And then all sound.
The street boiled with joy. Flags flew. Strangers embraced. Teenagers cried. Grown men leapt into the air. From the post office window someone threw confetti. Andrea turned to Eimear, both their faces red and damp.
Glen sat back down, arms limp, eyes wide.
“They’ve done it,” he said softly. “They’ve bloody well done it.”
When the final whistle blew, the bell of St. Mary’s tolled six times—no one knew who rang it. Cars honked in celebration. The crowd began to sing.
Children ran in circles.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, beneath the fading sun, Andrea and Eimear danced barefoot on the cobblestones, hands clasped, hearts alight.
The O’Brien family pub sat at the end of the village’s single winding road like a ship’s hull turned upright—narrow, weather-worn, half leaning on the butcher’s next door. It had no name on the outside, no neon signage, no blaring music like the bigger places in Ennis. But everyone called it O’Brien’s, and everyone knew where to find it, especially that June.
Ireland were in the World Cup final.
And little Kayleigh O’Brien, age three and three-quarters, had never seen her father so alive.
She sat on a high stool behind the bar, perched on a cushion of faded upholstery her grandmother had sewn by hand. Her legs swung but didn’t reach the brass footrest. She wore a hand-me-down Ireland jersey that hung to her knees and a green ribbon in her dark brown hair. Her cheeks were already smudged with Guinness foam from when someone had let her sip the head off a pint “for luck.”
The pub was loud. Packed. The walls echoed with whistles, foot stomps, and shouts of “Leave it, ref!” and “Come on, lads!” Someone had brought in a second telly and placed it on the mantelpiece at the far end. There was barely room to stand, let alone move, and Kayleigh—normally a bit shy in big crowds—felt oddly safe, insulated by the tide of grown-ups who roared in unison like one great beast.
Her father, Liam, moved like a magician behind the bar. He was pouring pints, catching coins mid-air, nodding at regulars, and somehow still managing to keep one eye glued to the television. He wore the same O’Neills top he’d worn for every match, lucky sweat patches and all. A tricolour was draped behind the spirits shelf, and someone had cellotaped a sign to the taps that read Céad Míle Goals.
Kayleigh clutched a pair of old binoculars—her granddad’s, dented and sticky with age. She held them to her eyes backward, watching the crowd shrink and wobble. Her sister, Roisín, only a baby, was upstairs with Mam and Nana. But Kayleigh had been allowed to stay. She was big enough now. She had promised not to spill things or cry if someone bumped her. She was part of it.
The match kicked off.
The first half was all nerves. Pint glasses clinked. Someone in the back lit a cigarette and was shouted down by five voices at once. A man near the front dropped to his knees every time Ireland got a corner. Kayleigh watched her dad throw a dishcloth across the bar at him—“Get up, Mick, you’re in the way!”
Then, a goal.
Ireland 1 – Australia 0.
The roar shook the walls. Kayleigh flinched, then laughed—a bubbling, giddy sound that someone near her echoed. A woman she didn’t know handed her a green lollipop. “That’s for the striker,” she said with a wink.
Kayleigh’s father leaned over the bar and kissed her forehead. “Told you, love. We’ve got it.”
At halftime, she was passed around the bar like a lucky charm. “This girl was born for football!” “Put her in goal next time!” “Her granddad’d be proud.” Kayleigh giggled as her feet left the stool and she was lifted above the crowd like a mascot, her jersey bunched at her shoulders. She felt like the whole world was below her, cheering.
Second half. Tension grew.
Australia equalised. A groan swept the pub like a storm cloud. Liam swore under his breath, then caught himself and muttered an apology to Kayleigh. She just blinked. She knew when the energy had changed, even if she didn’t know what it meant.
Then, a substitution.
Then, a scramble in the box.
Then, Goal.
Ireland 2 – Australia 1.
The place detonated.
Pints were flung in the air. Chairs knocked over. A man Kayleigh knew only as “Big Declan” started sobbing openly, arms raised like a preacher at a revival. Her father rang the service bell three times, then leaned over the counter and banged a spoon against a pint glass like it was a wedding toast.
“We’re going to win the whole bloody thing!”
And they did.
When the final whistle blew, and Ireland were World Cup champions, the sound was like nothing Kayleigh had ever heard. A mixture of scream and sob, of “Yes!” and “I don’t believe it!” and “Come here to me!” Grown men kissed one another. Women danced with pint glasses in hand. Someone jumped onto the counter and began belting The Fields of Athenry.
Kayleigh sat on the bar, legs swinging, eyes wide.
Her father lifted her into his arms.
“This is history, Kay,” he said softly into her hair. “You’ll remember this.”
And she did. Not every goal. Not the players’ names. But the feeling. The glow of it. The way the pub became a family. The way her father held her like she was the most important part of the whole match.