Let us not be afraid to dream. Officially, at the time of writing, the Republic of Ireland have not yet qualified for next summer’s Euro-footie extravaganza, with a perilous second-leg against the tricky Estonians still to negotiate. But closing my eyes here and taking an enormous leap of faith, I’m prepared to jump ahead in time and make the assumption that we’ve managed to get the result we need – to wit, a 3-0 defeat or better – provoking riotous scenes of celebration from Malin Head to Mizen.

An enormous smug grin (picture the mid-90s incarnation of Tony Blair, if you will) has been superglued to my face for days, all the world’s ills have melted into complete insignificance, and the next six months are shaping up to be like a great big extended Christmas Eve. I’ve been smiling at complete strangers and petting their dogs, whistling gleefully from the break of day to the last stumble home, and laying off the Joy Division a little in favour of KC & The Sunshine Band and vintage Bee Gees. I even managed to sit through Strictly Come Dancing from start to finish the other night without feeling the urge to hammer rusty nails into my forehead.
This may not be entirely unconnected to the fact that I’m off to Barcelona in two days’ time with the sweetest girl in the world and planning to take in a match at the Nou Camp, but the wonderful reality is that finally, after ten years of agony, heartache, anguish, humiliation and suffering, WE’RE THERE. WE HAVE DONE IT. Nothing that sport has thrown up in the last decade – I’m including the rugby Grand Slam, Dublin’s All-Ireland triumph, Man City’s Lotto win, even that four-figure windfall that fell into my pocket courtesy of Padraig Harrington three summers ago – has felt quite as sweet as this.
I may be tempting fate here. Certainly, I will look like an almighty twat on Thursday morning if Estonia have mugged us 5-0 in the interim before a stunned, speechless and stupefied Aviva crowd, who would then surely be left with no alternative but to commit mass suicide in a sort of morbid footballing equivalent of the Jonestown massacre. In that eventuality, I’m sure I will not be the only one left looking a right twat, and calls for the public beheading of Messrs. Delaney and Trapattoni will be resounding across the airwaves. But, with a few kindly bounces of the ball, perhaps a favourable refereeing decision or two and a few heroics from Shay Given, it won’t come to that. We shall march on.
There are a million reasons to celebrate right now, but perhaps the biggest is that this team has shrugged off the sneering combination of scorn, derision and indifference that has been heaped upon them by cynics, doubters, begrudgers, mockers and scoffers for much of the last decade. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve been left gobsmacked by the total lack of affection evident in casual comments made by casual observers about the Ireland team (“I lost faith in these c***s years ago” being a personal favourite).
In particular, I’d like to plead with the bandwagon-jumpers who haven’t had a good word to say about the team since Roy Keane’s epic hissy-fit in 2002: go away. We do not want you. You have not earned the right to take any pleasure whatsoever in Ireland’s progress to the Finals, and you can’t just hop on board now when the going suits. Haven’t you got a more important fixture coming up against Swansea this weekend? Feel free to set your footballing priorities as you see fit, but don’t suddenly re-shuffle them in response to events. This team has thrived perfectly well without your whole-hearted support, so please leave this triumph to those who’ve earned the right to actually appreciate it.
None of this is to imply that constructive criticism is unwelcome. Last Friday’s result does not suddenly make Trapattoni a living saint, any more than it puts Keith Andrews and Glenn Whelan on Real Madrid’s January shopping-list. One is still entitled to harbour concerns about the team’s relative poverty in central midfield and general lack of creativity. But, as I have repeatedly argued in this space for quite some time, you have to look at the whole picture. Two defeats in Trap’s 23 competitive matches in charge; one goal shipped in the last 951 minutes of football; these are very considerable achievements which fully entitle Ireland fans to look forward to the summer ahead without fear, without any sense of inadequacy, and with every expectation of being able to make life difficult for anyone who has the misfortune to cross our path.
We have yet to actually beat a top footballing nation during Trap’s tenure to date, will certainly enter the Finals with a generally less talented squad than most of the other participants, and wouldn’t exactly be harmed by the sudden emergence of a creator-cum-goal-machine in the Pele/Maradona/Messi mould. But for now, we can bask in the glow of a job well done. I’ll examine the adventure that lies ahead in greater detail next issue when the 16-team line-up is complete, unless Estonia have outwitted us, in which case there will be no column next issue because I will have thrown myself off a cliff. In the meantime, I think to myself: what a wonderful world...