The end of the world as we know it - and I feel fine

The carnival is over. During the past month we have been through an unbelievable emotional roller-coaster ride, a sad, proud, action-packed, drama-filled, tear-stained and ultimately joyous journey bestowed on us by the God of football.

It is good that the World Cup happens only every four years. Any more and either it might become too much to bear, or the currency would be devalued. It is the single greatest multi-racial, multi-denominational, celebratory, cultural event on planet earth, full of art and daring – but a theatre of disappointment and grief as well.

They say that sport is a metaphor for life, and it is. Never was this quite as powerfully expressed, from an Irish perspective, as in the World Cup that just ended. Unlike club football, in the international arena, you have to play the hand that’s dealt you. Fate dishes out cruel blows like there was no tomorrow. Accidents and freak decisions make their crazy contribution. The character of the participants is tested, tested and tested again. Many collapse in the face of adversity. Others thrive. Some are just unlucky.

It is a team game and so there is a balance to be struck between the demands of the individual and the needs of the collective. Everything is up for scrutiny, before the world media and the watching public, everywhere, or almost everywhere. Men create themselves afresh and become heroes. Others are exposed. There is magic and loss. But even in defeat, if the performance is brave, there is honour. It is a real-life, real-time drama of dramas and there is nothing else like it, nothing else at all.

In Ireland, World Cup 2002 was an especially intense experience. Who would have predicted the way in which the nation was first embroiled in and then divided on the Roy Keane affair? That was heart-rending stuff, especially when you saw the response of Niall Quinn, and the courage that he showed, in attempting to turn back the tide of the perverse momentum that was engulfing us. And then there was the performance of the team – the genius of Damien Duff that lit up the tournament; the wonderful swansongs offered to us by Steve Staunton and Niall Quinn; the emergence of Shay Given and Steve Finnan as players of real world-class calibre; and the hugely committed and often brilliant football that the Irish team played during the course of what was an unbeaten run.

It was thrilling and ultimately gut-wrenching stuff, that saw the possibility of going all the way to the final stolen from us in the most horrible but instructive way in a brutal penalty shoot-out. Mick McCarthy said that practising penalties was bollocks. The way we took them proved that that was bollocks. Mick McCarthy made some bad mistakes during the tournament, and still he got a lot right. He deserves great credit for getting this Irish team to play football and to play it with immense heart and purpose. But in the end, the manner of our exit was a reflection of the man that he is, and the way he looks at the world.

Ireland came out of the tournament with more credit than most. We were, for the most part, a pleasure to watch, especially in the game against Spain. But there were moments when it seemed that there might be a conspiracy to ensure that people who love football – and those who had just fallen in love with it too – would be denied the classic finale that the carnival demanded. What a brilliant and fitting end it was then that Brazil and Germany faced one another in the final and went on to produce a great and absorbing contest that would, in the heel of the hunt, be laced with genius – and won by Brazil as a result.

A lot of commentators got this Brazilian team wrong. They were great throughout, with only a few minor blips during the entire month. They went a goal down against Turkey in the first game, and the way in which they reasserted themselves against a very good team, and won, was enough to suggest that they were made of the right stuff. When they lost Ronaldino in a wholly undeserved sending off against England, the cool and disciplined manner in which they controlled the game with ten men and had England chasing shadows was stunning and brilliant.

Germany were up for it in the final and performed superbly for stretches. But Brazil came good and the second and clinching goal was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Ronaldo may only be operating at 70% of his capability as a result of injury, but he is still a magnificent and special talent, and the confidence with which he slotted the ball into the corner after Rivaldo’s step-over was instinctive and wonderful. He is only 25, and so there must be considerable hope that he will regain that extra 30%. If he does, prepare to revel in every moment of it.

Back in the real world, there are issues that need to be addressed. How can Ireland best build on the progress that the team’s performance in the tournament confirms? What can be done to bring the great talent of Roy Keane back on board for the European Championships? Is there any possibility that we will come up with the right solution – a custom-built football stadium in either Lansdowne Road or the Docklands area – now that Bertie’s plans for the National Stadium are under review by the new administration?

Will the FAI, who performed so dismally in their preparations for the World Cup, get their house in order? Is there the remotest possibility that the application to stage the European Championships in 2008 will receive the green light? And if so, will soccer’s huddled masses be allowed to enter the hallowed field of GAA dreams that is Croke Park?

These are serious issues. But before we become too bogged down in the grind of it all, let us first celebrate the joys that have unfurled before us one more time, and say thanks for the memories to the footballers from every corner of the globe who gave us such rich excitement, entertainment and pleasure over the past month. And in particular to the boys of Ireland. And the men from Brazil.