Ireland’s Saviour

World Cup semi-final.

Ireland against Italy.

The dying minutes of the game and it’s 1-1.

The Irish have fought and grafted. The Italians, far superior on the ball and in terms of fitness, have dominated the game. Ireland are characteristically brave, spurred on by the legions of fans who travelled over, engulfing the stadium in a sea of green and noise.

The prospect of extra time fills Irish minds with that feeling of dread they’ve come to expect from their soccer team over the years.

Please.

Just this once.

Give us a final.

Please.

For the past week, the windows of all houses and cars in Ireland have had that tri-coloured flag fluttering out of them. Football fans have been euphoric. Non-football fans have been swept up in the delirium and become proud fans of the beautiful game.

The Italians have fitness, and squad depth, not to mention they can make one more substitution. They have that intimidating air of nonchalance. They’ve class and experience in big matches that we just don’t have.

The Irish will never give up, but it doesn’t look like they’ll hold out much longer. No substitutes left to make. Their captain taken off after going down with cramp for the second time in the match. He ran his heart out - you knew he would - but he’d nothing left to give.

A corner to Italy. The big centre-backs are up. All but one of the Irish players are back defending. Backs against the wall time now.

Irish hearts in mouths.

Lofted in.

Cleared!

Booted up to the big centre forward - the quintessential Irish striker.

He holds it up, waiting for support. Tries to make a run at goal when he realises the support won’t be coming any time soon.

Pulled to the ground.

A lazy tackle gives Ireland a free-kick, about 30 yards out.

Thank fuck. Some relief from the bombardment of Italian attack.

All eyes focus on the kick-taker.

It’s 22 year-old midfield maestro, Mark Walsh.

A nine year-old Mark Walsh strolls into his living room.

Fresh on the scene and in his first world cup, he takes the ball in his shaking hands and places it delicately on the grass.

Young Mark spots his beloved sponge football he kicks around the house. Places it on the centre of the carpet. There’s a stain there right in the middle that he uses for a placing spot. He actually made the stain himself while trying to carry a glass that was too full of blackcurrant squash. Just a little spilled but it made a proper stain. But nobody saw it happen so it was okay.

The camera focuses on the young playmaker’s football boots. The latest Nikes - not even in stores yet. Nike were delighted to secure a lucrative sponsorship deal with Walsh after he became a footballing phenomenon and global sex symbol.

Mark fixes the sock on his right foot so that his toe is no longer sticking out of the hole in the top.

Walsh takes a few steps back and takes a deep breath. He nods at his team-mates to let them know he’s gonna have a go. Get ready for a rebound or something lads. Not easy to beat this keeper from here.

The fourth classer who recently got 100% in his spelling test takes two steps back from the sponge ball. He’d like to take more but the couch is in the way.

Walsh looks at the wall of players blocking him. He looks into the eyes of Alessandro Del Piero - his boyhood hero. Just thirteen years ago his bedroom wall was covered in photos of the man who now stood ten yards from him.

Up and over the wall, and curl it into the left top corner. Worth a try.

Mark, who has just moved on to wear boxer shorts rather than briefs, eyes up the living room. Pesky armchair. Up and over the armchair, don’t hit the vase, and into the curtains. Just don’t hit the vase. He’d hit it before and it fell but thankfully it landed on a pile of clothes waiting to be ironed. He vowed then never to play in the house again, but boys will be boys.

Walsh starts his run up. A nation, nay, the entire footballing world, holds its breath.

If he scores, he’ll put Ireland in their first ever World Cup final. A hero, a legend. A name never to be forgotten. Should he miss, extra time beckons, during which the Italians will surely break down the weakening Irish defence.

Mark takes his two step run up to the sponge ball.

Strikes it cleanly.

It’s over the wall.

The keeper’s scrambling.

It’s in!

The vase was safely avoided and the ball sailed into the crease of the curtain.

He’s done it! Oh Mark Walsh, Ireland’s saviour! Never before have we seen such -

Shit. Dad’s coming down the stairs. Better hide the ball before he sees what I’m at.

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