Remembering Budapest - We Couldn’t Could We?

By Evan Dalton for the DCU Bulletin

Image Credit : SPORTSFILE

The Halgrimsson Era was over. A home victory over Portugal, will live nice in the memory, but overall it was a dire attempt at a stateside World Cup. 

Dominik Szoboszlai is trotting around the pitch, enjoying every moment. He’s holding the love of all his Hungarian faithful at the Puskás Aréna. Some are more in love with him right now than they are their significant other, and who could blame them.The goals came from Daniel Lukács and Barnabás Varga, but it was his control, his skill and his calm presence that kept this Hungarian team in front. 

The sudden spike in SkyScanner activity, specifically looking at flights to the U.S.A from Budapest was beginning. The job was done. Well done Ireland. Once again, so close, yet so far. 

In the blink of an eye, Finn Azaz was finally awoken from a disappointing slumber. His attempts at attacking football were simply absent, until the 79th minute. A lofted ball allowed the boy from Buckingham Street, Troy Parrott to chase after it, and chip goalkeeper Dénes Dibusz. 2-2. We couldn’t, could we? 

An injection of intensity was shot into the men wearing white by the dentist. In his home town of Heimaey, there is no man you’d rather for a root canal or filling than Heimir Hallgrímsson. Weirdly, there was no one you’d rather in the Irish dugout at that very moment. No one expected us to still have a chance of qualifying for the World Cup, come minute 80 of the last game, after the dismal displays in the earlier group fixtures. Yet here we are. There was something very Ted Lasso about all this. 

The flowing locks of Szoboszlai fancied being the pantomime villain, and he charged in on goal in the 85th minute, thundering a shot at his former teammate Caoimhin Kelleher. It was denied. The Corkonian may as well have been the new Minister of Defence. 

“Are Ireland going to come up just short?” asked RTÉ commentator Darragh Maloney, right before a lofted ball was sent into the box from within Ireland’s half. The 90th minute struck. It was poetry in motion. The ball landed gracefully off the white boot of Johnny Kenny and the 22 year old Celtic striker controlled it, and fired it towards the goal. 

This was it, the moment that would feature on ‘Reeling In The Years’ in a decade's time. The moment that the current generation could run out to their roundabout.

But the keeper saved it. 

We couldn’t. Time was ticking. There’s no such thing as a miracle in sports. As much as American hockey commentators claim they had one, they don’t exist. Leicester were the best team in that Premier League season. Max Verstappen was owed a questionable decision. Damian Lillard scored more buzzer beaters than he missed. There’s no such thing as miracles. 

Ryan Manning misplaced his cross. It landed on the head of Dara O’Shea, who put every ounce of energy left into trying to get it into the box. It was calmly collected by Willi Orbán. As he cleared it up the flank, the clock struck 95 minutes. The game was over, but the referee did not blow his whistle. Ireland would have one last attack, but we couldn’t, could we? 

The ball rolled over the halfway line, and Kelleher struck it long. It floated in the sky for an agonisingly long time before diving down towards the crowd of players in the Hungarian penalty area. 

Liam Scales jumped, at an angle no human has ever jumped before, to beat his opposition to the ball. It bounced in the box, but no Irish player was in sight. A quick reaction by the Hungarian defenders and the World Cup playoff spot was theirs. 

Then out of nowhere, the man wearing number 7, Parrott, flew and threw himself at the football. He stretched his foot, beyond the point of any Britney Spears leg lift or Michael Flateley jig, to try and glance the football. He glanced at it, and no matter what way the ball flew, it was the last kick of the game. 

The stadium fell silent, because it ended up in the back of the net. 

Whether you’re an Irish person in Budapest, Dublin, Florida, Melbourne or Mumbai, at that very moment, you jumped and grabbed whoever was closest to you, with pure tears of joy. The Irish men’s national football team had just produced a miracle. 

Days and weeks of jubilation followed. Parrott’s flick of the football is engraved in the memory of many. It may just be the greatest goal scored by an Irish sportsperson. 

In two weeks time, Ireland will face Czechia in their first game of the playoff run, with North Macedonia or Denmark to follow if successful. Victory in those two games, and Ireland will play at the FIFA World Cup, for the first time in 24 years. 

We couldn’t, could we?