Finals reality fails to match wait of anticipation
After waiting my whole life to experience my nation play at a World Cup finals, I have quickly come to realize that, like Christmas Day as an adult, it is not all it is cracked up to be.
There is a genuinely wonderful sweet spot, between the act of qualifying and the kickoff of the first match. Everything between those two points is elevated by the joy of anticipation, the chance to dream and the excitement of looking forward to something special.
Once that first anthem is done, though, and the referee’s whistle blows, it is in no way an enjoyable experience. It’s fraught with anxiety, high blood pressure spikes that make you feel faint, and an abundance of swearwords.
From moments of soaring elation, to the depths of despair. It has only been seven days, and I have experienced both ends of that extreme spectrum, and at stupidly unsocial times of the day. Look, I was prepared for some nerves and moments of high stress. I support Swansea City, a team capable of playing periods of soccer that would make the Brazilians blush, before crafting the most baffling moments of stupidity that inevitably result in the snatching of a defeat from the jaws of victory.
But even that, coupled with decades of watching the tournament with no real skin in the game and seeing teams lose or face elimination at the group stage, really didn’t prepare me for the desperate, soulcrushing sadness that I felt on Friday night after Wales capitulated in ignominious fashion to a resurgent, sniping and confrontational Iran side.
After a narrow escape against the United States in our first Group B game, and the thrashing handed out to our opponent by a rampant England, there was a sense that manager Rob Page had steadied the ship. We hoped we would see the Wales side that was, at times, unplayable during our qualifying campaign.
Well, they say it’s the hope that kills you.
Iran was unlucky not to be three goals to the good, even before Welsh keeper Wayne Hennessey decided to channel his inner Harald Schumacher (only look him up if you’re not squeamish about one of the most reckless and violent fouls in World Cup history).
Reduced to 10 men, what was left of our already paper-thin midfield was totally torn apart, and the Iranians delivered the nerve-jangling fixture’s first goal, immediately followed by its decisive twin, in the final two minutes of added time.
It was like all of the air was sucked out of the room and a stunned silence descended on Chez McCarthy. That vacuum was soon filled by a barrage of redfaced, neck vein-bulging, dive bar vernacular that not only questioned the parenthood of the scorers and the referee, but also the expertise of the manager and the intellectual fortitude of certain Welsh players.
The weekend was ruined. The games that followed on Friday, nor the fixtures for Saturday, held any appeal. It was like the top of the salt cellar coming off while you’re seasoning a Wagyu steak. The whole thing was a write-off.
However, a long walk in the bracing Beijing weather blew away some of the Guinness-spun cobwebs, and I started to feel more philosophical.
Mathematically speaking, there is still a slim chance we can make it out of the group. It will take a miracle. A win against our niggly neighbor, England, and a tied game between the US and Iran. Simple.
Can we go a step further than the Scotland team in 1978? That team, after cruelly denying us our plane ticket to Argentina, fell afoul of Peru, drew with Iran, but stood victorious in the face of Dutch “total football”, just by too few goals to proceed.
Will Wales enjoy an Archie Gemmill moment to propel the team into the last 16? It’s unlikely, as there is a sense that Wales is witnessing the sun set on its golden era. That said, ending our tournament with a win would certainly go some way to scraping away the saltiness and restoring my appetite for what is left of this feast of football.