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LAST UPDATE | 10 Jun
Journalist and writer, Lise Hand, begins a new column for us here at The Journal. Lise promises an unmissable weekly read on the people, politics and peculiarities shaping Ireland today. To kick off, Lise casts an eye on the World Cup starting this week, and dreams of a trip that Irish fans never got to take…
EMINENT AUTHOR JOSEPH O’Connor could sashay down O’Connell Street with a newly won Nobel Prize for Literature tucked under one oxter, and a Pulitzer Prize under the other, yet a certain cohort of Irish citizens would still start giving out yards. “Never mind that auld guff. Give us the story about Wanda and the mickeys.”
While the boys in green were felled both by the ferocious heat and by a sizzling Dutch team in Orlando at the 1994 World Cup finals, the tournament proved to be a triumph for the Irish writer.
O’Connor was documenting the adventures of Jack’s Army on manoeuvres in the USA for the Sunday Tribune newspaper, and his account of an encounter between a platoon of travelling supporters visiting Disneyland and their charming tour guide named Wanda had the folks back home in stitches.
There is inadequate space here to do it justice. Suffice to say it revolved around Wanda – understandably unversed in Hiberno patois – regaling increasingly hysterical lads about the variety and quantity of the rides on offer in the Magic Kingdom, alongside her great pride in its massive “self-supporting Mickey”.
Back then, the piece captured USA 94′s cheery, beery, zany zeitgeist. Re-reading it now, it serves to underline just how crappy it is that we’re not heading back there en masse this week, swathed in green and bathed in hope.
And this is despite the fact that we follow the news and know there are myriad reasons why 2026 could be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad World Cup for the fans.
First, there is the hair-raising cost; as holliers go, this was never going to be a cheap outing, but thanks to Donald Trump, who launched a war in the Middle East with all the strategic aforethought, meticulous planning and skilled coordination of a maddened bowsie kicking off in the chipper after closing time, prices have soared.
Airfares and gasoline are dearer than they were in March, when – had the penalty gods smiled upon us – banks and credit unions would’ve experienced a mysterious spike in ‘home improvement’ loan requests.
Add to this, FIFA’s self-inflicted Byzantine shambles surrounding ticket prices and availability, and many fans are simply priced out of the market. According to the New York Times this week, dynamic pricing has hiked ticket costs by an average of 35% . Nobody seems quite certain whether the seats for some games will be filled with fans or with tumbleweed.
Some supporters are steering clear of the stadiums, sports bars and fan zones for other reasons too; immigrant communities in the 11 US host cities (the other five are in Mexico and Canada) fear being targeted by opportunist ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) goon squads.
Nor are visiting fans immune from potential visa-related trouble; decades-old student visa overstays in order to keep pulling pints in Murphy’s Bar could mean that Joxer goes to Gitmo, surrendering his green shirt for orange (the horror) jailhouse threads.
Also, fans are doomed to have the heads melted off them; the US has had multiple new heat records already this year, as has Mexico, where the Irish team would have played two of its group matches. One region hit a new high of 42 °C in March. In March! Moreover, both hosts, Mexico City and Guadalajara, are high altitude with thin air – one sweaty chorus of OLÉ, OLÉ could finish you off altogether.
Then there’s the orange Death Star himself, Donald Trump, recipient of the first Fifa ‘peace prize’ courtesy of a creeping Gianni Infawntino, who will inevitably generate security nightmares, massive disruption and a joy-killing miasma of existential despair whenever he enters orbit throughout the tournament.
We know all this.
And yet, and yet…
Despite the cost, the risk of incarceration or incineration we still would rather be there.
First and foremost, to cheer on the boys in green, of course. As Ireland manager Heimir Hallgrimsson reckoned, we would’ve fancied our chances of getting out of Group A against Mexico, South Africa and South Korea, and into the knock-out stages, those longed-for fields of dreams.
But it’s not just about the football.
It’s about the creation of unforgettable memories and of epic stories to be shared, passed down the generations, retold and reenacted. It doesn’t matter that these epics are more Homer Simpson than Homer the Greek poet. They’re about comradeship and the craic, about “being there” when a bit of footballing magic happens – an Irish ball fired into an Italian net as all holy hell breaks loose in an improbably green-filled stadium.
Those magnificent where-were-you-whens. Nor was it just the travelling fans – it was the street parties, the packed pubs, houses and halls around the country, the deserted streets as a nation held its breath.
And when it looked as if North America was our destiny after Troy Parrott’s glorious hat-trick in November, the universal instruction from grizzled veterans to those younger fans who were reared on stories of the 1990 and 1994 World Cups and the Euro finals of 1988 (Stuttgart!), 2012 and 2106 was crystal-clear: at last this is your chance.
Go and have the craic and bring back deadly stories. Oh, and if you get a chance, give Mickey our regards.
Alas, now here we all are, stuck at home arguing whether it’s logical or traitorous to cheer for Declan Rice’s England, or just throw in our lot with Cape Verde.
But as we sit on the US sidelines this month, we know that the bright lights of Brazil for the 2027 Women’s World Cup are beckoning, thanks to the heroics of our brilliant girls in green.
Imagine Carla’s Army on Copacabana Beach next summer. Now that would indeed be absolutely epic.
See more of Lise Hand’s columns for The Journal here.
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