Esther McCarthy: 'I watched Troy Parrott score and was transported back to Italia 90'

Esther McCarthy on a goal for the ages — and a cheeky wagon who insulted her

Troy Parrott celebrates after Republic of Ireland win against Hungary. Picture: Stephen McCarthy/Sportsfile

“Go on, guess how old I am.”

There are sentences you expect to hear in a pub during a crunch qualifier match, but that ain’t one of them.

A roar for a missed sitter? Absolutely. Someone screeching “REFEREE, ARE YOU FOR REAL?!” at the free given for an obvious dive? Of course. But a stranger demanding a birth cert deep dive while we’re clinging on by the grace of God (aka Caoimhín Kelleher)? This is not the time, ma’am.

It’s Ireland v Hungary and this Derry Girl has been chatting since kick-off like she’s Graham Norton of a Friday night. It seems she has decided we are sisters from other misters. She keeps leaning over, tapping my arm, nudging my elbow, ráiméis-ing about this and that.

I have an aunt and if there’s a mentally unstable person within a seven-mile radius, they’ll hone in on her. Every time. On trains, planes, and Pana. It’s a blessing and a curse. Last Sunday, I seem to have manifested the uncanny ability to attract the only person in the joint with no interest in the game we’re all here to watch.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a bit of pub banter. And yes, it’s nice having an accent superior to someone else for once.

But crikey, her timing is brutal. She waits for throw-ins, free kicks, possible yellow card calls, goalmouth scrambles, the lull to see if that offside Lukács goal is actually being allowed, even Parrott’s perfect peno, when the whole place was reverential and hushed.

It’s Ireland v Hungary and this Derry Girl has been chatting since kick-off like she’s Graham Norton of a Friday night. Picture: Stephen McCarthy/Sportsfile

“Oooh, I hate this age-guessing game,” I stage whisper.

“Let’s not play it. Who cares how old we are anyway? I bet the men aren’t asking each other their ages. Am I right? High five, fellow gender saver!” I’m not above playing the feminism card when it’s two-all and we need a win to nab a World Cup playoff spot.

But, much like our saviour Troy, she is unstoppable. And lord, does she parrot on.

“Ah, gwaaaan, how old do you think I am? Gwaan, gwaaan, gwan,” she pleads, the Northern Irish Mrs Doyle, if Mrs Doyle chain-smoked rollies and slugged Smirnoff Ice instead of tea.

There is no escape. So I channel my inner Patrick Jane from The Mentalist and try to cold read her, and start gathering clues.

It’s harder than I thought. For a start, she’s wearing a baseball cap, which is highly inconvenient because you can tell a lot about a woman by her hair: Attitude towards keratin wraps, dye schedule, Dyson wrap policies. 

She’s very tanned, which could mean a sun holiday or a particularly frenzied Bare by Vogue sesh.

I know she’s a smoker; she keeps fiddling with the papers.

She’s dressed in black, and nondescript trainers that I reckon have seen some things.

“I really don’t know,” I reply, smiling at her, but keeping my eyes on the screen.

“Look,” she says, exasperated, “I reckon we’re the same age. So GWAN. Just guess.”

Flipping hell. FINE, Mrs Badger McBadgerton, we’re doing this.

“Well, I’m 48, so I’ll say… 46.” Because my mama didn’t raise no fool. The rules are simple: You guess up for kids, because they love the idea of being older, and you guess down for anyone over 24, because, you know, feelings.

“No!” she crows. “I’m 56!” Now, as regular readers will be aware, I’m taking part in Sober November so I’m only two gin-and-tonics in. Still, it takes me a minute to realise I’ve been savaged.

“Waaaait. So you think I look 56?” “I’m off for a fag!” she beams, delighted with herself.

The cheeky weapon. I do feel a bit stung. But then Troy Parrott scores a marvellous, miraculous, did-that-actually-just-happen, Hail Mary, last gasp of a goal.

I’m 13 again. It’s Italia ’90. Picture: INPHO/James Meehan

A beauty. One for the ages. Career-defining. The kind of moment that makes you briefly believe a higher power, one with a sense of humour, that wants to see what the craic would be like if the Irish made it past a quarter final stage of a World Cup.

The pub ignites. People are roaring, hugging strangers, sloshing drinks, clapping. Someone in the corner sobs. A hat trick! We’re saved! And right there in the chaos, something else magical happens — I’m 13 again. It’s Italia ’90, the penalty shootout to get us through to the quarter finals against the hosts in Rome. A nation famously held its breath and David O’Leary buried it in the top of the net. 

Our house was full, loads of us crammed into the front room, and we all legged it outside to the street. Even the cranky neighbour (does every road have one?) who’d tut at a rainbow for being a bit too showy, was out on the doorstep, delighted.

It was communal joy in its purest form; the kind of shared heartbeat sport gives us, drawing all of us underdogs into something bigger than ourselves.

And now, unexpectedly, here it is again. I order another drink and as the ice melts into the gin and (laudable yet laughable diet) tonic, I decide if a game of soccer can make me feel like a teenager now and then, I’ll take it. Troy’s toes are far more interesting than my crow’s feet. C’mon Ireland!

The nation (except for one) holds its breath