Five things my kids have learned going to Ireland soccer matches this year

Ireland fans celebrate after Troy Parrott's goal. Picture: INPHO/Ryan Byrne

We went to matches all year... Tuesday nights, Saturdays, qualifiers, friendlies... the whole lot. And somewhere between the floodlights, the queues, the chants, the traffic, the cold, the shouts of 'press him!' and the half-time chips, my kids learned things I wish I’d learned at their age.

1. There will be more frustrating nights than glorious ones — which is exactly why the glorious ones matter

We’ve had evenings this year where the Aviva felt like a collective therapy session. My kids felt that tension immediately. Young kids always know when a crowd is hopeful, when it’s resigned, and when it’s crossed into that very Irish mood of “we’re not angry — just disappointed.”

There were games where we tried hard but couldn’t score when it mattered. Games where we clung on. Nights where the stadium groaned in unison as another chance went inches over. And yet at the end of every single one, my two turned to me and said: “Dad, that was brilliant.”

Because for them, the night is bigger than the score. They’ve begun to realise that the frustrating nights — the tight ones, the sloppy ones, the 'nearlys' — are part of the deal. That the great nights only feel great because you’ve lived through the hard ones.

2. Tuesday nights in winter are cold — very cold — and sometimes the most important lessons are practical ones

There is a specific wind that lived in Lansdowne Road that The Aviva Stadium inherited. A bone-seeking, unforgiving blast that sneaks up your sleeves and makes your knees feel 200 years old. And the kids learned quickly that no amount of layers can protect you once you’ve conceded a soft goal in the 42nd minute. Cold and disappointment work together like a tag team.

Half of parenting is lying, so I hit them with all the classics:

— “We’ll warm up once the game starts”

— “The crowd will heat you”

— “It’s actually not that cold”

All lies.

Bernard O'Shea: "The great nights only feel great because you’ve lived through the hard ones."

Then came the greatest practical lesson of all — one of the few pieces of wisdom I’ve ever successfully passed down:

Never buy your scarf before the match.

Before kickoff, the stalls were flogging them for €15. I held my nerve and said, “Lads… trust me.”

Full-time: €5. Same scarf. Same fella. Same stitching. €10 saved.

My daughter looked at me like I’d parted the Red Sea. My son declared me “business smart". For one shining moment, I was the Warren Buffett of Lansdowne Road.

3. Hard work beats talent (my daughter turned into Roy Keane)

Twenty minutes into the Portugal match, my daughter leaned over — very calm, very matter-of-fact — and said: “Dad… we’re running a lot more than them and we don’t even have the ball.” The tone. The judgement. The forensic disdain. If she’d followed it with “but someone needs to take responsibility in the final third,” I’d have needed smelling salts.

And she was right.

Ireland may not always be the most technically gifted team, but commitment is never optional. We press. We chase. We chase lost causes. We track back like we’re being paid by the kilometre. And sometimes, that’s the thing that lifts a stadium.

4. Sticking with something — through good times and bad — is where real loyalty comes from

This was the year my kids learned that loyalty isn’t about winning.

If loyalty depended on winning, every child in Ireland would support France or Argentina. Loyalty is choosing to keep showing up — even when the results don’t. It’s understanding that sometimes the journey home is quieter than the journey in, and that’s okay.

And watching them learn that brought me straight back to my early matches.

Back then, it wasn’t the plush, structured Aviva. It was the terraces. We were tiny — swallowed by grown men, lifted and swayed like plastic bags in a storm every time the ball went near the box. You didn’t stand; you were held up by the collective sway.

And the main environmental hazard wasn’t the wind — it was the rivers of wee that flowed down steadily and without apology. Avoiding them was a sport in itself.

Football back then was gladiatorial. It built character mostly by trying to break you. And this year, standing with my kids at a modern stadium with chips at half-time, toilets that actually exist, and seats where you’re not performing survival gymnastics, I realised something profound:

— I like modern football.
— I like that my kids aren’t undergoing a trial.
— I like that they can see the pitch and eat chips without needing counselling.

Football shouldn’t feel like a punishment. It should feel like belonging.

5. Never leave early — because the magic usually comes late, and hope is a terrible, brilliant thing

Every Irish child must learn two contradictory truths:

Hope will break your heart.

You should still hope anyway.

Football teaches that like nothing else.

Before every match, the kids ask “Will we win tonight?” And all I can honestly say is “Maybe”.

Hope is the engine of Irish sport. It’s irrational. It’s risky. It’s occasionally humiliating. And yet it keeps you coming back. But it comes with rules — and chief among them is this:
Never, ever leave early. If you leave on 85 minutes, you are basically summoning the football gods to produce something spectacular the second your foot hits the steps. A last-minute equaliser. A deflected winner. A penalty shout. A save you’ll talk about for the rest of your life.

And when the next magical night comes, the one we’ve all been waiting for, my kids will know exactly why it matters. Because they’ve lived every kind of night along the way.