Colin Sheridan: Saturday night we were blinded by the glare of a star that imploded years ago

Republic of Ireland's Seamus Coleman (left) appears dejected after Luxembourg's Gerson Rodrigues scores their side's first goal of the game. Picture: Brian Lawless

The IPAs were in the fridge cooling. The DADÁ was open, breathing like Sam Bennett on L’Alpe d’Huez. Kids were put to bed early. There was something romantically liberating in the bar being set so decidedly low but, for an hour before kick-off on Saturday night, a feeling of palpable excitement hung around watching the Republic of Ireland senior men’s team play a designated minnow.

Luxembourg may no longer be a team of bankers and barbers, but they weren’t a team of Tadics, either. Coming off a 3-2 loss in Belgrade, all the goal talk was mercifully dispensed with. Now, it was about winning which, still, rather annoyingly, required us to score goals. But having notched a couple on the road midweek, the feeling was they’d come as easily as a vaccine from the Beacon.

A single swallow does not a summer make, but two? Practically spring break in Cabo. The team news fertilised that sense of shackles being removed, of faith being placed in youth; Gavin Bazunu in between the sticks. The Rochdale keeper, just 19 and not long away from Shamrock Rovers. Bought by Man City, a young Dublin man praised publicly by Pep Guardiola for his abilities!

This was Joe Biden belly-tickling territory. Jason Knight picked in centre mid; wearing number six. Still a teenager and Derby County captain; small, tigerish, good on the ball, great name; remind you of anyone?

The headlines were already written for the kid Jason; GOOD KNIGHT AND GOOD LUX. KNIGHT KNIGHT. KNIGHT RIDER. KNIGHT SWIMMING.

Alan Browne, fresh from his Serbian masterclass, wearing number 8 and looking every inch a working-from-home Frank Lampard. Luxembourg were the perfect opponents too. Far too rich to care about being good at football; a 3-0 loss wouldn’t bother them much. The appearance of their coach Luc Holtz in bespoke sheepskin and cool pants, fashionably short of the ankle, seemed to confirm their classic small-kingdom-in-mid-Europe indifference.

Traditionally, tax havens have been easy opponents for down-on-their-luck teams like Éire; it’s their way of giving back. Christ; it’s been a long time since a Saturday night in front of the TV watching soccer felt more promising.

It’s the hope that kills ya. What fools we were. By the end, we longed for a Nphet briefing to lighten the mood.

Stephen Kenny might wish he worked for Nphet right now. Or, he might rather be the skipper of the Ever Given cargo vessel, stuck in the Suez Canal. At least from the remove of the ship’s crow’s nest he could avoid being interviewed by interviewers who seem in as much pain as he is.

It might have been different. Had James Collins finished off a first-half move that seemed to best exemplify what Kenny is trying to achieve, the Luxembourgers may have crumbled. Such was the subtle poetry of the move, that if a goal had been scored it would have given much-needed oxygen to the cohort of believers — of which I belong — that Kenny’s plan was working, that, in the words of Hemingway, the world is a fine place, and worth fighting for.

Collins didn’t do much wrong, but, crucially, he didn’t score. A sliding doors moment when we needed a Rocky IV one.

Still, you should have more than one chance to beat a team like Luxembourg. That was as good as it got. Not only is Luxembourg a haven for tax, it’s now a designated vortex for Irish footballing hopes and dreams.

What’s happening is rather complicated. We have a manager who believes in a progressive footballing philosophy, one that’s not just nicer to look at when executed correctly, but has the potential to change how the game is played in a country for whom self-loathing and low expectations have become as trademarked as a pint of Guinness.

We constantly seek approval of outsiders, but deep down, we’ve always believed we don’t deserve it. Trapattoni, Martin O’Neill, and Mick McCarthy, all came here with much fanfare and great expense, only to leave with their shoulders shrugged; a look that screamed “what you expect me to do with that lot!” decorating their tanned faces.

Kenny, like Brian Kerr before him, is organic to us, and unspoiled by football’s big money and mercenary infested waters. We like him because he believes in us. He writes programme notes like James Connolly.

In nine games before Saturday night, he’d used 33 players. That’s almost more people than have been vaccinated in Mayo. Whether those numbers point to profligacy or adventure, it’s still too early to tell, but Ireland were truly hopeless on Saturday night. Kenny has been up against it from the start. Part of it has been bad luck, part of it Machiavellian conspiracy, but Saturday night, he was the skipper of a healthy vessel that got inexcusably stuck.

You could imagine Kenny managing the Dublin footballers and racking up title after title. He didn’t Ted Lasso it. He was picked for many good reasons. He just needs to start reminding everyone what those reasons were.

Football has a way of making some of its smartest students look incredibly stupid. Kerr knows this. Graham Taylor did too. Many of Kenny’s problems are not of his making. He is the factory floor face of a bureaucracy that has proven itself inept beyond comprehension.

Saturday night was like seeing the glare of a star that imploded years ago, its blinding light only reaching us now. The cost of the damage was such, we should expect the healing to hurt for a while longer.

The ship will eventually get out of the canal, but at what cost? Backing Kenny — and meaning it — may be the least FAI thing they’ve ever done, and might just be a good enough reason to do it.