Larry Ryan: The World Cup isn't on in Qatar, it's on the telly

Do we need to drag Con Houlihan into things one more time to remind us that going to the World Cup involves missing the World Cup?

Sat, 19 Nov, 2022 - 07:15

Larry Ryan

Salve your conscience. The World Cup isn’t taking place in Qatar, this World Cup, like all the others, is on the telly. Do we need to drag Con Houlihan into things one more time to remind us that going to the World Cup involves missing the World Cup?

It has sort of been on the telly since 1954, when Eurovision started sending around a few broadcasts of the odd game, if they felt like it. And it officially moved to the telly in 1970, when adidas designed the classic Telstar to be more visible on black and white screens. And Pele tied his laces at kickoff to get his Puma boots on camera.

Ever since, the telly has hosted the tournament. The telly releases its squad lists around the same time as the teams. Marquee signings are unveiled, loan deals are struck. BBC and ITV splashing out for exotic star attractions like Leonardo or Cannavaro or Desailly. RTÉ swooping for Paul Clement.

BBC and ITV tend to go along with the conceit that the action is happening out foreign by taking over some prime real estate with a view of a prestigious square. But the real action always took place in a gaudy studio in Donnybrook. Though that dynamic has shifted a little, in recent times.

The World Cup is Billo wearing his heart on his sleeve and speaking for a nation. “I've an awful feeling England are going to go all the way.” It’s Des Lynam arching an eyebrow ahead of the opening ceremony. “Lots of people dressed up as dragons, I shouldn't wonder. And maybe even some men on stilts.”

The World Cup doesn’t really transport us anywhere. Instead, as the years spin relentlessly, it moors us in a time and place. Via the box.

Whatever the history books say, 1978 happened on a small black and white television in Tipperary. Though extra-time in the final moved to a neighbour’s small black and white television when the first one packed up. That was a tournament staged under the cloud of dark forces who sent you to bed before the night games.

By 1982 we had colour, memories of Brazil confirm that. Though the school day now interfered with the scheduling, the Kuwaiti walk-off missed, for one. We must have had ‘the channels’ because the Englishman in his holiday house up the road called in during Rossi’s hat-trick looking for the cricket scores on Ceefax. What do they say about traumatic events and intensified memory?

In 1986, Maradona didn’t score that goal in the Azteca, he scored it wherever you were, rising gradually off your feet as English defenders lost theirs.

1990 kicked off on a big screen in Jury’s, as UCC dispersed for the year and into the Grand Parade fountain after.

It should have been the World Cup of George, the nation holding its breath, the seeds of doubt sown against Egypt “doused by a dose of Jack Charlton's almighty weedkiller”.

But it was the World Cup of Dunphy. Of pens thrown and disgrace and embarrassment. From then on, they were all World Cups of Dunphy. As much as any of the great players, and not great players, this was his stage. The trajectory of Frank Rijkaard's spit. Landon Donovan and Bianca, baby. Inexactitudes. A shirt and tie in Cameroon colours. A referendum on the state of the game no later than the opening Thursday.

“It’s rotten, Bill. The game is sick. There are no great players out there. Jonjo O’Neill, John Oxx…”

The World Cup is PlayStations and “personal stereos and that” killing the little guy on the street. It’s stopping it there, Bill. It’s Martin O’Neill tackling fellow pundits. Say what you like about Lawro, but in his pomp this was his stage too. “Paulo Wanchope.... the perfect man to take to a barbeque.”

The World Cup is Barry Davies pausing to let it breathe. It’s Peter Drury at his most apocalyptic. “Cannavaro disappears, possibly forever.” It’s Gary Lineker making sheepish puns about Philipp Lahm.

The World Cup is Aprés Match. It’s the camera cutting back unexpectedly to find Billo winding his watch. It’s not the World Cup at all, in Jimmy’s hands, it was “the championship of the globe…"

In 1994, Bonner spilt Wim Yonk’s shot on a screen in the Old Oak. Would 1998 be remembered for a watershed moment, when a future wife’s flight landed back from America, if there wasn’t a need to leave the telly five minutes before the end of the final to collect her?

Hosting rights for 2002 was won by a flat in Dublin. John Motson utterly fascinated by the idea that it was morning back home. “You can have your breakfast with Batistuta and your cornflakes with Crespo.” Dunphy starring again. Tired and emotional from fighting Roy Keane’s corner. The early matches not really suiting him. “There aren’t the moments that win and lose you games. These are false.” Over footage of Russia’s goals.

Some say 2006 was in Germany but it was on the luxury of a giant 32-inch TV, one with the heft to have killed you in an instant had it toppled. Apparently, 2010 was in South Africa, judging by Jimmy throwing in every possible pun. “Another goal and the flowers will be dying in BLOOM-fontein.” Was Jimmy even there? Or in the Montrose broom cupboard? Did it matter?

By 2014, they all knew where it was staged. Thomas Müller was vilified for a little bit of stagework — as Jimmy would put it — after a shove in the face by Pepe. And he instantly thought of us at home.

“I'd like to see it on TV. I only hope that I looked okay. I just hope it didn't look stupid on TV.”

We know where 2018 allegedly took place. But if hosting it was about buying lasting esteem and respect the world over, it’s possible the Russians overpaid.

Maybe the World Cup doesn't anchor us as firmly to a time and place these days, now that it's hosted on a phone or a tablet wherever you are sitting. And watched back whenever you fancy.

But what exactly have the Qataris bought anyway, besides the brief glare of the world’s focus on the way they do things, on their blood-stained stadiums and lack of freedoms?

Salve your conscience? Or mine?