Why does every international break prompt morose introspection?

We may have to accept that it is baked into our DNA as football people to worry and grumble about our DNA as football people following every international break.

Perhaps it is to do with the break itself, something about this disruption in the natural rhythms of Premier League life that affords us this time and space for morose introspection.

Or maybe the lack of time and space we make for ourselves on the pitch during these grim fortnights is partly down to all the navel gazing — triggering an epidemic of existential crises whenever the ball is at our feet.

Has the long aimless punt forward become our version of Fr Dougal’s ‘Do Not Press’ red button, an itch we have to scratch, like helmet tugging for our best hurlers?

Whatever it is, the cycle seems unlikely to be broken any time soon. And it will continue to dawn on us, in the opening minutes of most internationals, that our opponents look “much more comfortable on the ball”.

Is Richard Dunne right when he says that our football has always been about “fight, tackle, get the ball in the box and see what you can do”?

Stripped of the bantz-on-tour-aren’t-we-sound-pure-class-viral-legend possibilities of a major tournament, when at least there is the chance foreign people might think we are great for making the best of things; watching Ireland play qualification matches becomes a depressing episode of Who Do You Think You Are? As we try to figure out what made us this way.

Is it the GAA? This week on ESPN, Michael Cox claimed everything about Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain can be explained by his childhood immersion in rugby, his narrow escape from a career at London Irish. Essentially, Cox argues, the Ox is a powerful ball carrier who isn’t much good at kicking it and only offloads sideways as a last resort if his path to the line is blocked.

Obviously, rugby has left minimal true imprint on our DNA, whatever the marketing tells you. But are our football men a similarly cross-pollinated species? We read this week of Jackie Tyrrell’s scorn for Tipp and their “bullshit”, their cowards’ charter of clever movement up front rather than lamping the ball in on top of Jackie for an arm wrestle.

We hear the new-fangled craze for keeping possession, for not booting the ball away aimlessly, is wrecking Gaelic football. In both codes, we hear the groans of revulsion rumble in our stadiums if a short pass goes astray.

Deep down, are we conditioned to believe that our football men too should be able to win their own ball? So let it in ta feck.

Or is it the Brits? They have taught most of our football men the game. And perhaps they caused a mutation in our DNA when they dispatched their great missionary Jack to get us to knock it from back to front.

They are still working around the clock to rewire themselves. Armies of performance gurus and culture consultants are producing manuals and blueprints and Ted Talks and inspirational slogans to rinse the evangelist of the long ball, Charles Reep, and his many disciples from Charles Hughes to Howard Wilkinson to Graham Taylor, out of their system.

But still, Mesut Ozil remains the most reviled man in their land, because he won’t run all day for you, a crime that will always be more deplorable than the percentage ball into the channels.

Mind you, Charles Reep was still only getting into his stride counting the number of passes that led to goals when stylish 1950s Cork Hibs centre-half Patsy Dorgan had already noted our own suspicion of the more considered defender.

“I hated kicking the ball to no one. I liked to look around and see who wants this ball. But if it broke down, the crowd would have your guts for garters.”

So maybe our tendency to just knock it can’t be entirely explained by Gilesy’s modern scapegoats either — personal stereos, third level education, and the extinction of the little guy on the street.

Is it our coaching? We all know him, have seen him at every level, from Shipping League to League of Ireland: the elegant midfield player who shows for the throw-in at the edge of his own box, beautifully drops the shoulder to slip his man and turns away with a nonchalant outside of the foot ball to his other full-back.

Until he hears it once too often, the two words that might best define our footballing DNA. ‘Not There!’

And soon he is not trusted, shoved wide maybe, or further forward, and then left out altogether. Replaced by the lad who shows for the same throw-ins, but only to neatly half-volley them into the channels for the game lad who will run all day for you.

And when the shoulder-dropper is left out, there is nobody for the centre-half to pass to, nobody who wants it, so everything goes long to the game lad, who is ready to pass out if he ever gets in the box.

We are working on editing our DNA. Our children now play with the comfort blanket of a ‘retreat line’, behind which opponents must stay on goal-kicks, to give defenders time and space to collect off the goalkeeper. Will it help them to eventually collect it under pressure? Perhaps until the day they hear ‘Not There’ for the first time.

People like Stephen Kenny bring hope, but maybe our DNA will always be called upon as a convenient excuse for fear and lack of trust and unimaginative coaching.

Maybe there will always be afternoons like Tbilisi while the kind of inspirational slogans favoured by our recent managers factor in our lack of ability. “We’re not the most talented outfit but we have great spirit.”

It is 17 years since the Guardian’s Ian Ridley accused Martin O’Neill’s Leicester side of “ugly, parasitic football”, calling them “Wimbledon with fewer excuses”.

It was probably the kind of article that made O’Neill wary of journalists and their agendas, a wariness that endures in his edgy dealings with RTÉ’s Tony O’Donoghue, even on better days when the ‘Not There’ policy has got the job done.

Though the edginess may be partly down to fear that Tony will one day ask the bald, fundamental question: Are they playing like that because you told them to?