The Irish don't celebrate losing any more, they are no longer happy to just make up the numbers, writes Joe Humphreys. Now we expect to win as Japan and South Korea 2002 has proved that there would not be another World Cup for Ireland like Italia 90 'One shouldn't laugh at others' misfortune. Some of us who smiled as England lost on penalties in two recent World Cups will now hang our heads in shame. It is a cruel way to go.'
Those who said there would never be another World Cup like Italia 90 have been proved right.
Ireland is no longer happy just to make up the numbers. When Schillaci pounced to send us home 12 years ago we danced and sang regardless, and the goal-scorer was feted like one of our own.
This time, we feel cheated and sore. Sure, some people sang for the cameras but only half-heartedly. We don't celebrate losses any more. And one thing seems for certain: there'll be no beer commercial for Gaizka Mendieta.
But if Ireland lost its inferiority complex yesterday - what might be dubbed "Gloomsday" - it also lost another characteristic long-associated with its people: good fortune. After Suwon, the stereotype of the "Lucky Irish" must be revised.
Liam Brady summed it up well. In 1990, against Romania, we were the ones hanging on for penalties after being outplayed in the game, but "this time we deserved it", he said.
His view was echoed by a dejected Steve Staunton. In the last half-hour, he said, "there was only one team trying to win", and that team wasn't Spain.
It was hard to read yesterday's match as other than a morality play. Bill O'Herlihy described it as "epic . . . [the end of\] a heroic odyssey", and certainly, it had all the necessary elements.
There was the moment when Ian Harte stood up to take what would have been the equalising penalty. It would have been a sweet victory for loyalty - the loyalty of an oft-criticised manager to his most beleaguered player, a player every pundit was urging McCarthy to drop before the game. It would have taught us all a lesson about sticking together through thick and thin.
But Harte missed.
There were those moments of craziness when the linesman became Ireland's 12th man; the moment when the ball hit the back of Shay Given's net a second time and the Irish fans leapt for joy - because they'd seen the off-side flag before the Spaniards had.
What were we being told here? That our fate had already been decided? Spain had had ample opportunities to put the game beyond our reach but, almost despite ourselves, we were still in it.
Yes, surely, this is what the game would prove: that we may as well abandon hard work, and endeavour because we are blessed - genuinely blessed - and all we need to do is believe it. It seemed to be written in the stars.
But it wasn't.
So what would the moral be? On 90 minutes, it looked like we had a new answer: trust in youth.
Robbie Keane, the young man who has put Tallaght on the world map, stood up to take the penalty that would keep us in the game. Just 21 years old. We never doubted him.
Yes, here was the moral: trust in youth. Keane and Duff, two players you'd hate to have played with in the schoolyard, so rare do they pass. But how they make up for it!
Keane scores and resumes his rampaging runs at the Spanish defence. Duff does likewise from the wings.
Two young Irishmen, home-grown, hungry, strutting it on the world stage. What a message this would send out - about the new Ireland, its confidence and (why not!) flair - if only one of them could curl one in.
In the end, however, youth wasn't enough, and Keane's goal achieved nothing more than keeping the bar tills ringing for another half-hour.
What was the moral then? The only answer available is that one shouldn't laugh at other peoples' misfortune. Some of us who smiled as England lost on penalties in two recent World Cups will now hang our heads in shame.
It is a cruel way to go.
Certainly, the match taught us nothing about justice. As Liam Brady said before the penalties began: "If justice is to be done Ireland should go through."
That statement would not have rung true if it had been uttered at the start of the second half.
For the previous 45 minutes, the Spanish looked set to put the footballing world back on its feet again after being well and truly turned around by the likes of Senegal and South Korea. Confidence seemed to be draining from the Irish team and its fans. The cheers were half-hearted, the chants faded after one verse.
But in the second half - or more, precisely, the last 20 minutes of it - the belief began to return. By extra-time, no one thought we would lose. Everyone seemed to have a fist clenched, awaiting to punch the air in celebration.
In homes and pubs, chapels and community halls, a similar scene was being played out. From Donegal to Dingle and Ballymun to Ballsbridge, the pride in Ireland could be seen.
Even on Shrewsbury Road, amid the mansions and embassies, a Tricolour flew from a porch window yesterday and a flag from the roof of a Merc.
It's been that sort of World Cup - where everyone's car has become a diplomatic one and every citizen an ambassador liable to being questioned on the national mood by Sky News.
A country waited to celebrate. Even when Holland missed, Connolly missed and Kilbane missed, we couldn't see any other result than a win. Even when Mendieta stood up, cool as you like, we saw Shay Given hooking his shot away.
We saw our next penalty going in and us doing it the hard way again. We saw the crowds flooding out on to the streets, cheering and sounding car horns. We saw ourselves kissing strangers and dancing in fountains.
We saw ourselves getting lost in the moment, forgetting all the doubts we had about this World Cup - the crass commercialism, the ambush marketing, the company logos on the national flag, the excessive drinking, the excessive spending on designer Ireland jerseys, the mistimed screams of fair-weather fans. We were ready to forget about the rights and wrongs of Saipan, about John O'Donoghue in the stands, about what this all means for the Bertie Bowl. We were ready to forget it all for a moment and just relish.
We clenched our fists and waited to punch air, just like in Italia '90.
But this wasn't Italia '90. It was almost something better.
