Finding comfort in the cruelty

There is a cost to caring this much, and we all know it.

It’s not written anywhere official, no fine print on the back of a ticket or hidden clause in a season pass, but it’s understood all the same. If you want the ecstasy, you have to accept the agony.

If you want the highs that lift you out of yourself, you have to make peace with the lows that leave you staring at the ceiling the morning after.

And still - we sign up every single time.

Because hope, irrational and relentless, keeps pulling us back in.

It doesn’t learn. It doesn’t harden. It doesn’t say “that’s enough now.” It simply resets, dusts itself off, and whispers again that maybe - just maybe - the next time will be different.

That’s the trap. That’s the beauty of it too.

Wednesday night in Sixmilebridge was the first reminder of the price.

The Waterford under-20 hurlers went there with an opportunity. Not just to win, but to make a statement. To go on the road and show that this group isn’t just promising, but ready.

And for long stretches, they looked exactly that.

There was composure. There was quality. There were plenty of really good performances across the field. The kind that make you sit up a bit straighter and think there might be something here.

Which almost makes the ending harder to take.

Because missed chances don’t just disappear. They linger. They stack up. And more often than not, they come back around.

Sucker punched at the end. Game gone. Opportunity missed.

It’s a harsh lesson, but it’s one sport never tires of teaching. If you don’t take your moment, someone else will.

Now three-in-a-row chasing Tipperary come to town, and suddenly the margin for error is gone. That’s how quickly it shifts.

But even in that, there’s something to hold onto.

Because this group - and it’s important to say it - look like a team worth believing in.

Maybe this isn’t their year. Maybe the road comes a bit too soon.

But there’s a foundation there. And there are years coming where they won’t be far away.

And before we even got to Thursday night, the tone had already been set.

Different sport, same punch to the gut.

Two-nil up. In control. Not perfect, but comfortable. The kind of position Irish teams would have dreamed of being in on a night like that.

And yet, there it was again. That familiar, creeping sense that it wasn’t done. That it’s never done with us.

One mistake. One lapse. One moment where the margins turn against you.

Ryan Manning’s error will be replayed and dissected, and that’s the nature of it, but it never really comes down to one thing. It’s the third goal that never came. It’s the pressure that was invited. It’s the failure to close a door that was wide open.

And when it swings, it swings hard.

By the end, it felt inevitable. That’s the hardest part to stomach. Not just that it slipped away, but that somewhere deep down, you felt it might.

If I had a penny for every time I’ve heard “a brave Irish effort falls short,” I’d be doing alright for myself.

It’s become part of the identity. Effort, heart, honesty - all of it real, all of it admirable, and all of it ultimately not enough.

And maybe that’s why it hurts more now than it used to.

Because the distance between what Ireland are and what they could be doesn’t feel as wide anymore. This isn’t a team clinging to relevance. This is a team growing into something.

Troy Parrott looks like a player who belongs at this level. There’s a conviction about him now, a sharpness that turns half chances into real ones. Caoimhin Kelleher plays with a composure that feels rare in an Irish context. And Jayson Molumby - a Waterford man dictating the tempo, Man of the Match - feels symbolic of something deeper.

Substance. Steel. Progress.

That matters.

There’s been a shift from the days of struggling against teams we should be beating and filling calendars with friendlies that felt like obligations. There’s a trajectory now, even if it’s not a straight line.

A new era blossoming at Euro 2028 doesn’t feel like a reach. It feels attainable.

But that doesn’t soften the blow of what just happened. If anything, it sharpens it.

Because it’s 24 years now since Ireland last graced a World Cup. An entire generation raised on stories rather than memories. Italia ‘90 and the giant killings feel more like folklore than fact.

For those of us who have poured hours into football as a whole - four matches a week, every week for the guts of 20 years - chasing that connection, that feeling - nights like Thursday cut that bit deeper.

Not because they’re rare.

Because they’re not.

And because it felt like one we should have gotten right.

That’s the hook. That’s what keeps dragging you back.

The idea that the next one might be the one.

It’s the same thread that runs through both nights. Sixmilebridge and Prague. Different stages, same lesson.

If you don’t take your chances, sport doesn’t wait.

And yet, without those moments, without the frustration and the regret and the what-ifs, the good days wouldn’t land the same.

Every winner means someone else walks away empty-handed. That’s the deal.

Every action has a consequence. Every missed chance, every mistake, every moment of hesitation - it all adds up.

Sport is cruel like that. Unapologetically so.

But it’s also what makes it irresistible.

Because for all the hurt, for all the near misses, there’s always that lingering possibility that it will turn. That one day, it will fall your way. That all the lessons, all the setbacks, all the almosts will finally align into something more.

Ireland might spend another 50 years chasing a return to the World Cup. Waterford teams might flirt with success more often than they grasp it.

We might remain, more often than not, the bridesmaids.

But hope doesn’t care about any of that.

It doesn’t tally failures. It doesn’t weigh probability. It just keeps showing up, asking the same question over and over again.

What if?

And that’s enough.

Because one day - whether it’s next year or years down the line - it might just happen. The breakthrough. The moment where everything clicks and all the waiting suddenly feels worthwhile.

That’s why we endure the mornings after. That’s why we replay it, pick through it, and still come back for more.

Not because it makes sense.

Because when it finally comes, it will mean everything.

And until then, hope will do what it always does.

Keep us going.