It’s the first World Cup game she’s actually sat down to watch.
I’m around at the pre in-laws (we’ll say pre pre in-laws just to avoid scaring anyone) and the girlfriend’s mother is checking in on the hysterics from me and the dad in the living room.
She’s heard enough screeches by now to grow concerned as the two of us watch this pulsating Russia and Croatia game that’s throwing up the most manic contest to never really make it out of midfield, so she sits down to see what all the fuss is about.
From box to box, they’re tearing strips off each other. It’s fast, it’s full-on, it’s relentless, but it always seems to end 20 metres from goals – fitting then that the Russians wouldn’t even need to advance that far to pile-drive the most beautiful opener into the top corner.
But Croatia have equalised and the rest of the match descends back into that chaos around the middle where balls are bobbling everywhere, ambitious forays through the central channel are being chopped down and lads bricking it are just pushing possession into any sort of space to get it away from themselves and get it as far away as possible from the prospect of ruining it for their country in a World Cup knockout game.
This is what football is all about.
And, slowly, you can see her buying into it.
The dad’s up for Russia. He likes the underdog story and he can’t believe that RTÉ aren’t manufacturing that sound that’s reverberating non-stop around the stadium. Look and listen to what it means to them – it’s easy to see how the tournament would be all the better for their story to continue.
The mother? She’s having none of it.
She can already see a stark contrast between Russia and Croatia and that massive detail comes in the form of one tiny man standing right at the centre of all this madness.
At first, he’s known as ‘the guy with the hair’.
Then, ‘the little one’.
Soon, ‘number 10’ is the player she’s looking out for.
Eventually, it’s just ‘Modric’.
Modric is class. Modric is very good, isn’t he? Modric, oh, that was brilliant. Go on, Modric!
She’ll tell you herself that she doesn’t know much about football but, tonight, football and everything you could ever want to know about it is packaged beautifully in the five feet and eight inches of one masterful Croatian.
No-one could possibly tune into this game and fail to see that there’s only one man running the show or that there’s only one person who’s able to bring any sort of order to the mess. No-one could ever sit down and watch this and not develop some sort of emotional feeling for the guy with the hair.
Everything Modric does is done with pure honesty. Off the ball, he’s hurtling his 32-year-old body around the plains of Sochi with no let up. He’s aggressive, energy-filled, he’s everywhere. Every set piece he delivers is exactly where it’s supposed to go. Every time a team mate is under pressure, it’s Modric there relieving him of any further involvement. And even though so many of his delightful passes are being ballsed up by compatriots, it’s Modric who’s there to offer encouragement. Don’t worry about it, I’ll get you another one.
When you play football like Modric does and when you hold yourself like Modric does, it’d take one cold heart to deny the reality that you’re actually starting to fall for this guy.
My mam has discerning taste in footballers. pic.twitter.com/XTHlpBtAWX
— Tony Cuddihy (@Tony_Cuddihy) July 7, 2018
So, to the mother of this house, she’s not seeing the romanticism in a hard-fought slog by the out-macthed hosts who are doing whatever they have to do to hang in there. For Russia, it’s about survival. For Modric, it’s about killing.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she says, shaking her head in almost visible derision. ‘But Russia don’t deserve to win this. They’re pussyfooting around there.’
Modric isn’t pussyfooting.
Every time Russia try to get out, the ball lands back at the feet of the same man and Croatia come again, they come closer. It’s like a wall lined straight across the pitch from where Modric stands and it closes in on the opposition, trapping them and, soon, it will crush them.
Some sections of the Irish football community are sick to the back teeth of hearing the word Wes but the reason he was lusted after so often was because, without him, attacks were two passes long, win or bust, and it was usually the latter. Every single time a Croatia defender is in trouble and should really just ‘get rid’, it’s rolled to Modric with a man up his arse and, suddenly, time stops.
He turns, he faints, he runs, he finds another team mate and takes it off him again. He finds space, he forces others into different patches of space and, from no position at all, a hoof upfield is turned into a masterclass instead. A two-second shot-to-nothing is extended for minutes and it’s substituted for class.
‘Come on, Modric!’ another roar is let out. ‘He really deserves to win. He’s been brilliant.’
The argument between the two of them now is about whether it’s better for Croatia or Russia to go on to the semis. The dad reckons Russia, listen to the noise of them. Good for the underdog. Nonsense, the counter goes. Modric is by far the best player on this pitch. The Russians have no-one as good as him. It’s like she’s disgusted at the thought of the hosts getting out of this one alive when her favourite footballer is putting so much into stopping them doing just that.
So, by the time penalties come around, there have been serious emotions invested into the outcome of this tie.
Modric has already set up a goal in extra time, he made that unbelievable sprint to the corner just to keep a ball in play after two hours of play and he has captivated the world not just with his skill or his mind, but with his heart even more so.
All that only makes penalties more terrifying though and his walk to the spot is a nerve-wracking one for his newest fan.
‘Oh, please let him score’, she has her two hands over her mouth at this stage as she sits forward and moves to the corner of the seat.
Even Russians would beg mercy on this man now, just for this kick, and whatever football gods there are, they issue sweet justice on this cruel world as Modric’s penalty is tipped onto the post and across the line but, somehow, the elements, the fates, pull it into the net.
With that, a scream. A jump. Both hands into the air. She’s leaping for the skies in pure joy and pure relief that Modric won’t be haunted by a World Cup penalty miss for the rest of his life. Now she’s applauding, still on her feet.
‘Oh my God’, she says. ‘I’m sorry, but he really, really deserved that.’
70 minutes ago, she had never even heard of this man.
60 minutes ago, he was just the guy with the hair.
Now, she’s dancing, she’s beaming because Croatia are headed into the last four of the World Cup and she only cares because of one person who came into her life for this evening and might never do so again.
But, even for just an hour or so of football, who wouldn’t fall in love with Luka Modric?
