Ireland vs. Norway

The smell of grease wafts from vendors while a thick line of fans weave between stray popcorn kernels and half empty pop cans. As we settle in our seats the tension wraps itself around us like a rubber band. Tearing our eyes from the field before us, we scan the crowd. Children wrapped in woven emerald scarves squirm in their seats like wriggling worms, inching towards the field. In groups they chant and holler, sing and sway.

The crowd cries out as the players run onto the field. With one short whistle the game is brought to life and hope for a victory is on the tip of every tongue. As green and blue jerseys interlace like tangled ribbon, the cheers from the stands morph into a single rythmic breath. The players themselves plead for a glimpse of the hope that snakes through the stadium. They gasp for air as they fight through the sweat that trickles in beaded trails down their fatigued bodies. Their strength lulls and they succumb to defeat.

In the end the face of the Irish fans does not waver. Still the children cling to their potato chips as they applaud the effort, still loyal to those heros who lie broken on the green. As night sweeps the last remains of day aside, parents tuck their young ones into bed, planting lasting kisses on each cheek. The will to sleep remains absent as the children, still buzzing from the night's festivities lie open eyed and marvel at the the idea of it all as just a game.