I DON’T watch soccer. It reminds me of a sporting Love Island, all meticulous hairstyles, ultrabrite teeth, tattoos and superficial sportsmanship. Give respect, get respect, except when you are diving to feign injury to get an opponent sent off. The end of it for me was when I heard that Cristiano Ronaldo had a clause in his Real Madrid contract that his personal hairdresser could touch up his hair at half time.

Last year in the Italian league, a player was jogging back towards his own goal after a free-kick had been awarded and the referee, jogging along behind him, tapped him on the back. The player immediately threw himself on the ground, clutching his face and writhing in agony. When he looked up and saw the ref standing over him, shaking his head sadly, he shrugged his shoulders, got back up, shook hands with the ref (never forget to give respect get respect) and ran back into his position.

To be fair to the Irish and Scottish players, they don’t do this. Us Celts have a bit of self respect. A bit of integrity. I didn’t see the Portugal match, but I saw the last ten minutes of the Hungary game. The glamorous brunette watches all sports, except curling. Then again, nobody watches curling except in nursing homes or if your daughter is playing. The equaliser was terrific. The winner was exhilarating, that involuntary release of elation that only great sporting moments can bring.

The Scots on Tuesday night repeated the ecstasy. It was even better because it was a home game and the stands shook. Also, unchecked excitement sounds better in a Scottish accent.

When Kenny McLean intercepted the last desperate Danish attack and the keeper was miles out of his goal, the co-commentator shouted, “Shoot son, you’ve got te shoot son,” like Jimmy McGuinness roaring at his boys to shoot long over the top of Odhrán Lynch in Celtic Park the day Mickey Harte deployed the offside trap against Donegal. With the same outcome.

I didn’t see that game at all, but I saw the goals on the news and as always, I enjoyed the Scottish fans, who like the Irish, can travel the world without attacking strangers and vandalising bars and shops.

The success of soccer is that an essentially boring spectator sport has become a symbol of national pride. We are bombarded with it. Otherwise sane adults stand in GAA clubhouses talking about Crystal Palace’s new centre half, saying things like, “So help me, if we don’t get rid of Otenge I’ll lose my temper completely” or “If Man United don’t buy a world class striker in the off season, we are doomed.” It is the “we” that kills me. What “we” is there in a paying consumer of a multi national sports corporation?

In 2025, Manchester United was the second richest soccer club in the world, behind Real Madrid. They are valued at £5billion and have an annual revenue of £620-650 million.

Last year, they embarked on a cost-cutting exercise, like Elon Musk. They cut a £40,000 annual donation to the Association of Former Manchester United Players, a charity that supports former players.

They got rid of the free staff lunches (for staff who are on the statutory minimum wage), replacing them with… free fruit. They shut the staff canteen. They scrapped the small but important annual bonus payments for stewards. Their co-owners are billionaires. Jim Ratcliffe is worth $17billion according to Forbes, the Glazer family a meagre $10 billion. “We”? Are you having a laugh.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. How can people be conned into believing there is a ‘we’? Especially GAA folk, who know exactly what ‘we’ is. Who know exactly how vital that ‘we’ is in sustaining our communities.

When we celebrate our team, we celebrate with our team. We celebrate together. From the octogenarians to the babies in the harnesses.

When a referee gives a player a friendly tap on the shoulder on his way past, we don’t throw ourselves on the ground and roll around like a man on a bouncy castle (except Sean Cavanagh). When we contribute money for tickets or a draw or to help a team, it is not going into the pocket of remote billionaires, who might as well be the CEO of Sainsburys or an oil company.

Give me Errigal Ciaran v Dr Croke’s or the Knockmore juniors any day. Or curling.