Don’t give me international breaks — give me real football!
By Donal Glass
Who doesn’t love international breaks? Those joyous interruptions to real football when we’re expected to suddenly develop deep passions for matches we normally wouldn’t watch if they were played in our own back gardens. Yes, please, give me more thrilling battles for second place in qualifying Group X between nations I’ve barely heard of. Honestly, I’d rather rearrange my sock drawer.
The truth is, most of us couldn’t care less about international football — except when it involves Celtic players. And even then, it’s purely to confirm they haven’t torn a muscle, broken a bone, or suffered some mysterious fatigue that rules them out for three months. Yet inevitably, when our lads go off to represent their countries, one of three things always happens: they don’t play at all, they get knackered out, or they get injured warming up for a meaningless friendly in front of about seven fans and a confused dog.
It’s like lending your mate a cherished record. You give strict instructions — “Please, just bring it back safely” — but deep down you know it’s coming back scratched, warped, or not at all. Similarly, when we wave our best players goodbye, we do so with anxiety and a profound sense of doom.
And even if our heroes manage to escape injury, they often end up stuck on the bench, watching matches they don’t particularly care about, in stadiums half-filled by bored neutrals and lost tourists. They return with their fitness drained, and motivation reduced to the level of an X Factor winner releasing their second album. Brilliant.
International football is the footballing equivalent of being forced to attend someone else’s office Christmas party. You don’t really want to be there, you don’t really know anyone, and you spend the entire evening checking your watch and wishing you’d just stayed home.
But we’re forced to endure this as the international calendar endlessly expands. Starved of the good stuff, we resort to tedious debates about selection choices, and whether Steve Clark is adventurous enough, as if anyone genuinely gives two flyin fish.
Then, just when you’re starting to believe the whole sorry affair is finally over, there’s one more match — a pointless friendly that could’ve been played on FIFA instead, and nobody would’ve noticed the difference.
I understand that some folks genuinely enjoy international football, much like some folks genuinely enjoy cold showers or kale smoothies. To each their own, but count me out. Give me the regular season, give me Celtic, and spare me the manufactured excitement of these interruptions. Until then, I’ll be patiently waiting, rolling my eyes at overexcited pundits pretending that every international break is a World Cup final.
Don’t give me internationals — give me football.