Now we can believe. The San Nicola stadium can be evacuated faster than any in Europe, we're told. The Italians couldn't get out quickly enough.

The Irish fans would still be here this morning had they a mind.

The World Cup may not be as elusive as once appeared. On their brief diversions from the consumption of an estimated 265,000 pints of beer over the past few days, some of the 6,000 or so Irish supporters took the chance to pop into the elegant local parliament building to catch a glimpse of the World Cup trophy.

One could step upon a podium and stand close -- but not too close -- to the gleaming, golden prize and have one's photograph taken for posterity.

There was a wonderfully poignant moment when one Italian boy had had his picture taken beside his father; his wide, yearning eyes never leaving the dazzling ball and the gold-encrusted hands wrapped around it.

As he left the podium, he cast behind him a rueful eye, which was caught by one of the security men. Beckoned back to the podium, the security man opened the glass case and motioned the boy towards him.

Allowing him to place his hands on the glittering prize, the little boy raised the trophy a few millimetres from its base. The world was in his hands. None of the Irish were afforded similar intimacy.

Will this be the only time that the Irish and the World Cup trophy would be in the same country? The road to South Africa would meet its most testing rumble strip deep in the heel of Italy.

Dodging an alcoholic ban with typically efficient Irish cunning, the Irish had taken over the old town in this Puglian port, some with T-shirts emblazoned with the defiance of optimism. "F$$% the recession, we're on a session."

The only empty section in the 58,000 seater stadium was beneath the section of the Curva Nord housing the Irish fans, in the San Nicola stadium which almost resembles a spaceship.

Built especially for the 1990 World Cup, it now plays host to second division Bari, whose attendances barely exceed League of Ireland levels; it would be the Irish equivalent of constructing a 50,000-seater to host Monaghan United.

Now up for sale, the white elephant has shown little sign of attracting a white knight. Italy, however, remain unbeaten on their occasional sorties down south yet a local insurgency, prompted by the omission of hometown hero Antonio Cassano, suggested that many Italians would instead cheer for Ireland.

Most of the Irish fans had arrived as the team completed their warm-up yet, intriguingly, there was no sign of Giovanni Trapattoni, returning to his homeland seeking to undermine his birthplace's football heritage, rather than successfully underline it, as he had done for two decades and more.

Trapattoni had still not arrived when the Italian team was read out; each name dutifully cheered until that of Marcello Lippi was roundly jeered by almost every Italian fan, from the Curva Sud to the expensive seats.

Had a World Cup winning coach ever been so roundly chastised in his home country, we wondered? Ireland would need all the support they could muster, one felt. The Irish sang the national anthem a cappella and were roundly applauded.

Trap took his seat -- eventually despite a throng of snappers -- after a cursory handshake with his managerial opponent.

Into the night air we took a bracing breath of anticipation.

The game opened with predictability -- Richard Dunne hoofed a long ball which was gathered by Buffon -- before being gatecrashed by volatility. Pazzini's elbow cruncher to the back of John O'Shea's head saw the Italian depart within three minutes, referee Wolfang Stark's nature clearly matching his surname as he refuted Italian claims of an accident.

It was a leaning, rather than flailing elbow. The opening moments of a Trap show are truly unmissable. Paul McShane had already hared down the touchline before the shocking suddenness of the dismissal reshaped one's whole appraisal of what should be Ireland's approach.

A few neat triangles gave them time to ponder before O'Shea's return from the casualty ward. The Trap door was now ajar. But could Trap's team swing it open. But by the 10th minute, the game's second turning point rocked them to their very heels.

Andy Keogh should have tracked Fabio Grosso's raid as he sought the majestic Andrea Pirlo's delicious dink; the fullback's low cross eluding a backtracking defence, O'Shea perhaps still a little dazed as the ball slipped beneath his feet. Iaquinta's assassin's touch would force Ireland to advance further than they may have wished at such an early point, notwithstanding the man advantage.

Hunt's storming run produced a nudge from Zambrotta but evoked nothing from Stark; his dramatic early intervention might brook few favours for the visitors, it was now suspected.

Trapattoni, so often accused of inaction, this time responded with haste. Caleb Folan, for whom most of last Saturday's long balls might have applied, arrived midway through the opening act.

perseverence

When often the team a man down seeks to change, Trapattoni's early intervention sought to question the Italians in a different way. Davy Keogh says hello, Andy Keogh says goodbye.

The Italians, chisel-jawed and granite in defence, were still menacing in attack. Glenn Whelan dawdled ridiculously, Pirlo crossed, Shay Given flapped and Pepe nearly pounced. Keith Andrews shot meekly wide as Ireland were undone by appalling service.

Robbie Keane, now adopting a free, deep-lying role copyrighted by the hosts, could only marginally contribute to attacking forays, not decisively influence them. Often, he rushed to join the front two but the compressed defence, with Cannavaro magnificently resolute, blocked and tackled everything.

In contrast, Pirlo purred and McShane was repeatedly exposed by his quarterback deliveries to either Gross or Iaquinta. Stephen Hunt, as frustrating as always, rapped Buffon's bar and then fluffed a corner in the space of 30 seconds.

As the heavens opened before tea, Ireland were in a position to seize the initiative. But they needed to convert territory and possession into something more tangible. Even as the team sucked oranges, there was incident.

Pirlo was withdrawn, deemed an unaffordable luxury by Lippi. Trapattoni clearly thought the same of the hapless McShane, removed to central defensive duty to inure him against further damaging exposure.

Gibson arrived soon afterwards, itself a reflection of the recurring paucity of supply from a midfield. Italy's was not much better and the crowd hissed as they wasted an inordinate amount of ball. In truth, their handicap could not mask their ordinariness.

Ireland, though, were trading in the currency of perseverance without subtlety. Not a single chance created signified the poverty of creation.

Hope, as paraded beneath the image on Trapattoni on so many T-shirts in the city, seemed to be the prevailing attitude amongst the supporters now.

Italy were increasingly enervated by the toils of performing without their absent player for so long, their jaded efforts always offering hope to the visitors.

Ireland began to add a little more creativity to their previously hopeful short-range lobs into the danger zone.

Nuanced flicks and subtle changes of direction pulled the Italians hither and thither, successive corners hinted at profit but were illusory offerings. As we reached the endgame, a raucous giddiness seemed to infiltrate the fray.

Zambrotta's raid down the right only needed a touch from Dossena; Kilbane then forced Buffon into his first really meaningful intervention. For Ireland, Plan B wasn't working. Time to implement Plan A.

Given's long punt broke off the willing workhorse Folan. The captain snaffled the entrails of the ensuing chaos with a sniper's finish from close range. One trick Trap? Ireland could have won the damn thing. The Irish fans were drunk with delight.