Article by Marius Mărgărit – Published on Wednesday, 01 April 2026, 00:52 / Updated on Wednesday, 01 April 2026 00:52
I didn't have high expectations or hopes for this game without any mood, without meaning, and incomprehensible from Bratislava, just a UEFA hook, which keeps aligning us corporately in all kinds of projects.
The boys were too flattered after the impotence against Turkey, when they lost not only their chances at the World Cup, but also their souls. In that match that put Mircea to bed, with fibrillation, even two days after everything was over.
In a cold November of 1983, with the young Lucescu on the bench, also in Bratislava, we drew 1-1 with Czechoslovakia and made history, with that qualification from nowhere, at Euro '84.
It's such an old memory that I don't even know if I actually saw it, someone told me about it, I read about it somewhere… Back then we had footballers. Who also knew with the ball, they also knew how to fight through the “Slovan” cliché.
Now, it was cold again in Bratislava, but the terrain was better. The match was different, it had no real stakes. It was still about honor and a better place in the FIFA rankings, from where we keep slipping. Or so we thought.
With some Slovaks as disappointed, maybe even more disappointed than us. That they at least fought with the Kosovars, they weren't just like that, on the field, outnumbered, in the other semi-final.
I didn't touch the ball in the first half
I was looking and I couldn't believe it. In the first half there were long minutes when we couldn't touch the ball. The Slovaks were passing, walking us from one side to the other, they also gave us an own goal. It wasn't until the 35th minute that we got our first chance, a healthier shot by Man.
In the second half, a blunder by Aioani quickly made it 2-0. And I had such a feeling that a divine or devilish hand, I have no idea!, keeps erasing us from the football map that matters. That we disappear, like that, in silence.
We are actually erasing ourselves. We don't even need someone to beat us, we beat ourselves. And no, it's not just about the score… It's about the non-football we play.
I changed the lines, others entered in the place of others, all of them seem to be the same, some anonymous. We also started to move, we even had some opportunities, wasted by the rush, the lack of lucidity, of value in the end.
As usual lately, we showed signs of life when we were already down on the table, when the Slovaks let it go. They themselves, the footballers, say it: when you are weak, powerless, the opponent feels you from a post office. And sometimes he is even pitied.
I stuttered a few more passes through the defense, escaped the worst, luckily and thanks to the indulgence of the Slovaks. They didn't leave it like that, they wanted and could, at least to somehow thank the fans for staying close to the end.
I admit that from 2-0 I saw more out of the corner of my eye the rest of the match. I heard that Mihăilă or Miculescu would have had some chance for us to score, at least that way, that goal of lost honor.
The commentators were saying something about the Yellow Wall. There were some supporters for the yellow ones too, I heard them. I think the players heard them too. Too late, too little, too many shattered illusions. Poor Yellow Cinderella…
I am sure that at the statements, the players will have said that they are sorry, that they will work harder and better, that we must move forward, have faith, that it will be different.
The selector Gică Hagi is coming and he has already told us about the change. It would be about the mentality. In fact, about the lack of it. This is more difficult to cure, after we have been sick for about 25 years, with short episodes in which we showed signs of life around Europe. Until one thing, another, now we are back in bed, like the former selector. Good luck to the one who comes! He's really going to need it!
