"Someone give him a hug, for f**ks sake."
That was my wife Ciara shouting at the telly when the cameras found Troy Parrott in tears at the end, standing in front of the travelling Irish support, trying to take in the pain while somehow still acknowledging them.
It was the perfect reaction because that was the feeling in the pit of my stomach watching it all unfold. Not anger first. Not analysis first. Protection.
You wanted to mind the players. You wanted to take that moment off them. And Parrott, after all he has carried for Ireland in recent months, was the face of it.
This wasn't a game dripping in quality. It was a tense, awkward at times, scrappy play-off, the kind of game that is more about percentages and gaining territory. Who will make the first error type of scrap.
It was about winning second balls, competing for throw-ins, set-plays, flick-ons and winning those individual battles.
Ireland understood that. To their credit, they played the game that was in front of them, rather than the one some people would romantically want to see. That in itself showed growth.
The long throw was a huge weapon and Czechia never looked comfortable with it. It felt like every time Jake O’Brien launched one into the area, panic followed.
That pressure led to the penalty, and while I have spent enough time giving out about VAR to last me a lifetime, last night I found myself thanking God it exists.
The penalty looked soft in real time and probably still does depending on what mood you’re in, but Nathan Collins got the nick on the ball and there was contact on the boot. Troy Parrott then did the hard bit, waiting through the delay and smashing it home with conviction.
That is pressure. Proper pressure. This kid thrives in pressure, and he met it head on.
Then came the second goal, and for a few wild minutes, I was tempted to check flights to Mexico. You'd forget in the moment that Denmark were still potentially in the way.
Ryan Manning’s delivery was excellent, Dara O’Shea did brilliantly to head it back across, the ball bounced around like a pinball and eventually crossed the line off Matej Kovar.
Ireland were 2-0 up and deserved to be. They had unsettled the stadium, rattled the Czechs and looked emotionally ready for the occasion.
And then came the moment that changed everything.
Five minutes after going two up, Manning pulled Ladislav Krejci’s shirt in the box, with the ball running away from danger.
Schick buried the penalty and suddenly Czechia are alive again.
Forget the shootout for a second. Forget the Collins and Molumby efforts that both struck the woodwork. That was the critical moment.
Up to then, Ireland were managing the emotions of the night brilliantly. Czechia looked dead and buried.
They now had oxygen. They had a reason to come again. And their half-time substitutions, I'm sure, instilled a sense of belief into their second-half approach.
Czechia didn’t pepper Kelleher’s goal for 90 minutes. Ireland defended their box well for the most part.
They blocked, headed, competed and suffered well. But when you gift sides encouragement, especially in their own stadium, you usually pay for it eventually.
The free-kick that led to the late equaliser looked soft to me, very soft in fact, but once the delivery came in Ireland did not defend the situation well enough. Krejci had too much freedom, unmarked and too much free space to attack the ball.
Extra time, I always felt, would belong more to them than to us. Ireland have players lacking club minutes, others lacking sharpness, and that matters in games that become a battle of legs as much as a test of nerves and emotion.
Czechia, by contrast, called off their league fixtures last weekend to aid their home-grown players in this fixture. That sat in my mind as extra time began.
Ireland still fought. They still had moments. They did us proud.
And then penalties. Cruel, brutal, unfair, whatever word you want to use. But also brave for those who put the hand up to take one.
Taking one in that environment demands courage. There should be no shame attached to missing if there is conviction in the strike, and that's why I’d have no issue with the misses.
You step up, you own it, you live with the consequence. It’s football at its most unforgiving.
The pain will sit for a while because this one felt there for us. It really did. But when the dust settles, the wider picture shouldn’t be ignored.
Ireland got themselves into this position through real progress. They went to Prague, fought with spirit, played to their strengths and for long periods looked like a team with an identity.
That matters. It may not feel like it this morning with Parrott’s tears still fresh in the mind, but it matters.
Still, for all the hurt, I can’t help thinking the trajectory is upwards.
Somehow optimism survives in my mind, even after a night that broke my heart.
