There's the football, of course, those moments of beauty and drama and despair that hold their place in the communal memory as the modern equivalent of the tribal epic.
Ray Houghton's flights of fantasy against England and Italy. Ronnie Whelan's almost horizontal volley against Russia. Kevin Sheedy's thrilling version of My Left Foot. The ferocious set of Packie Bonner's jaw as he launched yet another missile into the opposition penalty box. Bonner's breathtaking save and David O'Leary's nerveless goal in the penalty shootout against Romania. The sheer majesty of Paul McGrath in Giants' Stadium. The pain inflicted by Ruud Gullit, Toto Schillachi and Denis Bergkamp.
There's the whole circus that surrounded it, bits of which found their own way into the folklore. Eamon Dunphy throwing his pen on the desk in disgust at Ireland's miserable performance against Egypt. The wildly inaccurate legend that he had declared himself ashamed to be Irish. The instant T-shirts with cartoons of Jack Charlton kicking the TV pundit and the slogan "Give Him a Lash, Jack!"
The Best Fans in the World, sunburned and permanently jarred, phoning home with instructions to sell the car and send on the money so the unexpected adventure could continue. The wild and teeming crowd that thronged O'Connell Street for the first big return home in 1988, prompting Charlton to wonder what would have happened if the team had actually won anything.
But more than any of this, the reason why the whole country was hanging on for yesterday's result from Tehran was the memory of something broader and less tangible. We have missed those three summers not just for what was happening in Germany or Italy or the US, but for what was happening here.
We remember, through the glowing mist of nostalgia, a time when words that have always been very complicated - society, community, identity - were, for a time, marvellously simple. When class barriers seemed to fall before the camaraderie. When waving the Tricolour was a token neither of defiance nor aggression but of easy allegiance. When strangers talked to each other because there was something in common to talk about. When the petty irritations and chronic anxieties of life were dissolved into one big, harmless anxiety.
Football was the excuse for a lot of good behaviour. If David O'Leary could forgive Jack Charlton, who could not be reconciled? Neighbours who hadn't talked to each other in years embraced and pledged undying affection in alcohol-infused tears. If the sun felt hotter in those summers it was because there was so much human warmth in the air.
Unfashionable bits of Ireland became cool. For the first time in the history of the State, the urban working class got into the cultural driving seat. For once, young fellas from Tallaght, Crumlin, Mayfield and Drumcondra were seen as icons, not threats.
The children of the diaspora were included for the first time in a more generous definition of what being Irish means. Young black men could be accepted as part of what we are. An archetypal Englishman, Jack Charlton, became an Irish hero. It is no exaggeration to say that the success of Charlton's teams did more to open up Irish identity than a thousand historical essays or a million political speeches.
This broader impact of the finals of 1988, 1990 and 1994 touched parts of Irish culture that soccer wouldn't normally reach. Euro 88 was immortalised in theatre in Dermot Bolger's play In High Germany. Italia 90 is woven into Roddy Doyle's novel The Van, and in the subsequent film that was based on the book. USA 94 is the setting for Marie Jones's play A Night in November. Unlikely figures such as Toto Schillachi became so deeply interwoven with our language that it is still possible to run an entire beer advertising campaign around him.
Korea and Japan 2002 will surely find its bards and mythologisers too. But will it have the same effect on the country? Key members of yesterday's team such as Robbie Keane and Ian Harte were young fellas with Paul McGrath posters on their walls when the last great adventure of USA 94 was unfolding.
The place has changed more in the last seven years than at any time in its history. It is richer, less needy, more demanding. Can the innocence of a nation delighted with what other countries would regard as failure be recaptured next summer? It probably can. The bitter disappointment of two previous play-off defeats and the long lonely summers of watching major finals with no one to cheer for have sharpened our sense of delight at just being there.
This team, moreover, has earned admiration and affection by the way it has overcome formidable obstacles. Whatever high expectations we might be inclined to burden them with have already been amply fulfilled in the qualifying campaign. After holding their own with Portugal, beating the great Holland and surviving the pressure cooker of Tehran, whatever else they do for us is a bonus. Next summer's finals will be all icing and no cake, pure indulgence all the way.
And then there is the football itself. Jack Charlton's sides never claimed to be entertainers. The style was rugged, formidably energetic, but ugly. All the exuberance was left to the fans. Mick McCarthy's men, on the other hand, are a pleasure to watch. The likes of Robbie Keane, Ian Harte, Damien Duff and, at times, Jason McAteer, can do lovely things with a ball. They are also afraid of no one, expect perhaps Roy Keane, for whom Wellington's famous remark about the Irish troops in his army ("I don't know what they do to the enemy, but they terrify me") demands a revival. If they play Brazil or Italy or Germany, they will still play their own game. Dour draws are not too likely.
And anyway, in these times of war and recession, we are hardly so blasΘ about life's pleasures that we don't need a summer of irresponsible escapism. It would be good, of course, if we weren't so uneasy about ourselves that we needed this kind of carnival to make us feel glad to share our streets and our hopes with each other. But we are and we do.