Ever seen 80,000 grown men cry? Ever felt the shudder as a nation mourns? It's a poignant thing, watching such exultation, such fervent longing curdle in the heat of an inadequate 1-0 win.

Poignant, but in our hearts we knew we'd get over it. When we saw the green-sleeved arms raised towards the Tehran sky we were forgetting our Iranian friends already. Football breaks your heart or fills it. We've had enough of the bad days ourselves to know how quickly the world moves on.

What an occasion, one of those epic evenings in Irish sport. If any other nation got more joy out of its team we'd be envious. The Iranians certainly were envious of us. They welcomed us last night with whooping confidence. Long before the end they were worrying about beating the Tehran traffic on the way home.

In the Azadi Stadium they can sometimes shoehorn in 120,000 people. Last evening they settled for about 80,000 without having to make any compromise on the crucial issue of decibels. No, the Azadi Stadium Residents Association will have a stern letter in the Tehran Times tomorrow.

Irish support has seldom been so overwhelmed. Early on a Gary Breen header landed the back four in trouble. Gary often looks quite classy on the ball but sometimes it has tragic consequences. We thought this might be one of those times and as Ireland cleared the danger we waited for the Irish roar which would encourage the ball back upfield. Nothing. Scary.

What purchased peace was the craft and guts of the early Irish play. The first part of Mick McCarthy's plan was to take the hard edge from the Iranians, to soothe the crowd. It worked.

Ten minutes passed and a snatched shot from Ali Daei was the best the home side had to show. One could sense the apprehension beginning to roll around the stadium.

Twenty minutes gone and the Iranian passing was becoming sloppy. Clucks of irritation from the terraces. Music to Irish ears.

Earlier in the week Mick McCarthy had shrugged and suggested that the atmosphere created by 120,000 Iranians in the Azadi Stadium would be no more intimidating than that created by, say, 50,000 Dutch supporters in the Amsterdam Arena.

Mick was wrong. The Irish media arrived two and a half hours before kick-off and the stadium erupted. Oceans of people moved forward grinning, holding up three fingers with one hand, making a zero with the other. "Three-zero. Ireland you lose." A huge banner unfurled covering the upper tier behind one goal. "3-0." And another more colourful effort draped at the corner. "Paddy Go Home!!" And another. "Welcome Paddy!"

The Irish team hit the pitch 90 minutes before kick-off, wearing their big grins and making like it was great to be there. But the cacophony of noise almost blew them back down the tunnel.

The crowd were in a state of friendly delirium. Mexican waving was the most elementary of their choreographed routine. At one stage every head in the arena waved liked a great field of tulips stirred by the breeze as 80,000 fans each pretended to row a boat.

Then one half of the stadium began calling out to the other half, a demented shouting match. The arriving Irish fans, no sign of the women yet, caused more uproar.

And there was still an hour to go to kick-off. Warm-up time brought firecrackers and the final loss of all sense of hearing. Iranian faces pressed against the press box window. "Three-zero!" "Three-zero!" Paddy Power could have cleaned up if they'd put their money where their mouths were.

By half-time there was a feeling that the gig was up. Some spaces opened up on the terraces as the near impossibility of Iran scoring three goals in 45 minutes dawned.

Not that they didn't try. The second half was torment in parts but as it passed the spaces on the terrace grew like bald patches. By the time Iran burgled a late goal the terraces resembled hillsides with bonfires burning on them as the home fans expressed their disappointment by playing with matches.

On the lower decks the crowds swayed and fled suddenly as sheets of flaming paper rained down from below. It was as surreal an end to a match as we are ever likely to witness.

On the final whistle all hell broke loose. From the warrens under the stadium riot police burst, bearing shields and sprinting towards the terraces.

"Don't leave here" an Iranian official superfluously told the Irish in the press box. On the field an unholy scrum of Irish players and officials. The Iranians hit the grass, their defeated bodies slumped before their own people.

This was a night for the Irish. Iran's wistful feelings were summed up by their manager Miro Blasevic. "I am sorry," he said. "Sorry to all our supporters and to the country. The Iranian team was good enough to go through but over two games we made many chances but only took one. That's where it ended for us."

For Ireland it ended differently. In a headlong rush to a plane which it was promised would not be dry. In a mess of embraces and happy words. Quite a night.