It ends like this. In the little team hotel on the outskirts of Brussels on Saturday night, they are saying goodbye to each other. This army gets to pack its bags, say its farewells and retreat on the next flight. Small solace. Big Cas comes in and shakes Mick McCarthy's hand. Old friendship never quite moulded to the form between manager and player.

They're still smiling. There are people around and they don't linger long over the handshake and quick hug, but Mick says "thanks mate" and pumps Cas's hand hard. Cas has scraped every last drop of energy out of himself tonight. For his part, Cas thanks everyone around. He leaves and drives out into the night towards the French border.

Cas has such an endearing softness about his personality that you know he is going to shed a tear or two on the road. Leaving all this behind? It marks the start of the second half of his life.

In the hotel, Mick McCarthy is talking about the feelings he is trying to keep locked in. Sorrow. Disappointment. Anger. Pride. Hope. Push the right button and he could show you each one in turn. Perhaps, just perhaps, he won't coach in a World Cup now, but he will always know that when the chips were down, he got his team to give its best.

This particular group of football men will never again gather in the sanctity of a dressingroom and all share the same hope. They've been comrades for 440 days of this campaign, much longer than that in many cases. In one way, this has the feeling of an ending.

Out in the corridor and beyond are the staff. The oil on the machine.

Packie Bonner and Ian Evans are having a quiet drink before grabbing a quick bite. They are the football heart of the outfit. Tall men. The tall ones seems to gravitate toward each other. Typically on flights, in bars, on walks, in discussions, Packie and Ian will be with Dr Martin Walsh, who monitors and cures all those ailments which the players are prone to. They are serious people and they care about tonight, about their players, the fans and football in general.

Tony Hickey, the security guy, is at the top of the corridor as usual. One man insulating the players from the world. Tony clears away the jungle for them. When it all came crashing down tonight, when the players went to the Irish fans and the two groups applauded each other, Shay Given was overcome. It was Mick Byrne who wrapped his arm around the young goalkeeper. Tony Hickey who kept the photographers away. Given's tears were the picture of the night, but Mick Byrne and Tony Hickey could never in a million years see it like that. They aren't made that way.

Eddie Corcoran is staying on in Belgium for a day or two with his wife. Well-earned respite for Eddie. The fans tell the team that they'll never walk alone, but Eddie C. nearly always walks alone. He is the advance scout. He checks the hotels and books them. Checks the routes, the facilities, the distances, the snags.

Eddie checks everything. Tonight, although it's all over, his job isn't quite done. He's buying drinks for the hotel staff, thanking them for their help and hospitality. The team are loading themselves onto the bus.

Loading and unloading. How many times have those flight cases been shunted around this way? It's amazing to watch Charlie O'Leary and Mick Byrne and John Fallon set about their business. The team transports an entire universe around with it. Physio's benches, bags and boxes of tricks in here, away strip socks in there. Drinks bottles. Traffic cones. Footballs. Gloves. Nets. Black arm bands.

Charlie is the ancient mariner. He has been on all the voyages. It's an old story that the only medal Mick McCarthy ever won playing for Ireland, back in the infamous Icelandic triangular tournament of 1986, he gave to Charlie. They like to tease Charlie about being the original Dustin the Turkey. He has a sharper wit than the anoraked fowl and he means a lot to these people.

John Fallon, they call him Johnny Umbro. He has charge of the kit and making sure it gets to the the players when it is supposed to and how it is supposed to. All that and he sometimes referees the seven-a-side games which light up training sessions. There are no perks in refereeing these games. Just a constant stream of abuse and complaint from two bunches of players. He has been nominated worst referee in the world a record number of times.

Then there is Mick Byrne. Nothing left to say. You hear his name being called wherever the team go. He is their friend, their figure of fun, their provider, their physio, their talisman. Another line of continuity.

This past year or so, the team have been using a second physio, Kieran Murray, the former Monaghan footballer. The two of them Mick and Kieran, race on whenever a player hits the deck holding his leg and roaring. Kieran steps gently through the politics of there being two physios. The players and staff pull plenty of fun out of Mick.

IT IS raining hard outside still. The players have murdered a few rounds of sandwiches and taken a few quick and sombre pints. There is no mood precisely appropriate to an occasion like this. The old men, Ray Houghton and Andy Townsend, are shaking a lot of hands. The youngsters, who have lost a game, but crossed a border in their own development, are all over the place. Shay Given has recovered.

David Connolly, still distraught, has to stay on in Belgium and head home to Rotterdam alone tomorrow. Mick McCarthy takes the stairs two at a time to say a hurried goodbye to his protege.

Mick is the last onto the bus. Grey suited and grey faced. The automatic door flaps shut behind him and as the unlit bus pulls out of the carpark, the faces near the windows look like ghosts.

There is such decency and such passion running through them all that when the plane bumps on to the ground at Dublin airport two hours later, you wish the world was different for them. You wish there could be fireworks and cheering and happy speeches and triumph.

But there is only a fan throwing up his drink and a line of airport workers staring respectfully. The team heads for the familiar corridors of the airport hotel, there to talk and drink until dawn arrives.

That's how it ends and though there is hope for these particular football men, things will never be quite the same again.