I was 11 when Robbie Keane beat Oliver Kahn in the dying seconds of extra time at World Cup 2002. The goal triggered a scream so loud from my mum that my brother and I tumbled down the stairs in shock. We had given up and left the room at that point, joining the German supporters in the stadium who had assumed there was no coming back for the Irish. Our dad would use that moment repeatedly for years to come to remind us of the importance of never giving up. Buoyed by getting out of the qualifying group, we resolved to watch the entire match against Spain, only to be reduced to tears and hiding behind the couch during the penalty shoot-out. My French partner, Yohann, is particularly affected when I share this memory in the run-up to this year’s World Cup. How awful, he says. I shrug, feeling that, in retrospect, it wasn’t only awful. This tournament is our son Luca’s first, and so I mention getting him a jersey before the tournament kicks off. Yohann declines, explaining, unironically, that when France wins, the jersey will be updated with a third star to reflect the victory. Better to wait, he says. It’s the first indication I have that we will not respond to the World Cup in the same way.Of course, I don’t begrudge Yohann supporting his country, but he approaches the matches with a confidence that I find both alien and deeply unsettling. First, he tells me it’s not necessary to watch until the group stages are over. I’m incredulous. What if you don’t make it out of the group? He gives me a withering look and reminds me that France are the favourites, even as I argue passionately that anything can happen. I’m brought to further incredulity when, browbeaten into watching as many group matches as possible, he feels no need to tune in until the final whistle. He switches off France and Iraq at half-time, certain of the scoreline and the result. When he realises Haaland is on the bench for their game against Norway, he opts for an early night. When Paraguay are holding the French to a draw, I ask him if he’s worried. No, is the reply; a goal is coming.Abroad: Avril King, France In our family WhatsApp group, predictions buzz in with what I find to be disappointing accuracy: France will top the group; England will of course beat DR Congo; Cape Verde have done well but will be sent packing by Argentina. When I suggest that Morocco might pip the French to the semi-finals, someone feels the need to spell it out for me: France have the best team, the Ballon d’Or winner in Dembélé, and, crucially, Mbappé. Logically, I know that’s all true, and I try to explain that I’m not asking anyone to bet against their own side. But what happened to “what if”? The more stages that pass, the more I find myself questioning whether “what if” is a uniquely Irish feeling that I have uprooted and brought with me to France, but which perhaps has no place here for this World Cup.And each morning when I check the results to find, once again, that the probable has beaten the improbable, it makes me wonder whether I want to continue to watch events unfold. I have the feeling that an essential quality of fandom is missing. That feeling manifests itself as a question: what’s the point of the World Cup? The point, I’m told, is to win. Is it?The day after the France-Morocco match, we’re having Luca’s grandparents over for lunch, and so we take him off to do an early grocery shop. I share my surprise that the supermarkets in our corner of Vendée are not sold out of flags, face paint and bunting. It’s all very nonchalant for a country in a semi-final of the World Cup. They’ll be sold out for the final, Yohann says. I don’t know if it’s a taunt or simply more evidence of the certainty that previous successes have afforded him. And I’m not sure if I find this enviable. “If this was Ireland ...” I say, and trail off, imagining the scenes if it was. It’s not, Yohann says, matter-of-factly. A moment later he adds, “I’m just so happy that our son will experience what winning feels like.”I look at Luca in the rear view mirror. While I’m positive this little guy will enjoy the sensation of being on the winning team for however long France can manage it, I can’t help but hope he has to hide behind a couch at least once in his life.