Quigley says he has followed every World Cup since 1974, with 1978 and 1982 tied to summer weather, school holidays and games recreated with friends after the final whistle. Those tournaments carry the unmistakable power of first discovery.
Yet nostalgia is not the whole story. The earliest memories may be the most vivid, but they are not automatically the richest. As a child, a supporter inherits the tournament’s rhythm. As an adult, they can choose to build their life around it.
On some occasions, Quigley reportedly booked his annual leave to coincide with the World Cup, turning the month-long schedule into a deliberate break from work. That decision points to an underrated pleasure of international football: immersion.
A tournament played daily creates its own routine. Matches become the landmarks of the day, conversations stretch across borders and even neutral games gain significance. The World Cup is no longer something watched between other commitments; it becomes the commitment.
Italia 90 remains special for a different reason. Ireland’s run to the quarter-finals gave the tournament a personal national charge, adding what Quigley calls “a touch of green magic”. Every match mattered more because Ireland were involved.
Qatar 2022, by contrast, is remembered primarily for the football. Quigley’s view separates the off-field debate from the quality of the action, without pretending the wider controversy did not exist. The contrast is telling: one favourite is powered by belonging, the other by the game itself.
When the next World Cup arrives, the familiar question will return: which tournament was the best? Quigley’s answer offers a more interesting possibility. The best one may be the edition a supporter is still able to watch completely, because every World Cup could also be the last.