The World’s Worst Soccer Team Is Finally Something Else | Defector

After a dramatic win to break a globally historic losing streak, now comes the hard part for the San Marino men’s national team: fighting the silent but steady creep of complacency.

The problem with victory is that it tends to make the victor soft and self-satisfied, especially when it’s a new sensation. For the magnificently styled Titani, who beat Liechtenstein 1-0 Thursday in a UEFA Nations League match, “new” doesn’t begin to cover it. It was San Marino’s first victory in a competitive match in its 34-year, 177-game history, not including the friendlies that they have mostly lost as well. The Sammarinese are ranked as the 210th national team in the world (out of 210), but with their current one-game streak of middle fingers at the experts, they are permitted to bask in the warmth of no longer being FIFA’s designated kickers’ arse.

San Marino, a nation of about 33,000 stuck in the middle of eastern Italy, can now enjoy a little of the smugness every other country has known. Beating the Liechtensteiners in an actual game qualifies as an automatic rivalry, since the Sammarinese’s only other victory ever was a friendly against Liechtenstein 20 years ago. Their all-time record is now 2-199-10. Being in a UEFA Nations League bottom-drawer group with 198th-ranked Gibraltar (all-time record 9-70-10) and the 199th-ranked ‘Steiners (all-time record 15-191-29) means that this could be San Marino’s gateway to sub-respectability. With a non-Sammarinese showing in this competition, it could become the next Andorra.

The soccer calendar is jammed with competitions nobody cares about, and if you only watch the big countries, you might feel the same way. But San Marino has feelings, too. When 19-year-old Nicko Sensoli scored shortly after the interval, poking the ball past Lichtenstein goalkeeper Benjamin Büchel, all the hell a crowd of 914 people could bring was brought, save the reluctance to storm the field. They didn’t mob their heroes, because they aren’t much of a mob and their players were rarely heroes, but it’s not a mistake they will make again.

San Marino’s ultras call themselves Brigata Mai 1 Gioia (Never Any Joy Brigade), a great name that is now a little less accurate. “I’m an old man. I always say that you can see anything happen if you watch enough football,” a San Marino fan named Alessandro told ESPN. “But I have to say I thought I might never see this.” One suspects that the next time those fans are confronted with the potential for another meaningful victory—Oct. 10, at Gibraltar’s wonderfully named Europa Point Stadium—they’ll figure out how to outwit stadium security, which is probably one guy with a flashlight and hi-vis jacket.

Now comes the hard part. Glory stares at San Marino, and even at 15 watts, the light can be blinding. They have belief, hope, and—worst of all—expectations. It’s no longer enough just to fantasize for a goal in a 4-1 loss. This was the Sammarinese’s finest hour, and the start of being just like everybody else, which is a lot less fun than it looks. Then again, at least they’re not Liechtenstein.