There I am, watching fans spill into their seats: Hats and scarves for each team, in full force; children that are too young to know what’s happening, but old enough to be indoctrinated, in tow.
Guys in tiny shorts and knee-high socks run around in the biting cold.
And I’m asking the all-important question: How long does a football match last?
Look, I’ve never been in to sports. I just don’t really get it. I never saw the appeal. And, until this week, I don’t think I had ever really watched an entire football match.
But one thing that I know to be true is: When the Oliver Callan Show asks you to be a visiting critic on radio, you say ‘yes’.
So, when I was contacted by one of his producers, asking me to do something out of my comfort zone, I had no choice.
I got myself down to Dalymount Park, to see what this football malarky is all about. It was Bohs’ versus Pat’s. Baptism by fire, I had been warned.
Walking in, the first thing that stood out to me was the fashion. We girls get made fun of for wearing matching sparkly outfits and cowboy boots to Taylor Swift concerts, while the male equivalent passes under the radar.
Tracksuit bottoms, some sort of puffer coat, accessories for the team you support, and some chunky dad runners: That was the dress code.
And I wasn’t doing a great job of adhering to it. Firstly, my leopard-print jeans made it fairly obvious that I don’t frequent a football pitch.
Secondly, I was not prepared for just how cold I would get while watching the match. My flimsy denim jacket really didn’t cut it.
I had a pair of fluffy mittens in my bag, but refrained from using them. The leopard-print jeans felt statement enough. I shivered on.
Sitting down, I realised just how much I didn’t know about football: Yellow cards, red cards, free-kicks, corner kicks? Who knew it was all so complex.
‘Offside’ was something I had heard, but never really understood, until I found myself asking why they had guys running up and down the side of the pitch with a flag.
I was also a bit confused by the one guy wearing a different-coloured jersey, until I realised, he was actually a referee. I wish I was lying.
I was actually taken aback by the theatrics of it all. I hadn’t realised that football could be so dramatic.
There was chanting and singing and some seriously creative lyrics to accompany the entire match. Men were shouting, cursing, crying, giving the other team the middle finger.
The testosterone in the air was palpable.
I felt like I’d been given exclusive access to the male psyche.
When a goal was scored, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought I should take cover, in case a stampede was about to follow.
Those supporting the team that scored were on the verge of combustion.
There was high-pitched screaming; guys standing on their seats. I was ready for them to throw their knickers on the pitch.
And any time the referee made a call, he would be criticised. It didn’t seem to matter if he was right. Loyalty to your team means your team is always in the right, I learned.
I continually found myself wishing I knew more about what was going on.
When all of the people around me simultaneously shouted ‘aaaahh rreeefffff’, I just wanted to know what we were shouting about.
Why shout if I didn’t know, you ask? I was sitting in a section full of Bohs’ supporters.
I wanted to be part of the cultish crowd I had found myself infiltrating. I don’t know much about football etiquette, but it seemed rude not to join in.
It was a sort of cultural experience. Tourists think a waltz through Trinity allows them to experience what Dublin is really like.
But they’ve certainly never heard a 10-year-old boy yell expletives at a referee for 90 minutes, and it shows.
I feel like I can say that I’ve really seen life now.
You probably won’t catch me running around a football pitch any time soon. But if you see some leopard-print jeans at a match, don’t act surprised.
Those 90 minutes forged an unbreakable bond. Despite their loss, I think I might be a Bohs fan now.