A glass of Powers downed at home before setting out as part of our by now regular match night quartet - myself, my friend Paddy and our respective sons - I brought the obligatory hip flask along. Live soccer matches have always seemed much more enjoyable events when accompanied by a lubricant. Not anything like the amount I was used to if in Glasgow with the late John Scooby McCabe. Six pints and as many shorts, how we got in to Paradise remains part of the mysterium.
There was an added edge to last night's clash as the opponents were Dundalk, making the fixture a Louth derby. The ground had opened earlier than usual and there seemed to be a larger Garda presence.
The black clad Ultras - their contingent reinforced by Belgian and Turkish fans seemed larger than normal - to our right were in feisty form. They had brought a huge banner which just before kickoff was draped from the roof of the stand, making it impossible to miss in poor visibility.
How they sustain their Louth Loud output for ninety minutes or more, also shall remain part of the mysterium. It had gone up a decibel or more from the last time we were there, fuelled by the sight of the Dundalk contingent across the pitch from us. They for the most part were subdued throughout the game, but they were not to be denied their roar last - roar loudest moment.
Drogheda took an early lead through Adam Foley and were in command for most of the game, even though their midfield was not on high alert. Then suddenly in the space of two minutes with little more than ten minutes of normal time remaining fortunes changed dramatically. Two soft goals and it was game over. The second, a penalty resulted in the referee sending off a Drog for dissent. What chance they had after that of securing a well earned draw, even if they deserved more than that, seemed to go up in a puff of smoke from a flare. Nevertheless, it inspired them and they pressed Dundalk right to the final whistle.
Long story short, the Drogs blew it. They had a golden opportunity to take a 2-0 lead in the second half, hitting the woodwork when it seemed much easier to find the net. I commented to Paddy that this could come back to haunt them. Dundalk always seemed more composed on the ball even if the flow of the game was running against them. With Drogheda giving possession away far too easily, the sloppiness was the hole in the dyke through which the men from the border town would eventually rush.
As we were leaving the ground, disconsolate, the Garda Public Order Unit was entering it, eyes focussed in a way that suggested they were looking for somebody in particular. Outside the ground their colleagues were being confronted by a group of Ultras, leading to some jostling. The standoff took place in front of the detention vehicle leading me to think that the Ultras believed that one of their lot was inside the van. When I was 16 I was eager to get into trouble, now almost 66 I am eager to stay out of it.
This is the fourth league defeat to Dundalk on the trot. As my wife opened the door, my son had vanished into one of the local nightclubs on the way home, I grumbled that we lost. Still, if my free travel card arrives in time I will find myself on the train to Cork for next week's game, promising my hip flask that I will allow it to relieve itself once inside the ground.
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