In 1997, I attended my only game as a supporter of the Irish soccer team. It was held in Brussels. The winner would go to the next summer's World Cup.
The Irish lost, as they are generally wont to do. It ended in farce with striker David Connolly petulantly kicking a Belgian opponent and being ejected.
Up to that point, it had been a brilliant, if blurry, couple of days. My strongest memory is of an ersatz Irish pub near the Bourse so rammed with visiting fans, they were climbing out second-storey windows rather than taking the stairs.
As is always the case with the Irish on tour, it was very drunken and entirely peaceful. Even the cops seemed amused.
But in that moment, it felt like it could go the other way. As Connolly trudged off the field, the mood soured. We were sitting hard up against the Belgian fans, separated by plexiglass barriers. Someone began shouting. Then someone else began chanting the ugliest curse the Irish could think of in the moment: "You're French. And you know you are."
By soccer rhetorical standards, this is weak stuff, but the Belgians weren't amused. They began gesturing angrily. The chant picked up, 10,000 of us versus 60,000 of them. And it was a long walk back to the train station.
It was at this moment that an anonymous hero in the Irish ranks began frantically waving a Greek flag. Why Greek? No idea. But the chant changed seamlessly into, "We're Greek. And we know we are."
If there had ever been a problem, it dissolved in that moment of absurdity. After the game, we went back downtown for another bleary, beery night, most of it financed by consoling locals.
That scene is played out again and again wherever the Irish go. They know their team isn't up to much. The best that can be said of every decent side in Irish history is that they punch above their weight – and they weigh a lot less than most.
"The Irish fans and players showed us what the game is really about," Spanish manager Vicente del Bosque once said after they'd sung their way through a whipping by his European champions.
The Irish squeaked into this Euro. They don't stand a chance here. You'd never know it to see them.
They were out in force in Paris on Sunday night. You can tell the good travelling support by the mix – it's not just men, it's not just young, and they're not all clinging to each other tribally.
The Irish are out there roaring in the bars, drunk but never ridiculous, looking to make friends.
I watched one well-lubricated fellow in Irish kit wander out of a bar, stagger into a kebab shop across the street, walk behind the counter (!) to shakily request service. He was gently put in a seat. A call was made. A few moments later, a female bartender came across the street to collar him and bring him back.
Oh, Europe. This is why you're better than us.
They were quieter on their way to Monday's game. They surrounded the Stade de France in a gleeful encampment. Their opponents, the Swedes, are likewise noted for being good guests.
There was no separation between opponents. They mingled freely, singing and dancing and shotgunning pints.
The closest thing I witnessed to a shocking scene was provided by one young, overrefreshed Swede who had painted a very, ahem, notable part of his anatomy in Irish colours. He could not stop pulling down his pants to demonstrate his enthusiasm. That he remained unpunched and unarrested is a small miracle of cross-cultural understanding.
The atmosphere inside the arena was just as vibrant. You expect people to be respectful of each other's anthems. Here, both sides raucously applauded each other's national songs in one of those small moments that can catch you off guard.
It is unusual and moving to see people who should be arrayed against each other – I mean, that's the whole point of playing the game – rushing to publicly embrace one another. You don't see it often where we're from, and it really gets me.
Perhaps the best measure of the friendliness on supply was that when the Swedes unfurled a massive tifo banner in their own end, it included the Irish colours.
It was a pure expression of the admiration that is so often contrived at these events. The displays were all so wonderful that when the game kicked off, it seemed like a small anti-climax.
The game itself? Pretty awful for the entire first half. So bad that Sweden's Zlatan Ibrahimovic – far and away the most talented player on the field – could hardly rouse himself above a sullen walk. It's difficult to play a violin concerto when your accompanists are 21 guys banging rocks together.
But in the second, the quality of the product began to match that of the audience.
The Irish scored, which was a nice surprise. Then they scored again, on themselves. Which was less nice as well as less surprising.
(Another nice encapsulation of the very different, but complementary Irish and Swedish psyches: After the match, a sympathetic Swede in the pressroom approached an Irish reporter. Swede: "That was a bit depressing. I am sorry for you." Irishman: "Why? We scored twice!")
If you watched it, you'd probably agree that a 1-1 draw was a fair result on more than one level.
This keeps the party going for at least another week. Ireland's in with a slim but realistic shot to advance.
But winning isn't the point when it comes to this team and its fans. Just being there is. Just being part of something.
Given the way this tournament has started, with atrocious scenes of violence farther south, the Irish seem more necessary than ever. More necessary perhaps than the soccer countries better known for their skill than their generosity of spirit.
Del Bosque had it right.
The Irish and everyone else willing to come here open-armed remind you what games – all of them – are really about.
Cathal Kelly