A Mayo man's pilgrimage to La Bombonera

Ever since falling down a YouTube wormhole as a teenager, and for the first time learning about the bedlam of La Bombonera on match day, watching Boca Juniors in front of a home crowd has been top of the sports bucket list.

When the club is playing at home, no stadium in the world can match the feral atmosphere in La Boca, a working class community in Buenos Aires built around the steep tiers of La Bombonera. So when an opportunity arose, a flight to Buenos Aires was promptly booked.

The top tier of Argentinian football doesn't release fixtures for the upcoming season well in advance so flights were booked with the understanding that a home Boca Juniors game would fall at some stage within the two-week trip. Alas, yours truly made the mortal sin of booking within the international break. It was an unforgivable error. But with a little determination and infinite flexibility, the pilgrimage could still happen.

Having decided to start the trip in Rio de Janeiro, we had 24 hours to make it to Buenos Aires in time for the visit of Newell's Old Boys to one of the most well-known clubs in South America. So within hours of touching down in Brazil we were back on another Argentina-bound flight, arriving in the country's capital a couple of hours before the kick-off. Bags had just been dropped off in our lodgings when we were ferried onto a rickety coach that must have been on the road since the 1970s.

As no away fans are allowed into home games in Argentina, the bus was jammed with people in the home side's distinctive blue and yellow colours. It was only at this moment that I realised I had grabbed a Mayo jersey when getting dressed earlier that morning back in Rio de Janeiro. Looking like a disorientated Mayo man who was being held hostage by a Rossie cartel, I had no option but to continue on my way. There could be no turning back now with only a few miles of the pilgrimage to go.

And naturally, the red and green attracted a lot of attention.

Local eyes were continuously drawn to the only man in the area not donning the home side's colours. The very curious even crossed the street to ask this strange man about his choice of garment. Was he a rival stepping into enemy territory? Was he a threat? Was he simply a fool who knew no better?

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, a couple of other Irish wanderers were pottering around the city in search of some "familiar gringos". They had missed the bus to the game and had no idea where the stadium was located. But just as they crossed an intersection, they stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes drawn to a familiar sight in the distance. They had found an oasis in a desert of blue and yellow.

“Is that what I think it is?” one asked the other.

"It's a bloody Mayo jersey,” the other replied.

A similar pattern continued for the next few hours, the Mayo jersey serving as a beacon within a district that was consumed by blue and yellow as our group gradually made our way through the streets towards the ground. Although the jersey served a purpose, it was clear that we needed to highlight that I was indeed on the right side of the battle lines. Walking towards the stadium through crowds of local fans drinking fernet and coke, the liquorice-flavoured beverage of choice on match day in this part of the world, the Mayo jersey was attracting just a little too much attention for comfort. But after a Boca Juniors bucket hat was acquired in a local shop, nerves immediately evaporated. While the fashion statement was questionable, nobody could be left in any doubt regarding my loyalties.

A couple of blocks later and you could all but see the cathedral of football. La Bombonera holds approximately 50,000 and is still hidden within the narrow streets of La Boca. There is no word in the English dictionary that comes close to describing the titillating experience as the facade of the stadium suddenly comes into view. Scríob is perhaps the most apt word to describe it – an old Irish word used to describe the gentle tingle in the upper lip just before the first sip of whiskey.

So with a Mayo jersey on my back, a brightly coloured bucket hat on my head and a tingling upper lip, we headed into the stadium.

In European stadiums, tourists can be herded into the more sanitised sections. But with only a handful of tourists in La Bombonera, we found ourselves crammed in with the passionate home fans behind one of the goals. And with 10 minutes to go until kick-off, the atmosphere began to come to a boil. Fans were hanging from the walls of the stands, the air was filled with flare smoke, fireworks shot into the mild Argentinian evening and the spectacular club tifo was unveiled.

The levels of passion were at a level above anything that's experienced in Europe. It truly is a religion down here, the game serving as a type of holy ceremony around which the community’s entire week revolves. The whole experience was overwhelming – the relentless chanting, the tightly packed terraces which would fail every health inspection on the other side of the globe, tattoos of club idol Diego Armando Maradona as far as the eyes could see.

The game itself was a rather bleak affair. Newell's Old Boys, Lionel Messi’s boyhood club, saw more of the ball in the early passages of play though they never troubled former Manchester United shot stopper Sergio Romero. Up front, the game's biggest name, Edinson Cavani, was also struggling to make an impact. The home side's best performers were 19-year-old Valentin Barco, a crafty midfielder with a deft touch who will surely end up in Europe sooner rather than later, and veteran Luis Advincula, an energetic full back who gave the home crowd cause to raise the temperature of the venue every time he received possession.

The game nevertheless seemed destined for a scoreless draw when Miguel Merentiel was cut down by the visiting side’s Guillermo Balzi in the box. The referee rightly pointed for the spot. And just when you thought the atmosphere couldn't become any more febrile, Los Xeneizes turned up the dial. Merentiel recovered to stand over the penalty, slotted the ball into the bottom corner and bedlam ensued. At that point it was easy to see why there's no roof on the stadium – it would simply never last. The stadium reverberated and must have gone close to causing an earthquake. Like geckos, children scaled the 25 foot metal fence separating fans from the pitch while adults further back in the terrace embraced the nearest person they could grab like they had just been spared an executioner's gallows.

Relief was the dominant feeling in the place. The club had lost the Copa Libertadores final a week earlier. And the outcome of any game usually sets the mood of the neighbourhood until the next game. Fans could now return home and look forward to a pleasant week – until the next game day returns and the routine starts again. Rinse and repeat – for everybody bar the pilgrim with a once-in-a-lifetime experience.