FINDING B-MO…
My first experience, and indeed memory of a football stadium is Dalymount Park. Home to the greatest football club the island of Ireland has ever seen; Bohemian FC. Back in the 80’s when I first went, the League of Ireland had somewhat declined from its heyday. Irish Television had begun to broadcast England’s 1st Division and so attendances for the nation’s premier football league began to wane. And with that, came the demise of Dalyer - as it’s fondly called by those in-the-know.
History shows Dalymount as host to some of Ireland's biggest matches. Both domestic and international. Not to mention the great Busby Babes. And some fella called Pele who, in 1972, brought his Santos team over from South America to pit their skills against the might of Bohemians and scrape a 3 v 2 win .
And long before the SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles was doing concerts for the Taylor Swifts of this world, Dalymount was rockin’ out to Thin Lizzy, Black Sabbath and Bob Marley. The latter’s gig being immortalised in an away jersey design for The Bohs in commemoration of the Jamaicans last ever outdoor concert before his premature death a couple of months later in 1980.
I, like so many, have fond memories of the ‘Home of Irish Football.’ Heading off on the occasional Sunday with my Dad and two older brothers to watch a match. My Mam, eternally grateful for that rare experience: An afternoon of peace & quiet!
We never sat in the main stand. It was too expensive. (My Dad would turn in his grave if he saw what it costs these days. Which would be a miracle in-and-of-itself because we cremated him!) Instead, we perched ourselves on the terrace on the opposite side. A depressing, concrete block with weeds creeping through the cracks. The steps leading down to the pitch were used as seats by the weary & young, while a few metal barriers dotted around were for those who liked to stand and lean while they chanted the obligatory; ‘The Boh-ez!’ for the team, and; ‘The referee’s a wanker’ for the poor bastard in the middle of it all.
My favorite part of those trips was heading to the shop in The Shed end. ‘The Shed’ was Bohs’ ‘3252’ (LAFC’s Supporters Section that holds 3,252 fans). But the Shed was more “32” in those days. It sat behind the goal on the west end of the stadium covered with a metal, shed-style roof; hence the name.
Before the match kicked off, a small hatch would open on the back wall to the right and kids would line up clutching their 10p coins before handing them over in exchange for some form of chocolate bar and maybe a bottle of Cadet Orange if their Dad was feeling particularly generous that day. The men in the crowd would grab a cup of hot Bovril to keep them warm on those bitter cold afternoons. Now, I’m sure I can hear some of you ask: What the fuck is Bovril? I’ll start by saying: be thankful of your ignorance! The best way to describe Bovril is:
A brown concoction with the consistency of a thick gravy and a taste that could only have been created by Satan himself.
Suffice to say; It’s a fucking abomination. My Dad gave me a try once. Presumably because he hated me.
But Bovril’s and shit terraces aside, Dalyer has always held a special place in my heart. And today it’s thriving thanks to a 1999 part-renovation and a swell in attendances over the last quarter century. There’s even plans to knock the old girl down and build a new, more modern stadium. The necessity of progress is outshining a nostalgia for the past.
A CHRISTMAS TREE LANE MIRACLE
With my departure from the shores of Ireland in 2013 to the sunshine of Southern California, my match going opportunities dwindled and I was left to follow Bohs via various apps and Facetime updates from my brother back in Leixlip. My United fix was kept in check via the couch and whatever Network held the rights to the Premier League that particular season.
*My live football experience was no more.
That was until June 29th, 2025. My first trip to LAFC at BMO Stadium. (Or is it The BMO? I’m still trying to figure that out!)
When my new-found-friend sent me that ticket for this match, my first thought was -
“I do not want to pay 60 fucking dollars for parking.”
Side note: The pricing for parking at events in this city is a fucking disgrace. There. I said it. Sort it out LA City Council!
So I was over-the-goddamn moon when I figured out I could get the Metro to the stadium. $1.75 each way? I’ll be havin’ some of that, thank you very much! And to be honest, getting to the match on public transport is part of the whole experience for me. At home, it’s the Dart to Drumcondra and a 20 minute walk through enemy territory (Local rivals Shelbourne FC play nearby) to get to the hallowed ground of Dalymount. Of course, that walk can take a little bit longer with the lure of a pint or 3 in many of the pubs on offer along the route! So hopping on the Metro at Universal City and seeing LAFC clad humans stepping onto the train at each station on the way was a welcoming & familiar feeling. It adds a certain anticipation to the occasion. Not to mention, these fans inadvertently helped me figure out the right train to hop on! I have a history with trains in this country going in the opposite way of the desired direction. A story for another day.
45 minutes and one change-over at 7th Street later, I arrived at EXPO/USC station. No idea which way to go. But bizarrely, I had met someone I know on the train who was also heading to the match. I cannot stress enough how unusual it is to be out and about in Los Angeles and randomly bumping into someone you know. It's just not a thing here. I could count on one hand how many times it’s happened to me in 12 years and still have fingers left over. Yet here we were. On this train. Heading in the same direction. For the same purpose. Football.
Having arrived at our destination, we made the short trek across the tracks, through USC’s Rose Garden and onward to the BMO (you’re gonna have to let this slide if I’m wrong about the “the” ). With his ticket in a different part of the stadium, we parted ways. I hung outside for a bit to soak up the atmosphere. It was fantastic. Fans of all ages. All ethnicities. Families. As many women as men (I grew up in a time where it was 95% men going to matches). The countless food vendors lining Christmas Tree Lane, filling the air with an aromatic temptation deliciously wrapped in bacon that was almost impossible to deny. The ‘dodgy merch’ sellers. The guys lugging around giant ice-chests selling Modelo’s, Pacifico’s and mini-bar sized bottles of Tequila! And the cops just hanging out, not batting an eyelid. Happy to abide by the unwritten rule that having a beer outside the stadium is a right only bestowed upon citizens of the Beautiful Game.
Like the atmosphere - I was buzzin’!
And then it was time to head in. My ticket was for the Field Club. I had no idea where it was but common sense told me they were fucking great seats. What I didn’t know was that it also gave me access to what some would call ‘Narnia for an Irishman.’ That’s right: A free bar! Oh & food if you didn’t think ‘eatin’ was cheatin’!’ When I eventually found my way to its entrance, I walked down the steps, got scanned for a second time, fitted with a wristband that proved my worthiness for this magical land and as I stepped into the bar I couldn’t help but think the Mothership had called me home.
Then something quite unbelievable happened. Even for an Irishman. You see, being from Ireland and living in some other part of the world, it is almost a given that you will happen upon a fellow native who, if you don’t already know them, you will most certainly have some mutual connection. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It’s just synonymous with being Irish. So, as I queued up for my pint, I surveyed the area to kill the time. And then I saw it. Standing on the opposite side of the bar. A man. Drink in hand. In full conversation with his mate. Wearing a fucking Bohemians jersey!
WTF?!
Of course I made a beeline over and introduced myself. We chatted for a bit. Exchanged numbers. And that was that. Friends for life.
The next WTF?! moment came not 10 minutes later, when my new best friend from Ballymun informed me the teams would be walking through the bar to access the pitch! I’m sorry, WHAT?! He explained that the bar we stood in was also the players tunnel. Well fuck me! Who’s idea was this? Did an Irishman own LAFC?! So there I was, pint in hand, watching Olivier Giroud walk out with his LAFC teammates, alongside this evenings particular enemy: Vancouver Whitecaps.
Mind. Blown.
My mate, who had invited me, finally arrived and we made our way out to our seats. Through the same double doors the teams had just gone through. Imagine that happening at Old Trafford?! Ha! As to be expected, the seats were fucking great. And do you know what else was great? The Stadium. BMO (I’ve dropped the “the” this time. I’ve no idea what I’m doing at this point!) is a fantastic arena for football. And it’s perfect for MLS. 22,000 seater where, even in the ‘nose bleeds’ you’re not a million miles away from the action. I couldn’t help but think that a smaller version of this would be perfect for Bohs’ new adventure into the modern stadium era.
For subsequent matches I’ve sat in a myriad of different seats. Upper tier. The East Lower. Behind the goal at the South End. And though not all are perfect - I’m of the opinion you can be too close, whereby, you don’t get a great overall picture of the match - it’s still a stadium that has been really, really well designed. The lines for food and drink are never too crazy. Time it well enough, and there won’t be any. The ease with which you enter and exit the ground. There’s even spots around the place where, if you wanna change your vantage point, you can just stand and watch.
LAFC have fucking nailed it with this stadium.
The match that evening wasn’t the best advertisement for the game. It was Giroud’s last outing in an LAFC shirt. An ending to a relationship Chris Martin and Gwenyth Palthrow might call ‘Conscious Uncoupling.’ From what I’ve heard, he didn’t exactly light up the league. And quite poignant that he exited on 60 minutes for Nathan Ordaz. The local kid, done good. A representation of LAFC’s future in place of the aging talent whose best days are in the past.
But here’s the thing about my first LAFC experience. Despite the rather lackluster performance. Despite the match being a 1 nil loss. It. Didn’t. Matter.
I was all in.
As a fan, football isn’t just about results. It’s much bigger than that. Sure, we love to see our team win. But following a team is about a feeling. And like any genuine relationship, you can’t fake it. You either feel that connection or you don’t. In 2013, the blind date between me and the Galaxy didn’t go anywhere. But this thing with LAFC was different.
From the Metro ride to the stadium, to the buzz outside the ground, to the atmosphere in it, this Irishman had that feeling. Had felt that connection. And so, as I sat in my seat on the Metro ride home, I knew that the love affair between me and LA’s only football team, had well and truly begun.
And I was happier than a pig in shite!
*Read my entry ‘The Beginning’ to see what my first MLS experience was like when I suffered through watching that team from Carson.