It was the early minutes of last weekend's rugby match against France, and it had begun to feel like old times at Lansdowne Road. The French had stolen the ball, mauled it up the pitch, over the terrace and into Ringsend and a once-familiar sensation was announcing its return after a lengthy vacation writes Shane Hegarty.
The optimistic murmurs had a Gallic accent, while the uneasy quiet was distinctly Irish. There was a creeping sense that this was going to be a long, uncomfortable afternoon.
Sure enough, after the game the French team were doing a lap of honour and the terraces were alive with thousands of French fans bouncing en masse. Bouncing? Irish fans have never bounced. Waved, yes. Squirmed, definitely. But never bounced. It might bring the old stadium down.
The problem with Lansdowne Road is you can't get out of it quick enough. The Irish shuffled slowly to the exits, once again knowing how it is to feel like an away supporter in their own ground. The natural order of things had been restored.
There had been much talk this year about how the Irish team might cope with the heavy burden of being favourites. Forget about the team - we should have wondered how the Irish supporters would cope. Would they crumble under the pressure, choke on the expectation? When you are used to being a David, it can be a shock to the system when you hit a growth spurt and wake up one morning as a Goliath.
Against England we got the answer: the crowd bottled it. It was the first time in many years that we were fully expected to win against a rugby giant and instead of noisily revelling in this, for long stretches the loudest sounds the fans emitted were those of fingernails being chewed, of spouts being gnawed from hip flasks. There was unease, and it was that of a crowd disorientated by this reordering of the universe. Beating England should be joyous, heavenly, divine. It shouldn't be a blessed relief. We'd climbed to the summit and suddenly realised we were scared of heights.
It's understandable, because for the past couple of decades the pilgrimage to Lansdowne Road had a penitential edge to it. All that was missing were sharp stones on the streets into the stadium.
I began going to internationals in 1985, a Triple Crown year. Against England, Brendan Mullin scored his try metres away from me. I could see that Michael Kiernan's drop kick was on target from the moment boot touched ball. It was wonderful. I thought it would be like that every year. No chance.
Instead, there was a time during the 1990s when the IRFU reputedly considered banning the scoreboard on grounds of decency. There might, perhaps, be a 20-minute spell at the beginning of a match when optimism had yet to be fully blown away by the squall, but once it became clear that we were in for another demoralising afternoon the crowd would slink, like an inverted Mexican wave. Molly Malone wheeled her wheelbarrow away in embarrassment about 10 years ago and has not been heard from since. The atmosphere leaked from the stadium. At times you could make out people in the Upper East Stand comparing their packed lunches or children on the far sideline asking their fathers why they were weeping.
The anthems never helped. We have never quite matched the ground-shaking renditions of the Welsh anthem or the exuberance of the French. Amhrán na bhFiann has seldom been delivered with anything other than a forthright mumble. Meanwhile, Ireland's Call has never really been taken seriously, the crowd embarrassed into singing it only by the team's shameless enthusiasm.
There were occasional days of relief when something magical would happen and people would look up from their match programmes to realise that we were really, truly about to beat the English. Then again, the life of most sports fans is one of prolonged, profound frustration relieved every decade or two by some outrageous victory that makes it all seem worthwhile. There is a generation of young Manchester United supporters who, having grown up accustomed only to winning, are only now turning to their fathers and asking them what it is they feel, this strange sensation as if something is nibbling away at their hearts while wrenching their guts. And their fathers will tell them: that, son, is the feeling of being a true fan. Get used to it.
Which is why it will really hurt if the Welsh win the Grand Slam this afternoon. Not because their team does not deserve it. Not because their supporters have not suffered too. But because it would be desperately unjust if they were to go from disappointment to glory quicker than their wingers can hit the try-line; if they were to succeed without first experiencing the torment of a couple of near-misses; without earning it as the Irish have.
It would just not be fair. Which is why they probably will win.