I was about ready to walk out of my house when my wife stops me to ask, “Aren’t you going to put on a warmer jacket?” To which I reply, “Of course not! The magic of the stadium (and Guinness) shall keep this super-fan warm!”
Fast forward to the 70th minute of the match, my pants are soaked through and my sweatshirt is lined with a substantial layer of ice that is triggering my slow decent into hypothermia. Each gust of wind feels as if hundreds of Montreal daggers are trying to penetrate my blue soul. My wife instinctively sends me a text asking me how I feel.