Sometimes it’s fun to stop what you’re doing, zone-out and day dream to your heart’s content. We all do it, picturing yourself on an idyllic island, starring alongside Denzel in the latest blockbuster or walking the catwalk at London fashion week.

It’s a natural human state to imagine yourself living out one of your most coveted dreams.

Dare I say, I found myself living out one such fantasy last year on a sunny afternoon in October at the Aviva Stadium.

Not so long ago I made a plan to make a career out of something I enjoyed and something I had a passion for. After some thought and pondering, two words came to mind, writing and football. When I mushed the two together I had football journalist.

Back then, I wasn’t completely aware of just how much flux the journalism industry was and is in, and just how bloody hard it is to get your foot in the door, never mind a paid job. But initial ideas of what the life of a professional football journalist would be like were a highly romanticized version, a Hollywood version even.

My mind would wander and I’d day dream of a lifestyle something similar to those who are currently at the very top of their game, jetting off to World Cups and Champions League finals, in the world’s top cities, rubbing shoulders with football’s elite, becoming best friends with Andrea Pirlo and sipping champagne in our fine Italian suits, as we muse over the ins-and-outs of professional football… OK maybe not the last part, but you get the idea.

I knew the chances of living that kind of a lifestyle were absolutely nil, but it was still one that enthused and inspired me none-the-less. I had in the past genuinely dreamt of sitting in the home of Irish soccer and rugby as a reporter for The Guardian or ESPN, but in those dreams I had grey hair and a lot more wrinkles.

During my undergraduate, I set-up a blog dedicated solely to football and wrote for the university newspaper, writing primarily on football home and abroad, but early enthusiasm would wane as I drifted in and out of writing. The thought of sitting in a packed, floodlight, thousand-odd seater stadium seemed a million miles away.

That was until Kieran Beckles of The Sport Review.com (TSR) gave me an opportunity I never thought would come so soon.

The Sport Review is an online sports magazine which offers news, insight and opinion on all the big sports stories. After several months of writing for the website about the various goings-on in the footballing world from the uninspiring confines of my sitting room, Kieran, co-founder and chief writer, asked if I would be willing to report on the Republic of Ireland’s upcoming Euro 2016 qualifier. Needless to say my heart skipped a beat and I leapt at the chance of covering a competitve international.

Saturday October 11th would eventually roll around and the Republic of Ireland, a team I’ve watched countless times in the stands and on TV, would be facing the definition of the word minnow. It was the second game of Ireland’s Euro 2016 qualification and Gibraltar could not have been a more fitting opponent that day. Only accepted into UEFA in 2013, Gibraltar are one of the world’s newest footballing nations, so new that they are not a recognized member of the football world governing body, FIFA.

Just like Gibraltar, this was my first ever Euro Qualifying campaign and having gained about as much recognition in the journalism world as Gibraltar in the footballing world, we were two novices set for a crash course in our respective professions. But, one of our days was set to go remarkably worse than the others.

Like the rookie I am, I arrived at the Aviva stadium a full two hours ahead of kick-off and there was not a single journalist to be seen in the press box, nor a spectator in their seat, it was just myself and the odd fluorescent clad steward hovering around. It was the same feeling you get when you arrive at a party and you are the first person there. The utter mortification of standing around like a plebeian while you wait for others to arrive.

In some respects it was good to be there that early, it allowed me to soak up the enormity of the stadium from my seat, miles up in the press box and gather my thoughts. The empty stadium in truth helped me settle my nerves.

A mix up with my press-pass meant I had no access to the press room and there would be no post-match press conference with Martin O’Neill, a disappointingly hard pill to swallow, but nevertheless there was a game to cover and this was the only hiccup I would suffer.

As the stadium filled up, the sun dipped in behind the glass exterior of the Aviva and the PA system was cranked up to 100. There was a tiny pocket of Gibraltarian fans at the Bath Avenue end of the stadium. This small enclave of red and white were considerably noisy and a perfect representation of the tiny Iberian Peninsula inside the Aviva.

Their early pre-match chanting and singing would prove to be the last time they would make such noise, as the Irish would dismantle the party in emphatic fashion.

Not even 18 minutes on the clock and Robbie Keane netted his third International hat-trick and put O’Neill’s men 3-0 up. Ireland would go on to put seven past Gibraltar, with each goal being met with rapturous applause from the crowd, with chants of “We want 8!”. Something rarely heard at an Irish international.

Similar to the raucous atmosphere among the fans was the commotion in the press box, as the goals flew in there was a furious clatter of keyboards being battered by the fingers of all the journalists in attendance.

When the final whistle had blown I had 60 minutes to get my copy down, edited, subbed and sent on to be published. It proved to be the hardest and most stressful part of the day. As the clock ticks on, so does the pressure to get your content submitted on time and accurately, with as little mistakes as possible, which can be seriously challenging as I personally strive for extreme accuracy. Thankfully, Kieran had made my task a little easier, requiring only one article from me.

Come 9.30pm and I would have everything typed up and sent in, a full 11 hours from when I began my journey from Galway to Dublin earlier that day. I sat in a tiny pub just off the bustling streets of Temple Bar and finally had time to digest a cloudy beer and my first experience as a football journalist.

It was a million miles away from the glamorous job I had perceived it to be. It is cold way up in the press box and tight time constraints make for a genuinely stressful work environment. But to sit there, in the best seat in the house, taking in the atmosphere, watching a sport you love so dearly, makes for a truly magnificent job.