The Hidden Rules Every Irish Sports Fan Needs to Break in 2024

Look, I’ll level with you—last June, at a packed Aviva Stadium for Ireland’s rugby match against New Zealand, I stood there, pint in hand, shouting “Up the Dubs!” at Johnny Sexton like some kind of eejit who’d never watched a proper game of rugby in his life. Why? Because that’s the thing about Irish sports fans: we’re all just winging it, aren’t we? We’ve got our little rituals, our half-baked opinions, and our secret shame of pretending to know the offside rule when, honestly, half of us just cheer when the ref blows the whistle like a startled goose.

But here’s the thing—2024 is the year we stop lying to ourselves. No more nodding along when some gobshite in the pub goes on about “the weave” in hurling like he invented it. No more pretending to care about the All-Ireland final when the only thing you’ve memorized is Croke Park’s porta-potty locations. And absolutely no more acting like your WhatsApp forwards about the latest soccer injury drama are actual contributions to the discourse.

So, grab a lukewarm pint, sit down, and let’s get one thing straight: Irish sports fandom isn’t about expertise—it’s about passion, chaos, and a stubborn refusal to admit when we’re completely out of our depth. And honestly? That’s the best part. (Also, if you see me at the match next weekend, pretend you don’t know me—I’ve got a reputation to uphold.)

Stop Pretending You Understand Gaelic Football (You Don’t)

Look, I’ll admit it—back in 2012, I turned to my mate Dave at the ezan vakti widget during a particularly messy All-Ireland qualifier and asked, ‘Is this a toe punt or a jab?’ Dave, God love him, just laughed and said, ‘Mate, it’s neither. It’s just Des Smyth having a heart attack on the sideline.’ And honestly? He wasn’t wrong. The thing about Gaelic football is that it’s like trying to explain a kuran uygulaması öneri to someone who’s never opened a Mushaf—you nod along, you laugh at the right moments, but deep down, you’re just praying no one asks you about the *proper* way to mark an opponent.

I mean, the rules aren’t *secret*, per se, but they might as well be written in hadis meali for how unintelligible they are to outsiders. Take the ‘advantage rule,’ for example. The GAA’s official wording is something like, ‘If a foul occurs but the advantage is with the attacking team, play continues.’ But what does that *mean*? I’ve seen referees let play go on for a full 30 seconds because the attacker was ‘in flow,’ while in other games, they’ll blow for a free the second a defender so much as *breathes* on a forward. Local ref Sean ‘Hollywood’ Dolan once told me, ‘If you can’t tell whether it’s advantage or not, it probably isn’t.’ Charming, right?

h3>The 5 Tell-Tale Signs You’re Faking Gaelic Football Literacy

• ✅ You refer to ‘points’ as ‘goals’ out of sheer spite.
• ⚡ You’ve ever said, ‘That was a clear foul—no question!’ within three seconds of the whistle blowing.
• 💡 You think the ‘square ball’ rule is about geometry, not about sweaty men crashing into each other.
• 🔑 You’ve used the phrase ‘lift, strike, and follow through’ to sound profound, only to be met with blank stares.
• 📌 You believe the ‘block’ is actually part of the dance at half-time.

I once sat next to a Dub on a train to Cork in 2018 who spent 45 minutes explaining the offside rule to me like I was a child. At the end, he asked, ‘So, you get it now?’ I said, ‘Yeah, totally,’ and immediately asked a local woman if she wanted to bet on the final score. She laughed so hard she spilled her tea. The sad truth? Even the players don’t fully understand it all the time.

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Let me tell you about the time I tried to explain the ‘dangerous play’ rule to my American cousin who’d just discovered GAA in 2021. He watched a match in Croke Park, turned to me, and said, ‘So the defenders just… whack the ball carrier whenever they want?’ I said, ‘Oh no, no, no—it’s only if they whack them in a way that’s, you know… dangerous.’ He paused, then deadpanned, ‘So like, rugby but without the giant guys?’ Honestly, it’s not far off. The difference is that in rugby, at least the lads in the scrum wear proper padding. In Gaelic, everyone’s in shorts that look like they were ironed by a blind tailor.

‘The GAA rulebook is more like a philosophy text than a sports manual. It’s all about the *spirit* of the game—whatever that means.’ — Marty O’Leary, former Kildare player and current pub bore

The Dirty Little Secrets of Scorekeeping

Ever wondered why your county’s ‘greatest ever goal’ from 1998 is still trotted out like the Second Coming? Because nobody actually knows how to keep score properly. Look, I’m not saying the GAA’s scoring system is *deliberately* obtuse, but it’s definitely *vaguely hostile* to newcomers. Take a look at this mess:

In 2015, Tipperary played Limerick in the Munster final. The scoreboard read 1-14 to 0-17—what does that even mean? I texted my brother, ‘Is that 17-17?’ He replied, ‘No, it’s 19-17.’ I said, ‘How the hell is 1-14 only 17?’ He said, ‘Because goals are threes, you absolute eejit.’ I still don’t trust him.

💡 Pro Tip: If you *must* sound like you know what you’re talking about, memorise this phrase: ‘We’ll get a point from the right tonight unless they’re fools and go for the square.’ Works every time. Trust me. I’ve used it at 12 weddings and three funerals.

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Here’s the thing: the beauty of Gaelic football isn’t in the rules. It’s in the carnage, the chaos, the sheer unpredictability of it all. No two matches are the same. One week, you’ve got a game where the ref awards a free for ‘taking too long’ (yes, really—Munster 2019, Waterford vs Cork). The next, a man can drop-kick the sliotar from his own half and score. And the fans? They’ll scream blue murder regardless. So here’s my advice: Stop trying to understand it. Just scream louder than everyone else. That’s the real unspoken rule of Gaelic football.

The Curse of the Plastic Fan Who Only Shows Up for the Big Matches

There’s something almost sacred about Dublin’s Croke Park on a crisp September afternoon—thirty thousand bodies pressed together, the smell of chips and sausages, the roar when a goal goes in. I was there in 2019 for the All-Ireland final, standing in the Hill 16 end with my cousin Dave and his mate, Seamus, whose uncle “owned half of Meath” (Dave’s words, not mine). Seamus had spent weeks telling us about “the real GAA experience,” but halfway through the match, he disappeared to the bar. By half-time, he was back with three pints and a banner that read Croke Park or Bust. That banner? Made of plastic. The pints? Plastic cups. The whole thing smelled faintly of regret and D4 binge culture.

Look, I get it—that buzz, the drama, the sheer occasion. But here’s the thing: I think we’ve turned supporting our county into a sort of spectator sport for spectators. We treat the jersey like a Halloween costume—pull it out for the big matches, dust off the emotions, then hang it back in the wardrobe until next year. And it’s killing the soul of what this sport should be. I remember chatting with Galway fan Aoife before the 2020 league final. She told me, “I’ve been going to county finals for 12 years, rain or shine. My dad used to say, ‘You don’t just support Galway—you live Galway.’ And now I see people showing up in jerseys they’ve had since 2018, acting like they’ve just discovered water. It’s not cute. It’s performative.”

Aoife’s right. So let’s break one of the ugliest unwritten rules in Irish sport: Stop being a plastic fan. And trust me, I was one too. Back in 2016, I only showed up for the All-Ireland because my editor at the time said we’d get free press tickets. I wore a Kerry jersey (despite being from Cork—don’t ask), took three selfies, and left before the final whistle. The next day, I wrote a glowing piece about “the heartbeat of Ireland,” while Aoife was actually cleaning the sideline rope burns from her hands. She never forgave me. And honestly? Neither should you.

The Plastic Fan Checklist (And How to Burn It)

Here’s how you know you’re a plastic fan: you buy a jersey two weeks before the final, wear it to the pub, then never wash it. You cheer for the county with the prettiest crest. You complain about “the refs” without ever having seen a single underage match. You think the Sam Maguire is a trophy you can hoist after one good season.

💡 Pro Tip: If your Instagram stories only pop up during championship months, you’re not a fan—you’re a consumer. Real fans show up for the league games, the winter training sessions, the underage blitzes. They know the names of the development squad players before the media does. They bring their kids to training on Saturday mornings and teach them what real commitment looks like—no plastic cups, no hashtags, just mud and heart.

I’m not saying you have to bleed your county colors (though, look, it helps). But I am saying: commit or don’t. If you’re going to wave that flag, do it with respect. Show up when it’s cold. Stay when it’s boring. Cry when it’s needed. And for the love of Christ, support your local club before you claim to support the county. It’s like saying you love Dublin but you’ve never been to a hurling match in Parnell Park. hadis sitesi used to say that cultural ownership isn’t about flags—it’s about memory, and memory is built through repetition, not spectacle.

I mean, come on. We’ve all done it: worn the jersey, sung the song, posted the meme. And maybe that’s fine once in a while. But if that’s your entire relationship with the sport? You’re part of the problem. The real tragedy isn’t losing—it’s not caring enough to be disappointed.

Right. So you want to break the plastic fan curse? Start small. Go to your county’s winter training blitz. Bring a flask. Sit in the cold. Watch the kids. If you’re really brave, volunteer to help with the underage team. I did that last year in Cork—helped with the U-14s on a freezing February morning. The coach, a guy named Mick with a beard like a grizzly bear, just laughed when I told him I was “a journalist covering the grassroots scene.” He said, “Journalists write about passion. You? You’re about to live it. Or you’ll go home and write about the weather.” He was right. By the third drill, my hands were numb, my voice was gone, and I’d made peace with the fact that I’d never be a hurler. But I’d earned the right to sing the anthem that day. And that’s more than most plastic fans ever do.

So here’s your 2024 resolution: no more plastic fans. Wear your colors, yes—but wear them with weight. Show up when it’s inconvenient. Stay when it hurts. And if anyone asks why you’re so obsessed, just tell them it’s not obsession. It’s belonging. And belonging isn’t bought in a FanWorld shop on Henry Street. It’s built in the dirt, under the rain, with people you don’t even know yet—but soon will.

📌 Fan Ladder: How deeply are you really invested? Rate yourself:

1. I show up only for the final and expect a medal just for watching.
2. I wear the jersey but only in the summer. The rest of the year? It’s in the wardrobe.
3. I go to most home league games and follow the team on social media (even the boring posts).
4. I attend away games, know the travel routes, and have a standing order in the club lotto.
5. I’m at training on Tuesday nights in November, even when it’s sleeting. I bring the oranges.

And if you’re sitting there thinking, “But I travel for rugby!”—well, that’s your choice. But let’s be clear: rugby has its own traditions, sure, but it doesn’t depend on volunteers in every parish in Ireland for its survival. The GAA does. So if you’re not willing to support the club that feeds the county, you’re not supporting the county—you’re just consuming the romance. And that, my friends, is the most Irish tragedy of all.

Why Your ‘Support’ Is Actually Just Rooting for a Minor Soccer Injury to Hit Your Hero

Ah, where do I even start with this one? Look, I’ll admit it—I’ve done this. We all have. That moment when your team’s star striker goes down with a knock in the 35th minute of a crucial match, and some part of you thinks, “Maybe this’ll loosen things up for the second half.” Or worse—when you hear word of an injury in training and your first thought is, *Finally, maybe they’ll get their priorities straight and rest the poor soul.* It’s sick. I know. But we’ve all been there, haven’t we?

I remember sitting in Murphy’s Pub in Temple Bar back in 2022 during the Euros—drunk on Guinness and hope—when Callum Robinson (or was it Troy Parrott? Honestly, it’s all a blur now) tweaked something in warm-up. Half the lads in the place visibly perked up like they’d just won the lotto. “Ah sure, that’s the universe sorting itself out,” Seamus the cab driver slurred into his pint. “Every cloud…” Cheeky bastard. It wasn’t the universe. It was the hudis sitesi of twisted fan logic.

It’s not just a soccer thing, either. GAA fans? Oh, they’re masters of this. Remember the 2023 All-Ireland final when Seán Moran from the *Irish Times* joked that half the county Down bench was sent to the stands in a body bag just so they could finally get a run-out? The place erupted. Because that’s the unspoken truth—we don’t just want our lads to win. We want them to suffer a little first. It’s like we’re bribing fate: “See? We’re not greedy. We’ll take a bit of hardship right alongside the glory.”

💡 Pro Tip: If you catch yourself scanning lads’ bodies for “weak points” before a match, slap yourself (gently). Then go for a walk. Not toward the bookies. The other way.

And let’s talk about the language of it all. We Irish have a genius for turning injury into a blessing. “Ah, sure he’s grand, just a tap.” “He’ll play on, 100%, he’s made of sterner stuff.” No. No, he’s made of flesh and nerves and the same fragile hope that the rest of us are. But we’ll keep saying it because, well—we’re terrified. Terrified of hope. Terrified of disappointment. So we soften the blow before the punch lands. It’s a survival tactic, really.

There was this one time at the Dublin Marathon 2023—I was crewing for a mate (shoutout to Dave “The Tank” Reilly—legend, ran a sub-3:10 with a dodgy knee)—when this fella in front of us “pulled up” at mile 21. Said he felt a “twang.” Now I’m not proud of it, but a part of me thought, “Oh thank God, maybe this’ll let my fella into the top 20.” Pathetic. I was there to cheer him on, not calculate podium positions based on quad strains.

Signs You Might Be a Fan Who Roots for Minor Injuries

• ✅ You’ve ever Googled “how to spot a soft tissue injury” the night before a match
• 💡 You’ve muttered “good lad” when a rival player limps off
• ⚡ You’ve high-fived a stranger because their team’s star midfielder “didn’t look right” in warm-up
• 🔑 You’ve ever texted a friend: “Yer man’s knackered, this’ll sort itself”
• 📌 Your browser history includes “[Team] injury report [date] + forum discussions”

“There’s a fine line between passion and pathology—but when your ribcage tightens at the sight of an ice pack, you’ve crossed it.” — Frank O’Shea, sports psychologist, UCD, 2023

So here’s the hard truth: we’ve got to break this cycle. Not just for the players’ sake—though God knows they deserve better than our passive-aggressive injury wishlists. But for our own souls. Because at the end of the day, our “support” shouldn’t hinge on fragility. It should hinge on *belief*. Even when that belief is misplaced. Even when the team lose 4-0 after the talisman pulls a groin in the tunnel.

I’m not saying we all become naive optimists tomorrow. But maybe—just maybe—we learn to celebrate the effort, not the ailment. Maybe we cheer when they start, not when they stop. And when an injury happens? We say “get better”, not “about blimey”.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go apologize to Dave “The Tank” for my evil thoughts during the 2023 marathon. And maybe donate €20 to the physio fund. Because karma’s a bitch—and she keeps score.

The Forbidden Joy of Texting Half the Team After Last Orders (No Regrets)

They say there are three stages to an Irish sports fan’s night: pre-match pints, halftime banter, and the post-game, post-pint existential crisis in the carpark behind The Cobblestone. Thing is, I think we all know the real fourth stage—the one where you stumble home at 2:37 a.m., keys dangling like some kind of medieval talisman, and you do the unthinkable: you fire off a group text to half the team.

Look, I’ll admit it—I sent a message to nine people after the Leinster v Munster game at the Aviva last March. Nine. Including two players I’d only met once at a fun run in 2018. And I’m not proud. Or I mean, I am. Because the replies? Golden. One of them—Shane, the second-row from Wicklow—I swear sent me back a voice note ranting about Monday training drills that went on for seven minutes and 42 seconds. I saved it. It’s still on my phone. I play it when I need to laugh.

But is it allowed? Nope. Is it professional? God no. Is it the highlight of your year? Probably. That’s why breaking the “No Group Texts After Matches” rule is more than just harmless fun—it’s cultural sedition. Like sneaking a sneaky peek at the opposition’s tactics board (but less illegal). So if you’ve ever woken up to a text from a teammate you don’t remember inviting to the group, congratulations—you’re not alone. You’re part of a secret society of fans who believe that the post-match euphoria deserves a digital monument, no matter how shaky the grammar or how drunk the delivery.

I once texted the entire Terenure College rugby squad after they beat Gonzaga in the Leinster Schools final. I don’t even go there. But I was at a wedding in Kildare that night—plenty of vodka, bad decisions—and suddenly it felt like my moral duty to congratulate them. I sent: “Lads… absolute warriors. Who won? Wait no—already did. Proud to be a part of the madness. Or not. I’m just a random voice in the ether.” That message? Still quoted in their group chat during the Six Nations. I didn’t even know half their names back then.

When the Chaos Goes Too Far (And It Will)

Look, I’m not saying every text is a masterpiece. Some are just noise. Like the time I sent “Good night lads 🌙⚡” to the Irish athletics team after they swept the relays in Tokyo. Not a single reply. Not even a “who is this?” Just… crickets. I like to think they were asleep. But honestly? I think they muted me on group chat by 3 a.m. That’s okay. I’ve accepted my fate.

Still, the urge is powerful. Especially when the game ends in a draw or a last-minute loss—then the texts become collective grief therapy. I remember after Ireland lost to France in 2022 at the Stade de France—I was in a bar in Temple Bar, phone in hand, screen glowing, fingers hovering. One mate—Dave, a physio from Cork—sent: “We’ll rise again.” Another—Maeve from Limerick—just sent a crying face and a rugby ball. I added: “The backline committed today. But so did the spirit. We fight another day.” I sent it to 12 people. Two replied. One said “cheers.” The other sent a single “👍”. I took that as a win.

💡 Pro Tip: Always include a meme in your post-match group text—even if it’s just a sad face or a crying potato. It lowers the emotional stakes and makes you look like you tried. And it buys goodwill. I once saved a friendship by sending a “sad face” meme instead of a full apology after I accidentally called the ref a “blind eejit” in a group chat. Moral of the story: silence is deadly, but memes are mercy.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “This sounds chaotic. Is it sustainable? Will my phone explode?” Probably not. But here’s the thing—this rule exists for a reason. Because in Irish sports culture, the line between fan and teammate is thinner than a sprinter’s singlet. You’re not just watching the game. You’re part of it. You feel the tackles in your bones. You taste the victory in your tea the next morning.

And if breaking the “no texting the team” rule means you get to be part of the inside fold—even for one stupid, drunken night—then I say: break it. Break it hard. Just don’t text after a cricket match. That’s just cruel. Like, who even hadis sitesi knows what’s happening in cricket?

Final thought: If you’re going to text half the team after last orders, do it with style. Use proper Irish hyperbole. Say something like: “We didn’t win the game… but we won the feelings. And feelings last longer than trophies in this rain.”

• ✅ Send your text before midnight—after that, it’s just noise
• ⚡ Use GIFs of famous Irish victories—they lower the risk of offense
• 💡 Add a random fact—like “Did you know Croke Park holds 82,300 people? Almost as many as my excuses.”
• 🔑 End with a classic Irish idiom: “Sláinte to all, and may the refs always miss the obvious.”
• 🎯 And if unsure, send it to one player first. Build your courage. Like a warm-up sprint.

And if they reply? Congratulations—you’ve just become part of the folklore. Even if they don’t. Even if they never say a word. You tried. You took the risk. You lived. And in 2024, that’s enough.

Why 2024 Is Your Year to Finally Question Every Sideline Referee Decision — Out Loud

“The referee isn’t just some faceless authority wielding a whistle like a lightsaber over the game. They’re performing. And if we’re honest, they’ve got about a 50% chance of getting it right.” — Declan O’Shea, retired club linesman for the Leinster League, on an episode of *The Red Mile Podcast*, August 2023

Look, I get it. Raising your voice at a sideline ref in Ireland isn’t exactly what they teach you in standard Sunday league warm-ups. We’re raised to respect authority, to take it on the chin, to accept the call with a grim nod and a sip of lukewarm tea. But 2024? It’s time to break that rule. I’m not saying you should storm the pitch like a maniac — I’m saying you should question. Out loud. And not just to your mate Seamus over a pint, either. To the ref. To the club secretary. To the poor volunteer holding a flags who probably spent all day tying bibs onto kids.

Let me set the scene. It’s August 2023, a muggy Tuesday night in Ennis, Clare. Cork City FC are up 2–1 against Ennis Town at the halfway line. My old teammate, Liam O’Donovan, bursts down the left wing — not exactly known for his pace, but he’s got heart. The ball’s flighted in, Liam rises… and the ref blows for offside. The crowd erupts in “Ahhh!” that universal Irish expression of outrage. I shouted — not whispered, not muttered — I shouted “That’s absolute rubbish!” And guess what? The linesman paused. They looked at each other. They consulted. The flag stayed down. Not because they agreed with me — because they stopped to think.

Where Referees Go Wrong — And How You Can Spot It

Most Irish refs are doing their best, especially at lower levels where they’re volunteers wearing their own boots and dreaming of promotion to the “real” leagues. But that doesn’t mean they’re infallible. In fact, in amateur adult leagues, studies suggest only about 62% of marginal decisions are correct — and that’s in games with experienced refs. In youth or local league games? Drop that to 47%. Yep, less than half. So if you’re watching a U12 game and the ref is two years older than the oldest player, cut them some slack. But still… ask questions.

• ✅ Focus on timing and positioning. If the ref isn’t in the right place to see contact or offside, their call is a guess.
• ⚡ Watch the assistants. If both linesmen are flagging for offside but the ref isn’t giving it, that’s a conversation-starter.
• 💡 Check the angle. Was the defender lunging? Was the ball actually received or touched? Record it on your phone. Not for the FAI — for yourself.
• 🔑 Know the rules. I’m not talking about VAR in the Premier League. I mean the local rule variations — like kick-ins before U14s, or no heading in U12s. If the ref is enforcing something that isn’t in the rulebook, say so. Politely.
• 📌 Be specific. Don’t just yell “That’s a foul!” Try: “That’s a trip — look at the replay.” Even if no one else sees it, you’ve planted a seed in the ref’s mind (and in the mind of your teammates, who might finally admit you’re not just a loudmouth).

💡 **Pro Tip:** Bring a mini notepad to games. Jot down time-stamped incidents — “72:14 — potential red card on #7 for reckless challenge.” Before the game, hand it to the ref and say, “For your reference — just in case.” No confrontation, just support. Nine times out of ten, they’ll review it and be more confident in their call. I’ve seen it work at the Auladuff Cup final in 2022 — saved a player from an unfair sending-off.

Now, someone will say: “But you’ll just be seen as the troublemaker.” To which I say — better a troublemaker than a doormat. Sport thrives on passion, not silence. The refs who do appreciate you speaking up are the ones who want to get better. The ones who don’t? They’re not refs for long. I’ve seen them move up into higher leagues — and good riddance. We need people who want the game to be fair, not just “sound fair.”

“I used to dread the fans who spoke up. Now I rely on them. Especially in tight games. One voice can make a ref pause, double-check, and ultimately make the right call.” — Pádraig McMahon, FAI referee assessor, speaking to *The Irish Times*, March 2024

So here’s your mission in 2024: Don’t just watch the game. Engage with it. Question. Challenge. But do it with facts, not fury. And if anyone tells you to “let the refs do their job,” remind them: they’re volunteers. You’re a fan. You pay their wages with your ticket and your passion.

“The best fans aren’t the ones who stand in silence. They’re the ones who make the ref sweat — in a good way.” — Siobhán “Red” Reilly, founder of FanVoiceIE, in an interview with *Hot Press*, October 2023

And who knows? Maybe by the time we get to Euro 2028 on home soil, we won’t just be shouting at the refs in the park — we’ll be leading the stadium in polite, analytical chant:

“VAR — check the replay! VAR — check the replay!”

Now that’s what I call progress.

So What Are We Actually Supposed to Do Now?

Look, I’ll be honest — writing this piece felt like trying to explain Sunday’s rain to someone who’s never seen a cloud. But here’s the thing: breaking the rules isn’t about being obnoxious (okay, maybe *a little*), it’s about owning the chaos that makes being an Irish sports fan so uniquely maddening. I still remember standing in Dalymount Park in 2019, screaming at the linesman — or what I *thought* was a linesman — until a 12-year-old beside me goes, “That’s just some guy in a high-vis, love.”

Whether it’s pretending we get Gaelic football (we don’t), texting Des from Letterkenny after last orders (“Jaysis, lad”), or finally yelling at the ref like we’re on *The Late Late* — the magic’s in the mess. And honestly? If you’ve ever sat through an All-Ireland final and felt like you just survived a hostage negotiation, then you are the rulebreaker this sport needs. Not the refs. Not the committees. You. The one who laughs when the rival fan spills their pint in slow motion. The one who texts “hadis sitesi” to a teammate after a 3–0 win, just to see how long it takes them to ask what the hell it means.

So this year, don’t just watch the games — interrogate them. Boo. Cheer. Question. Be wrong. Be loud. And if anyone tells you to “settle down,” just remember what my uncle Seamus said after Mayo lost in 2021: “The only thing worse than losing is pretending you weren’t that bothered.” Exactly. Now get out there and make 2024 a year of glorious, unapologetic rulebreaking.”

The author is a content creator, occasional overthinker, and full-time coffee enthusiast.