Back in Omagh, nine years on, and this time the only nightmare was the traffic. Negotiating the town's strange new road system, we followed the cars with flags as it pulled off a roundabout, assuming the occupants knew where they were going. But then we got stuck on the exit ramp marked "town centre" and nobody seemed to be going anywhere.
This was Omagh's new "through-pass" and was not to be confused with the "bypass". That said, a complete lack of passing activity was its most noticeable feature. As the clock ticked down to match-time, the fear grew it might even be the famous "impasse" that Tommy Gorman was always warning us about.
Certainly, policing had emerged as a very contentious issue in our immediate locality. Nobody seemed to have told the PSNI there was a football match on. The traffic situation was worsened somewhat by the fact that, in the back of the car, my seven-year-old son had recently lost a battle we didn't realise he was having with his lunch. He suffered in silence until it was too late. And if there was any consolation, it was that - in defeat - he had heroically avoided damage to the front of his replica Monaghan jersey.
This was important because, already, Patrick was coming under scrutiny from his border-country relatives about who he would support in a potential future clash between his ancestral homeland and the Dubs. Little did they realise that this was not even in question any more.
Not since last week, when Jason Sherlock turned up at his football summer camp and signed everybody's jerseys: a ceremony that - although he didn't sign anything himself - apparently involved the transfer of my son's soul to the county of his birth.
Today, he was happy to humour his old man. But he assured the relatives that, when push came to shove, he would be wearing the Arnott's jersey. Grieved as I was, I had to admire his principles.
Having finally abandoned the car, we walked the last mile or two to Healy Park - noting, with some irony, our first traffic policeman as we did. Still, whatever about traffic arrangements, the town had clearly rolled out the welcome mat for its visitors, with bunting in the team colours overhead, and even some kerbstones painted in our honour.
There was the white and blue of Monaghan, anyway. Unfortunately, there seemed to have been a bit of a mix-up over Donegal, since the only other colour on the bunting was red. Even so, it was the thought that counted.
The stadium was still only a rumour where we were when word reached us that the throw-in had been put back 15 minutes. Welcome as it was, even this would not be enough for the thousands still piling into the town. It seemed like everybody was late and the traffic could hardly take all the blame.
The real problem, I believe, is that after a century of staging matches on Sundays, the GAA has interfered with our circadian rhythms by having qualifiers on Saturday evenings.
In the GAA fan's mindset, it's like crossing the international date line from today into yesterday. At any rate, some of the distance calculations we made before the game could only be explained by jet-lag. And hundreds of us were streaming up Gortin Road - still on Sunday-afternoon time - when we heard the roar of the Saturday evening crowd celebrating the first Monaghan goal. So we knew at least the team had turned up on time.
Poor Donegal. Their fans' only consolation afterwards was that, by being able to leave early, they escaped the worst of the traffic. The rest of us abandoned ourselves to it; and abandon was the word in the post-match celebrations, although these might have been slightly more sober had we known the quarter-final draw. Jason Sherlock's pal need not worry about alienating his relatives just yet: there's a small problem called Kerry in the way first.
Speaking of things sober, on the way back from the ground we noticed Omagh's tiny memorial garden. I stopped in it long enough to remember the awfulness of a week spent here in 1998, reporting funerals. And when Patrick asked what the memorial was about, I explained it was something that happened "before you were born". It felt good to be able to say that, at least.
Having walked so far to the ground, we escaped the post-match traffic lightly. But nobody was in the mood to face Aughnacloy. So we took an alternative route south, heading for that sing-song combination of Augher, Clogher, and Fivemiletown, with a full moon lighting the way along the back roads into the Republic.
The "moon of the little ripening", the Creek Indians called the one that occurs in late July. And like a band of braves, we stopped in camp in Monaghan for food and to discuss the chances that the team might still be involved come the moon of the big ripening. Don't tell Kerry, but there was quiet confidence.
Then it was time for the city-based exiles to say their farewells and hit the road again. It was nearly 2am when we reached the M50. The moon still pointed the way: shining like the rare prospect - for some of us anyway - of championship football in August. We were tired but happy. Except of course for the little Dub, who was blissfully asleep in the back.