I can still feel the rush of adrenaline bubbling in my chest when I stepped into the roaring belly of the San Siro for the first time.

The pulsating rumble of the fans, the bright lights bouncing off flags, and the sheer enormity of the wraparound stands stopped me in my tracks. 

Fans seated up in the Gods looked like they could topple down onto the pitch at any minute. Fired-up kids stood on the plastic seats as parents wrapped their arms around their waists to keep them steady. I paused at the railings, just trying to soak up the moment. I felt my eyes start to sting. Whilst I am known to get emotional at almost anything, this felt different. I was only at a football game, after all.

But the raw passion ringing through the air unexpectedly suckerpunched me.

This is what the beautiful game is all about. This is why I’m here.

New to the world of calcio, I have watched everywhere from rickety Serie C stands to the more modern arenas such as Udine’s slick Bluenergy Stadium. But there are few stadiums in the world as instantly recognisable as Milan’s San Siro. And few that would be missed as much if they disappeared from the football landscape.

The towering concrete spirals, the clash of red-and-black or blue-and-black shirts, and the thunder of chants echoing off the tiers make it feel more like a cathedral than a sports venue. 

They don’t call it La Scala del calcio after Milan’s iconic theatre for nothing.

I was not only a first-time visitor, but also visiting alone. I had felt some trepidation at the thought of navigating the stadium. Whilst my Italian is passable – I can confidently ask for directions and order a Spritz or two – I was worried about finding my way through the thick concrete exterior into the belly of the beast.

From the moment you approach the ground, the atmosphere builds. Vendors line the streets selling scarves, shirts, and panini, while crowds surge toward the stadium. For a woman arriving alone, the scene can feel overwhelming at first. Yet, what stands out is how naturally women are part of this flow: families with daughters in replica shirts, groups of friends singing team chants, and solo female fans confidently making their way through the turnstiles. At least, I tried to look confident.

After a slight hiccup finding my gate (I had to ask four different stewards, with two of them sending me in the wrong direction), I scanned my ticket and was in at ground level.

I’m a petite 5ft 3, and I struggle in crowds. At the 2021 Euros final in Wembley, I was pushed headfirst into the metal turnstiles as a ticketless fan tried to slip in behind me, so I have good reason to be a little nervous. But, thankfully, I didn’t once feel overwhelmed by the 80:20 men-to-women split. Fans both old and young made sure I had enough space, helping me to have a clear path as we climbed up and up, until we reached the concourse. 

I don’t come from a sporting background. On weekends, my dad would be glued to the TV screen, captivated by the F1, and my mum thought cardio meant two hours walking around a shopping centre. 

We didn’t play team sports, let alone attend stadiums.

And after watching Green Street, I was certain that football fans were two things: male and violent.

As I tiptoed sideways down my packed row – with families, fashionable girls donning cropped football shirts and fans ranging from age four to eighty-four tucking in their legs, I remembered how wrong that assumption was. This is not about insatiable fight-loving thugs watching their team before heading out to attack their opposition; this is about community, legacy, and support for what makes them feel alive.

The couple next to me asked how the beer was. “Warm,” I smiled. They laughed; we all know this is part of the experience. 

A neutral, I was led by the majority. Passionately supporting my new team, at least for the night.

The next 90 minutes were thrilling. The pitch felt impossibly close despite being halfway up the stand. Here, passion levels the playing field. A goal sparks high-fives and hugs between strangers – no questions asked.

Kids grinned as they learned to loudly whistle with their fingers. Italian hand gestures were thrown in front of my face, left, right and centre. Goals, near misses, fouls, we had it all.

When the final whistle was blown, I felt compelled to sit for a little longer as my eyes scanned the stadium.

As the crowds filtered out and I saw the bare bones of this majestic venue, I knew I was lucky to be there.

Walking back down those spiralling ramps, carried along by chants and songs, it’s hard not to feel part of something bigger. San Siro is more than just a stadium; it’s a living piece of football history. For a first-time visitor, especially a woman, the experience is not just about football – it’s about stepping into a space long considered male-dominated and finding belonging in it.

And whilst the future of this iconic landmark is still to be decided, I know that my experience of that night will live on forever.