They muttered the maths, doing the sums with the digits on their hands as they tried to get their heads around the group C numbers game.
'Better that Italy win against Croatia, actually,' said one hopeful fan in Irish green during the long walk through the Baltic drizzle to the ground.
The Gdansk Arena is in the heart of this port city's industrial landscape, close to the shipyard birthplace of the Solidarity movement founded by Lech Walesa, the mustachioed trade unionist who is credited with making the first push that toppled the Soviet dominoes, so ending communism in Europe and melting down the Iron Curtain that had long darkened a divided continent.
But the Irish arithmetic ahead of the Spain-Ireland kick-off was in vain because the result would prove academic. Within five minutes Torres had rounded Stephen Ward and netted the early goal the Spaniards had been banking on.
Then, with spectacular style and the same twist of the hips as a graceful matador running rings around an exhausted quarry, the Spanish killed the game off and sent the singing Irish packing. Not that there was much for them to pack - most were dressed for the poolside bars and sunloungers of Spanish costas than the brazen Baltic, replete as they were on the terraces in short-sleeved Ireland tops, flags draped round shoulders, silly wigs, oversized leprechaun hats and novelty ginger beards.
Maths and sensible attire were not the only problem areas for the Irish. Geometry also perplexed Giovanni Trapattoni's men, such were the acute angles of the Spanish passes as they ripped the Irish defence to pieces. Like a cat toying with a mouse, they flicked the ball at impossible degrees. Even with nine - often all 11 men - behind the ball and dug in deep, the Irish were done for. It was a different type of Spanish Inquisition - and a joy to watch.