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May
2001
Last
night was pregnant with opportunity, squashed by circumstance.
The day began on a high note and never really deflated. I gathered
enough sense last week to buy some blank tapes to record some driving
music. My first choice was the high octane musica from Diggie
Diamond and the boys. Growling the vocals to 'Black Cadillac' on
the way in to work got me Ready For Action well before 8:20. I
never downshifted the entire day, and I laid the groundwork for the big
BBQ fest that'll take place in a few weeks. Imagery for the
invites danced in my head all day, and I think I'm sold on incorporating
the phrase 'U.S. Grade A'. When I finally escaped from work, I
headed into town with my roommate and we enjoyed the sweet tastes of
Hillbilly's Breast in a Bun sandwiches and plotted for the evening.
At Michael's request, we met up with another EMC American, this one went
to Michael's high school and was a few years older.
We headed for the Hi-B. The aged glow of the lights on the yellow
wallpaper just makes the place. I was served by a delicious
looking girl with some blacker than black hair that was cut real short -
always a treat. I obliged our guest and listened to some terrible
banter about high school sports, the Red Sox, and even work, all the
while plotting my quest for the girl. I couldn't extricate myself
from the conversation, as I would be ready to head on up to the bar and
I would be thrust back into the minefields of dull conversation.
Even Michael realized just how bad the situation was, and no opportunity
ever arose to break free – until manna from the gods fell from the sky
and landed on the table in front of me - a shot of Scotch! Without
warning, I saw the split in the road and had to take it - this man had
bought a round of shots in celebration of the birth of his fourth child
the previous night. I'm not a wonderful drinker of brown spirits,
and I always have to be careful around them, but I toasted the man and
forced it down. Sensing this was my break, I made my way over to
him and his drunken friends, congratulated him again, and offered to buy
them drinks. They all had full ones, and insisted they were set
(they were) - we talked a bit, and the dangerous girl behind the bar had
disappeared - replaced by the next shift. Strike one.
Intent on making Bill's life hell at this point, we headed onto the
Hairy Lemon - for some Black Russians. I walk in the door hellbent,
heading for the bar and who stands before me - Lorraine. Ah, such
a delight! And such a warm smile! I broke the news to
her I'd be able to see her show in June - she was delighted, and seemed
a lot more calm with less than a month to go than I ever am. Maybe
procrastination and all nighters are more American ideals than I had
thought. We talked a bit, swamped stories and glances, and her
bubbly attitude was infectious. She was also delighted to make the
three Black Russians - a scandalous smile roared across her face when I
had ordered them. In a couple of minutes I was ordering a
Guinness, and kept getting interupted by Bill. Michael laid back
and saw the action, but the spur in my side was killing me.
Unfortunately, Lorraine's shift ended too - such a bizarre occurrence
once in a night, let alone twice!! - and I was talking to the other
bartender (and manager) and discovered she was a printmaker - maybe
artists and crackpots just gravitate towards the Hairy Lemon - and the
conversation was good and the pint was full. My frustrated
roommate made his way with Bill to the Old Oak, a more upscale bar that
is usually jumping and packed on weekends. I stuck around the
Lemon a bit longer, finishing my beer, complimenting Bellyman on his
choice of records for the night, and trying to stay out of trouble.
Lorraine also made the call earlier - the only one in the pub to notice
(the only one not completely mesmerized by her beauty) that everyone in
there was a guy. She tastefully yelled out, 'What is this a gay
bar?' and all of a sudden the spell was broken - a quick look around the
pub made everyone realize there were no women besides Lorraine.
Anxieties eased as two young ladies strolled in, and everyone took a
silent collective breathe.
I still needed an upgrade on the sights though, so I headed up
the road to the Oak - and watched Michael crash and burn big time with
one of the locals - and the night was now complete - work was 6 hours
away and counting...
Subject:
quick hitters from Eire
As I
turned the heat on in the car driving to work this morning, I realized
that all the outrageous talk that summer in Ireland ends with May
was no lie. It seems the sun doesn’t decide to shine until the
afternoon, and even then the skies aren’t blue and filled with the
booming white clouds as often as the last five weeks had lead me to
believe. It’s never really cold here, but it never gets really
hot. Fortunately, we were blessed with some beautiful hot sunny
weather during the June bank holiday and I spent a week hoping the
weather would hold out for the All American BBQ planned for last
Saturday. It did, mostly, more on that later. For now,
here’s some belated bits and pieces from the Emerald Isle.
Sunday Night, 20 May 2001
I
brought my roommate Michael up to speed with the intimate goings ons
that occurred in Dublin over the weekend and unwound from my trek home
over a few beers at the Angler’s Rest, which is fast becoming our local
local pub to finish the weekend in. It’s a fairly high class
establishment with a nice drinking area outside - the bartenders wear
ties and call us ‘lads’ and the place is kept up nicely - I’m even sure
someone wipes the place down with a wet rag from time to time.
It’s a sweet, comfortable place to unwind and watch the sun go down -
the sun has been setting around 9:30 and it’s somewhat disconcerting to
head out for the night at 10 with the sky still blue. It’s even
more disconcerting to realize the sky is blue again before you get home.
This Sunday night wasn’t one of those nights, and we even got back home
in time to catch the first episode of the British version of Survivor -
a horribly directed and produced hollow copy of the US version.
Both versions are filled with the disturbingly similar annoying
personalities though.
Monday Night, 21 May 2001
The night started quietly - a few hours of drawing and a nice home
cooked meal. I finally had gotten around to doing some ironing,
getting ready for the rest of the week (I’ve learned the secret is
steam, not pressure) when Michael headed out up the road to visit one of
his co-workers and prepare to meet some customers for the next day at
work. Within fifteen minutes of his departure, the phone rang and
Michael was imploring me to head to the Angler’s Rest. Without
hesitation or a second thought, I headed up to find a full parking lot
and a band playing outside. It didn’t take long to run into
Michael or his friends - John Morley and the always outrageous Johnny
Clifford - they had barely been able to squeeze into the overflowing
pub. Before I headed towards the bar to order a round of drinks
(and a double round of Murphy’s for me) Michael and company told me it
was an Aer Lingus stewardess party. Scanning the bar, I noticed
all the girls in tight party dresses, flashing big smiles, downing
glasses of beer, and was particularly impressed by one corner of the
bar, that by some graciousness of God, was always filled exclusively
with some blondes. It also seemed as the time passed by, the crowd
grew exponentially. This was probably due to the best singular
usage of cell phones in the world - it probably began with a single call
from one of the regulars who noticed the different quality crowd milling
into the pub on a Monday night, telling his buddies, who then called
theirs. By the end of the night (after a few gardai stopped by and
poked their heads in), I’m convinced every man within 40 miles of Cork
was at the Angler’s Rest. Of course the next morning I
realized I missed the chance to buy some peanuts at the bar and offer
them to the stewardesses. Foolish me to miss such an opportunity.
Tuesday Night, 22 May 2001
The
number of French girls in my art class went from 4 to 6. A Danish
girl also joined the crew. I am completely transfixed by Celia’s
eyes. Clear and blue, I was laughed at at lunch this afternoon
when Eammon asked me how the class was going and what was going on with
the French girls. I told him the blonde was nice, but attached, a
couple were just strange, and the one who speaks the best English
reminds me of my 9th grade Spanish teacher. When I got to Celia
though, Eammon laughed, and said, "if you know what color her eyes are,
you're in trouble, if you throw in an adjective, it's all over."
Thursday, 24 May 2001
A night
at the races
My group from work had planned in advance a going away party for me that
was supposed to take place in early May, but as things worked out, it
turned into a big celebratory night out at the dog races. I met up with
all the Cork Quality folks at Curraheen Park. We shuffled in the door
and were given programs for the night as we were pointed to our
trackside seats in the posh glassed in seating area. I opened the
program, and as we walked up the stairs, one dog jumped out at me in
particular - the fourth dog in the fourth race - Us Only. The program
printed the dog’s names in all capitals, and I interpreted the name as
U.S. ONLY. My national pride sparked the normal groans of protest and
eye rolling from my Irish cohorts as the brash American was shooting his
mouth off again. We took our seats, and it only took a couple beers
during dinner to completely guarantee a U.S. ONLY victory, one that
would be accompanied by a salute and a rendition of the Star Spangled
Banner as the Dog of Dogs would cross the finish line in American
style: victorious. I was cocky and overbearing from the start, mouthing
off wildly about my hunches and guesses for winners. I lost badly on
the first two races, although the dogs I bet on showed some slight
promise. With each loss, the pressure mounted and Paul, my boss, made
it a point to tell me about my losing streak. Satisfaction rose among
my co-workers, knowing I was picking losers and they all were convinced
U.S. ONLY had no chance at all. Finally, the fourth race arrived, and I
reiterated my Joe Namath Guarantee. I waited breathlessly as the dogs
made their way to the starting gate. Number 4 looked like a champion,
and the mechanical rabbit made its way around the final bend. I was
betting two pounds on each race, and losing badly, but I threw six on
the dog of the night.
The Knockrour Favourite 575 was the longest race of the night, and
without delay, the dogs were off. U.S. ONLY started poorly, next to
last, seemingly bored to even toy with the idea of winning. And then, a
miracle happened - around the first bend, showing a spark of American
ingenuity, U.S. ONLY cut off the field, moving from 5th to 2nd
in a brilliant move that cut the pack in half. LOST THE WALLET had the
heart of the champion, never letting up, and increased his lead to about
6 lengths by the second bend. U.S. ONLY raced hard in the far
straightaway, but was making up no ground. LOST THE WALLET headed into
the third bend and showed no signs of fading. I upped the ante by
declaring, ‘It’s not how the American starts, it’s how he finishes’.
More groans. U.S. ONLY stepped up his already unnatural pace, speeding
up to almost pull within a length by the final bend. Both dogs were
flying. U.S. ONLY finally caught LOST THE WALLET by the starting gates,
and now the dog race turned into a dog fight. The lead changed by a
nose every three feet - and the finish line - once so far way -was now
drawing dangerously close. The true champion shined- U.S. ONLY won by a
nose! I leapt up into the air and saluted - as if I were greeting a
returning war hero. I put my hand on my heart, and started reciting
America the Beautiful. My co-workers hung their heads, trying not to
hear, trying to distance themselves, and telling me to wipe that smile
off my face. The best part of it all was the 36 pounds U.S. ONLY paid
for my unwavering conviction.
I only won one other race that night - a nice 4-5 double that paid 12
pounds in the 6th, and JERRY CASH (I thought it was Johnny’s
dog) was a wasted three pound bet in the final race of the night. I
felt obligated to bet on JERRY CASH because of my favorite Irish joke
from the 80’s - ‘In America, they have Ronald Reagan, Johnny Cash, and
Stevie Wonder. Ireland has Charles Haughey, no fucking cash, no fucking
wonder.” Now ya’ll can see if you can add a slow dog named Jerry to
that equation.
Of course, some folks would be happy to end the night there - winning
money, having a few drinks, and getting home just after midnight. I'm
not one of them. Gearoid and I headed into town for a nightcap at the
Half Moon Club, right across from the Opera house. We needed to buy
tickets across the way, and Gearoid asked the doorman what was playing.
The burly guy dryly replied, "Some weird Latin shit". I immediately
threw a tenner down and told the ticket lady that I would take two! We
got into the club, perused the crowd, watch some eye candy dance before
our eyes and noticed the Latino band play their music with the vocals,
drums and accompanying salsa beats all coming from a tape deck onstage.
I don't even think anyone else in the place realized the fact there was
only a couple of guys strumming guitars live. We also saw a pathetic
fight just outside the bathroom, when about 6 bouncers were hoping it
would get ugly so they could use some muscle, it didn't. Hillibilly's
tasted even better than usual that night. It was also one of those
nights when the sky gets bright fast, and after a couple of hours
sleeping on the couch I arrived home at 8:17 just in time to get to work
on time at 8:30. Michael heard me come in, and I beat him out the
door. I made it through the day and was all ready to go for the
weekend...
Sunday, 27 May 2001
Hurling galore!
With the sun shining bright, and
Michael’s visiting family in tow for good measure, we finally made the
pilgrimage to Cork’s Parc Ui Caoimh, Cork’s GAA (Gaelic Athletic
Association) mecca. GAA players are not overpaid primadonnas who bark
like dogs, dance like epileptics on acid, and wear Nike shoes, rather
they’re amateurs who risk life and limb for pride and sport. One of the
two sports in the GAA’s world is Gaelic football. Best described as a
cross between soccer, handball, and basketball, in which about 15 a side
kick, throw, and bounce a soccer sized ball up and down a large field,
trying to score three point goals or kick the ball through the uprights
for a point. Seeing some games on TV, it’s a sport that just doesn’t
excite me very much. It’s GAA brother, hurling is the king of all
sports, and this was the reason we headed to the Parc. Hurling follows
the same rules as GAA football, but each player is armed with a hurly -
a wooden stick that is used to whack the ball, opponents, and generally
wreak havoc across the field on a whim. I tried tracking down some
hurling matches for months - but foot and mouth restrictions put a
damper on the true Irish pastime - outside drinking. The county
matchups are the true matches to watch - this bright sunny afternoon the
Quarterfinal match pitting the red and white of the Rebel County - Cork
- vs. the 1960’s NY Jets green and white of the underdogs from County
Limerick. It’s amazing how hurling transcends most everything in Cork -
it rises above bandwagon hopping, civic pride, and sporting passion.
The sold out crowd has large - and loud - 45,000 folks, all decked out
in their county’s colors - with the sections of the stands filled in
alternating colors of red and green - filling the rundown ram shackles
of Parc Ui Caoimh with an impressive atmosphere that I’ve only seen in
an outside approached by the fanatical diehards of the Kansas City
Chiefs.
There’s
some local folklore in Cork that goes something like this: A man from a
county to the north (not from the north) was in Cork and admired the
skill of the Cork hurlers, and was at a Cork match and turned to the
Catholic priest sitting next to him. He asked the priest why Cork is
such a hotbed of hurling and the skill level among Corkonians is off the
charts. The priest says, ‘It’s very simple actually, at three months,
we give each baby in Cork a hurly. If he can grip it properly, we keep
him, otherwise, we cull him.’ Your man's jaw dropped in shock and
horror.
The
pregame festivities started with the introduction of each team - which
resulted in each team violently breaking out of the confines of their
locker rooms and work the already crazed crowd of supporters into a wild
frenzy. I was completely impressed only half the folks on each squad
were helmets - and goaltenders don’t settle for such girlie devices.
After ten minutes of warmup, an Irish band joined the fray and marched
the teams (now assembled into orderly lines) in a parade across the
field to wild applause and cheers from the crowd as they passed. The
crowd stood with reverence and sang along during the national anthem
(there’s a portion of it that is absolutely beautiful) and then the
match began…
The
match was tremendous - I was fortunate enough to be seated next to a man
with a North Cork accent who was summoning Jesus Christ to the field on
every missed call, bad play, and missed point. The atmosphere was
electric- this match was in the top three of all sporting events I’ve
ever attended. On the opening faceoff, a broken hurly went flying off
into the air, and the physical nature of the game never let up. It's
amazing to see bodies crunch and shoulders fall out of sockets. Hurling
combines the best aspects of lacrosse and ice hockey but somehow adds
even more speed and a higher level of brutality. Cork trailed at
halftime, playing a miserably sluggish first half, but they were
inspired after the halftime break. Cork’s tank of a defender, #5, a
giant mountain of pale white flesh, inspired the crowd and his teammates
five minutes in by literally running over a Limerick player and scoring
a point through the uprights from 70 yards out. It was an amazing
play. Cork clawed to take the lead, swapped points with the clock
running down, but eventually lost out on a non call of a Limerick dive,
which set up the winning points. It was the Cork coach's last game.
And then
I learned something about sportsmanship. As frustrating and
demoralizing a loss it was for Cork (no more matches for the county
until next summer - and hurling means everything in Cork) , there were
still some good natured Cork folks who could congratulate the Limerick
supporters on a good match and agree that for today, the better team won
the match. No drunken louts throwing bottles and cursing the fate of
their favorite team, no hangups and jeering ‘Limerick sucks’ - it was an
endlessly frustrating defeat with no poor taste to poison the memories
of the day.
This was the
first of three Sunday matches I would see on the road to the Munster
Championship. The big Clare-Tipperary semifinal match was followed by
the Limerick-Waterford semifinal. I got the worst farmer's tan ever at
the Clare-Tipp match, as I stood in Tipp's end zone terrace section and
baked under the tremendous heat (it must've beeen well over 70 degrees)
and the hot, hot sun for the junior, intermediate and senior matches
that filled the entire afternoon. The game was intense - lots of behind
the play cheap shots and yellow cards. Some amazing hitting between the
rivals too, and I didn't really have a rooting interest in this one
despite sittng among the crazy farmers from the Premier County. The
Limerick semifinal match against Waterford was the most incredible game
I saw (a cracker!), Limerick scored the first point, but gave up the
next 10, and trailed at halftime by a seemingly respectable 6 points,
they never seemed that close at any point in the first half. Limerick
played better in the sceond half, but never seemed to come within 4
points, until 12 minutes remained. Miraculously, their summer didn't
end as they scored 3 goals in the remaining time to pull ahead, and the
upstarts never looked back. I was in the Limerick end, and the
enthusiasm won't be forgotten anytime soon. I also became comfortable
with ticket scalping practices on the Emerald Isle. I still haven't
paid over face value for any tickets, and the heart just doesn't race
anymore when I buy them in front of the gardais. So for those of you
keeping score at home:
27/5
Quarterfinal: 3/6 Semifinal: 10/6 Semifinal:
Limerick 1-16 (19) Tipperary 0-15 (15) Limerick
4-11 (23)
Cork 1-15 (18)
Clare 0-14 (14) Waterford 2-14 (20)
1st of
July - Munster Final - Limerick - Tipperary
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CONTINUE TO JUNE...
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