Katy McDermott

I want to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day, I really do. But in America, it’s become an amateur-night drinking-fest that turns otherwise normal people into escapees from an Irish Spring commercial.

Granted, the stereotype of “Irishness” lends itself to a raucous holiday: roguish charm, infectious songs, massive beer consumption. Think about it. Is there any other nationality that has an entire holiday devoted to it?

The fact that St. Patrick’s Day – in Ireland – is actually a Holy Day of Obligation (meaning Catholics have to attend Mass) and is usually followed by a sedate family meal no longer matters. In the American version, starting with the first St. Patrick’s Day parade (not in Dublin but in New York City, in 1762), March 17 is a Celtic ethnic free-for-all. How authentic are you? How many “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” buttons, shamrock ties, and Kelly green sweaters are you wearing? Do you know all the words to “Danny Boy?” Have a small Irish flag to wave at your city’s parade?

I braved a bar once on St. Patrick’s Day. I was in college (and therefore adventurous). We arrived early, stayed late, and heard what we assumed was traditional music played by a trio on fiddle, penny whistle, and guitar. The audience slurred along, and the band was resigned to performing those St. Paddy’s Day stalwarts that would guarantee them good tips. (Bonus points for a brogue, real or otherwise). As the night grew later, we grew louder. Poor band.

These days, I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in any meaningful way (although I confess to wearing a “McDermott’s Celtic Ale” sweatshirt I stole from my husband). I guess my trip to Ireland 4 years ago spoiled me for the “Lucky Charms and green beer” route the holiday seems to be taking over here. I know it’s not right to generalize, but there are aspects of my personality that I never fully understood until I was there.

I’ve been mocked for years for being too forthcoming, too open to talking (and listening) to complete strangers. In Ireland, though – well, it was like coming home. Everyone talks a lot. Everyone listens to stories from strangers. Not just the obvious people like bartenders and bus drivers – regular people. Regular Irish people. An elderly gentleman told me about the many exploits of his newly-confirmed grandson. A Cork city cab driver regaled me with tales of sharing whisky in a paper bag with “the Rastas” in New York City’s Stuyvesant Park. Talkative grandfathers and verbose cabbies. Land of my fathers!

But while I expected the Irish people to be gregarious, nothing could have prepared me for their fierce, almost tribal loyalty to a sport most Americans have never heard of: hurling. (Yes, it’s called “hurling” – go ahead and snicker – I’ll wait…)

Early in our vacation, my husband ventured out in search of unusual souvenirs – no Blarney Stone key chains for him. We were in County Cork, and he returned with a sports jersey for what looked like soccer or rugby – in bright red. Now, non-traditional is one thing, but I admit I wouldn’t have minded a bit of green. But if he wanted a bright red sports jersey, so be it – besides, I had my eye on a sterling silver Celtic cross necklace that was at least recognizably Irish.

My husband’s not the neatest of men, so he tossed the bright red jersey to the floor of our hotel room, where it lay wadded in a heap while we took in the sights. When we returned hours later, Housekeeping had clearly been in to clean. The linens were freshly changed, the bathroom sparkling, and our clutter tidied into piles. And the center of the bed featured the bright red jersey, unfolded, de-wadded, and lovingly positioned “just so.” But it was only a jersey, right? In order to unravel the mystery, it seemed a discussion with the garrulous front desk clerk was in order…

Turns out the jersey was a hurling jersey, and we learned that each county in Ireland fields its own team. The Irish don’t choose their hurling teams – they’re born into them. Hurling is sort of like lacrosse, but with no nets at the end of the sticks. Oh, and no pads either. Or picture a game similar to soccer, but with all the players wielding vicious-looking clubs. It’s wickedly fast and features a murky scoring system that everyone in Ireland understands from birth.

By the time we’d reached Dublin, my husband and I had acquired a number of other hurling jerseys. They turned out to be quite the conversation starters (and I thought the Irish were talkative before!) A young tour guide fondly recalled a match he’d seen back in the 1990s that amounted to “organized thuggery.” A waitress struggled to retain her “be nice to the tourists” demeanor as she asked politely if I supported Galway, since I was wearing a Galway jersey in Dublin.

(Oops.)

On our next-to-last day in Ireland, it rained, so rather than trek through sodden ruins of medieval churches and distilleries, we took a behind-the-scenes tour of Croke Park in Dublin. Croke Park is where almost all hurling matches in Ireland take place: an enormous, multi-tiered facility reminiscent of a typical football stadium in the States. We visited the locker rooms and the players’ lounge (with its own ornate bar.) We discovered its political history (it seems that every site in Ireland is connected in some way with the Irish Revolution, and Croke Park is no exception – along with the hurling matches came a bloody uprising in 1920). We learned that, astonishingly, all the players are amateurs. Schoolteacher or plumber by day, world-class athlete by night – and no paycheck at all. No wonder they have an ornate bar…

We subscribe to a special cable channel now that sometimes features hurling matches. It’s lovely to hear those accents again, even if the scoring system still defies our understanding.

The fans, though, are eerily familiar. They wear Kelly green sweaters, sport shamrock ties up in the executive boxes, wave Irish flags, and guzzle beer like crazy.

Kind of like St. Patrick’s Day here.