I was lucky to be the daughter of a famous hurler. This was said to me repeatedly as a youngster, mostly by men, old and with hair coming out of their ears. Did they not know that being famous meant being someone like Joe Di Maggio or Mickey Mantle? None of my friends had ever heard of the game my father was famous for, and was still playing.
Curling, or hockey-without ice, they would say, shaking their heads. "You mean that game with crazy, wild Irish men chasing each other with sticks? You gotta be kiddin'," said their parents. I'd keep quiet about it. Any attempt to brag would only bring derision onto my head. Although the caman was a poor substitute for a baseball bat, my brothers and I found it handy for any sport requiring a stick to hit a ball.
Gaelic Park
We never discussed hurling. We'd roll our eyes at talk of Daddy in the "Thunder and Lightning" final of 1939 or scoring the "Winning Point of '47" whenever the men congregated. These ancient points and goals in a faraway land were pucked about like so many sliotars through the air by equally ancient men, throaty and excited. They clung to the gates surrounding the field at Gaelic Park in the Bronx every Sunday in summer. Whenever Daddy left the pitch, he was surrounded by hoarse voices roaring: "Great man, Terry."
That's when my brothers and I announced as loudly as we could how lucky we were to be the children of one so talented and good. We greedily grabbed the nickels and dimes preferred by these admirers behind his back. It was the only money made on hurling to come into our house.
Indirectly, hurling was responsible for my eventual move to Ireland. Long after my mother died, my stepmother asked me to accompany my father on his annual trip home to Kilkenny; it was all too much for her and she couldn't keep up. For 20 years he flew to Ireland every August and stayed until mid-September. The main purpose and highlight of this holiday was the All-Ireland Senior Hurling Final in Croke Park. I accompanied him in 1979, when Kilkenny were playing Galway. Kilkenny won 2-12 to 1-8. His old friend and team-mate Jim Langton drove us both down to Kilkenny the next day. It took us over nine hours to make the journey.
Fun and festivities
By the time I moved over from New York in 1981, Kilkenny were on a roll. They subsequently won in 1982 and 1983. I attended the games with my father but it meant nothing more to me than fun and festivities before and afterwards. Win or lose, the camraderie, colours and craic produced an occasion I felt grateful to be part of. When Kilkenny lost to Galway in 1987, it didn't spoil a thing. My father, Terry, got to hear the roar of the crowd once more when he and several other oldtimers took the field at halftime. It was to be his last trip.
Our awareness of the precious things in life usually comes too late. In the end we must be grateful that it comes at all. Appreciation comes tripping slowly, and so it was with my love of hurling. I can't be relied upon to remember specific players, dates or particular moves. Women somehow cannot remember such details. It just doesn't adhere to their memory cells as it does for men. But that's for the neuro-scientists to unravel.
Broad sweep
This doesn't for one instant diminish the attraction of the game for anyone, regardless of sex, age or creed. Its broad sweep can be appreciated on many levels. It's fast and so, so skilful. I've tried many times to lift and puck. It comes as a surprise to find that the two don't naturally blend together as easily as hurlers make it appear. And they do it even as they are being jostled, pushed and cracked at by crazy, wild Irishmen with sticks. It is not a game for the weak-hearted or thin-skinned.
There is something wild and pagan about hurling. It speaks of an Ireland before the taming influence of Christianity. If myth and legend are anything to go by, the game had its devoted followers more than a thousand years before the birth of Christ. To think of people long turned to dust who played, watched and discussed the game in the mists from Cu Chulainn on down the ages gives it a status which dwarfs most other popular sports.
So once again, as for thousands and millions before us, there is great anticipation as we hope for another spectacular display of hurling in this last final of the millenium. I, for one, will be roaring and shouting until I'm hardly able to speak. Up the field lads - and c'mon the Cats!