In training

It is nearing the end of another grueling, seemingly interminable football training, and my legs feel like cement. I have never – in my life – run as many sprints as I have in the past ninety minutes. I am so winded and exhausted that Robbie’s voice – as ever, shouting obscenities and strange instructions in an incomprehensible West Kerry accent – sounds as though it is coming from a mile away, although he is standing within striking distance of me as I labor to catch my breath before the next drill. I mostly have no idea what he’s saying – the word "feck" is the only thing that comes through loud and clear.

"Who’s gonna feck this up?! Who’s gonna feck up?! Any o' youse fecks up and it’s youse 'ats gonna be punished!"

Before I’ve had any chance to recover, we’re lining up again in twos for a hand-passing drill at "half-speed," which I’ve come to learn means "as fast as you’re capable of running - until I make you run faster." Niamh, my favorite ever Corkonian (and that’s saying something) turns quietly to me and mutters in a breathless whisper, "If he makes us run any more feckin’ suicides..." I roll my eyes in quiet agreement, unable to respond verbally because I have neither the energy nor the oxygen. But the jig is up – our small, quiet conversation has not gone unnoticed.

"O’Reilly! O’Sullivan! FECK!"

This particular turn of phrase requires no translation: talking during drills is not tolerated and the punishment is always the same. The two of us exchange terrified, and humiliated, looks, before lining up at the goal post, waiting for the countdown from three, and taking off at breakneck pace for the other end of the field as the other girls watch in shared sympathy. And this is no ordinary football pitch – nor is it your ordinary soccer pitch. This field is a full 145 meters long, the largest pitch ever designed for a field sport. To the end-posts and back, we race each other in a two-man competition that feels increasingly to me like a prisoner’s dilemma, since we both know the loser will be required to do push ups at the end.

And that loser is me.

This is Gaelic football.

I am not an unathletic person, nor am I in terribly bad shape. I have run five miles a day, five days a week, for the past twelve months. I played soccer for ten years. I run a nine-minute mile. I wear a comfortable size 4. I look like a moose on the field with the rest of the girls.

These long-legged Hibernians, with their chestnut brown tresses and delightful summer freckles, who seem to subsist exclusively on potatoes, ham, and beer in equally copious amounts, are nevertheless as svelte and elegant as Anna Kournikova. I have been to training sessions twice, and more recently even three times a week, since late March, making every conceivable effort to learn this sport, and, you know, maybe even get good at it. There has been improvement, to be sure, but this sport is complicated, intense, and more competitive than any team endeavor I’ve ever tried. To put it simply: I’m getting my ass kicked.

Our series of drills concludes and there’s just time to don yellow and red mesh bibs for a twenty minute scrimmage, another sweaty, muddy, violent, and excruciating reminder that these girls have been playing Gaelic since they were wee gossins, and the best I’ve got to offer is a few well-placed kicks in the short nanoseconds before I get tackled. It’s after 8pm but it’s still 80 degrees and roasting hot out in the middle of the pitch on the outskirts of Boston, making every move a labored effort to convince body parts to participate in this ritualistic agony, long after they thought they had thrown in the towel for the night. The whistle blows. It’s over.

We walk ourselves back to the sidelines, dirty, exhausted and bedraggled. My shins are screaming in protest like overwrought soldiers in an unpopular war of attrition, and I know I will have a mutiny on my hands in the morning when I try to slip into my black Elie Tahari stilettos. At this point my feet are so swollen that trying to put on any shoes tomorrow may be a doomed, Drizella-esque effort. For now, though, it’s a relief to get out of my cleats, chug a liter of water, and sit on the grass to give my sore muscles a break – albeit temporary. This training session is not over yet. It’s Wednesday night, after all, and on Wednesdays the Shamrocks always have a “boot bag session,” an evening of wild drinking at The Banshee Pub directly following training, where you are expected to come as you are, boot bag in hand, and spend at least $10 on drinks. No excuses, no getting out of it; The Banshee is our team sponsor, which by my calculation means they probably contribute at least ten and maybe fifteen thousand dollars a summer to getting us suited and booted, fed and watered. By the time we arrive at this hole-in-the-wall, Southie bar, we’re all in pretty good spirits, and the bouncer waves us through without even a mention of IDs, nodding to each of us as we pass him and saying under his breath, like he’s calling roll: "Shamrock... Shamrock... Shamrock..."

It is my sincere intention to stay at this boot bag session for all of ten minutes, have a drink, and get out before quarter nine. I do, after all, have work in the morning. But, as tends to be the case when you’re out with a group of Irish lasses, one drink turns to three, and before you know it we’re all crowded around the bar, making music requests to the bartenders and starting sing-a-longs for the whole establishment.

"I been a wild rover, for many’s a year… and I spent all me money on whiskey and beer..."

An Irish drinking classic, everyone knows the words to Wild Rover, but to most of these girls it has strong, nostalgic associations. For me it’s a night spent in a small Kerry village watching rugby at a local pub. But for them – it’s home.

"All right girls, I’d better be heading back now..." I start, but it’s greeted with only protest and ribbing. "Are you mad? "You’ve only had three drinks, like!" "What kind of footballer are you, anyway?" "Ah come on, stay for one more drink... it’s my round anyway!"

I joined the Gaelic football team because I wanted to meet Irish girls, learn a new sport, and add a new dynamic to my social experience in Boston. What a waste it would be if I didn’t take every opportunity to enjoy the craic with all these girls, right? I’m persuaded to stay, but I’m drinking Diet Coke, and I wholeheartedly dive into the conversation about which Irish county has the cutest boys.

"Oh it’s definitely Donegal, like – those accents!" says Shannon, who hails from Waterford. Catriona from Donegal protests: "That is disgustin’, like! Donegal! The boys in Donegal are all tossers!" She would know, I guess.

The back and forth continues, until Ciara from Cork pipes up to add her own two cents: "All right, girlies... why do boys from Cork always wear two condoms?" she poses to the group. Pause. Giggles.

"Ah, to be sure, to be sure!"

The crowd erupts in laughter. If you’ve never met a man from Cork, this is perhaps the least funny joke you’ve heard today – if you have, it’s hilarious.

After wriggling my way out of what surely turned into an all night seisun, I’m on the way back to the JFK/UMass T Station and am passed by an older black man walking a Chihuahua with a stud collar. He looks me up and down and then asks wryly, "Who won?"

"The feckin’ Reds!" I answer, without thinking, before realizing what a completely meaningless response that was. The man chuckles, shakes his head, and keeps walking.

So here I am, standing on the platform as "the next Redline train to Alewife is now approaching." I look like I’ve been standing under an open fire hydrant for the past few hours, and I can barely walk straight – I think this is more a product of the physical exertion my legs have been subjected to than the three pints of Guinness I just drank on an empty stomach, but at this point who knows. It’s a forty minute T-ride back to Kenmore Square, where I disembark and wearily drag myself back to the apartment, up to the sixth floor, and in the front door.

Home. Exhale. Strip off every scrap of sticky, sweat-drenched clothing that I am wearing. Survey the damage. One large bruise on my outer thigh, turning blacker by the minute. A couple of well-deserved scratches on the wrist, and one on my cheek that I definitely didn’t deserve. Blisters on both of my heels that will burst at any moment. There are streaks of blood on several of my toes, and it’s unclear where it’s coming from... I’ll deal with that later. For the moment, I need a quick hot shower, something to eat, and a second wind. It’s eleven o’clock, and while I’d like nothing more than to go straight to sleep, I still have two hours of sewing homework to complete for my fashion design class tomorrow night. Sleep will have to wait as, bleary-eyed, I sit down at a sewing machine I barely know how to operate, try desperately to remember yesterday’s instructions, and attempt to make a princess seam, first on muslin, then on silk.

"And it’s no, nay, never… no nay never, no more! Will I play a wild rover... no never, no more..."

I don’t know what time I finally went to sleep last night, but the sun streaking through the window tells me that it’s time – if not extremely late – for me to get up and get to work. It takes a few moments for me to realize that the strains of Irish pub music are not just playing through my head, but coming out of my cell phone as well. Confused, tired, and heavy-headed, I turn over to find my phone buried somewhere in the sheets, and see my alarm going off to indicate that 6:50am has come mercilessly. But... this is not my alarm tone. As I slowly, gingerly, prop myself up and begin the process of stepping out of bed, I wonder who has gotten into my phone and changed my alarm settings so that I’d awake to the lyrical remnants of a night of too much drink at The Banshee. Definitely Deirdre. That sneaky fox.

After a quick shower I look around the apartment, and quietly praise myself for at least having had the wherewithal at god-knows-when-in-the-morning to have packed up all my fashion design supplies and homework before I went to bed. I get dressed, hurriedly put on make up and fix my hair, and then face the daunting decision about shoes. Oh how I wish it were professionally appropriate to wear flip flops right now. I gaze down in angst at the black stilettos – how perfect they would look with this wool gabardine skirt! – but ultimately reconsider. "That’s okay," I say aloud, to nobody in particular except the wooden shoe rack. "It felt like a ballet flats kind of day anyway."

I grab my fashion portfolio, my gym clothes, my purse and my phone (which in itself required a monumental mission of wrestling with sheets and pillow cases) and walk out the door. It’s 7:30. I will be at work by 8. My head is pounding, my legs ache, I am starving, exhausted, unsteady, and sore in places I never knew existed. The day just started.

"And it’s no, nay, never… no nay never, no more! Will I play a wild rover... no never, no more..."