Lockport Union-Sun & Journal — Last week, I wrote a column pertaining to my brother’s friend, Irish (“Irish” was his nickname). Quite simply: Irish was a character. This week, I’ll finish the topic with one more “Irish classic.”
Irish and his wife owned and operated a small bar in northern NY. His Irish heritage oozed from every pore of his body. With his Celtic brogue intact, he would hold sway and captivate anyone within earshot.
People unfamiliar with the man might think he was nothing more than a bloviating busybody with a penchant for telling tall tales of bravado. Not so! That’s not the way Irish rolled. His chronicles were as often self-deprecating – if not more so – than they were of self-boasting conquests. And they were true!
He was the quintessential story teller: With a twinkle in his eye, he could mesmerize a crowd by simply telling them what he did the night before. And, you never questioned his credibility. He’d take exception if you doubted him. (That’s key to this story.)
He enjoyed his “teas” (beer) and spoke of his binges like they were normal events in the life of any Irishman – such as, himself. He simply told it like it was.
My brother, Tim, related how Irish told him of one of his mischievous romps.
Irish started, “Oh-h, pa-a-l” (he called everyone ‘pal’) “I got pretty drunk yesterday, pal.”
Tim let him continue.
“I know I was too drunk to drive but like the blessed fool I am, pal, I tried.”
“That’s not a good idea, Irish,” Tim chided, “you should know better.”
“Oh pa-a-a-l, I know it. I didn’t go far, pal – I was only a block away at the stop light. I must have dozed for a second right there in the middle of the intersection — I didn’t realize the light had turned green and the guy behind me got on his horn.