Sporting of all kinds is a thing down here in North Carolina, the state I’ve called home off and on at various ages. Yet, I’ve always found myself lost between two sporting worlds: my family is ALL from Southeastern Michigan (that’s Michigan State territory, the Redwings, the cursed Lions, the Tigers and the Pistons, primarily), yet I grew up with a Marine father, a military kid tossed about on the seas of cultural uncertainty. I was born in Michigan, spent six years in California (bouncing from Michigan to Cali, honestly), then some years in North Carolina, followed by more years in Michigan. By ninth grade, I was back in North Carolina where I finished high school, joined the US Army, and began bouncing around once again until retiring in my thirties in North Carolina. Throughout my days of shuffling around, I got asked about where I’m from. “Where you from, Binks?”
“Michigan.”
“Oh, cool! Me too! Where abouts?”
“Well, I was born in Michigan, lived there a bit, but I don’t know it.” Wind out of the conversation’s sails. So, I had to adapt. “Where you from?”
“North Carolina.”
“Oh, cool! Go Heels! Not a Tarheel, eh? Blue Devil? Wolfpack? NASCAR fan, right?” Sorry, but no. See, moving about like I did I failed entirely at the development of loyalty to any sporting brand. I played hockey, baseball, soccer and did competitive martial arts, but no team took much sway over me. Between sports and work, 90 percent of male conversation in the USA finds its home. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve kept up with major sporting events, I know the games, the teams and the significance, but I don’t have a personal tie that keeps me glued to the TV. “Where you from, bro?”
“Fayetteville.”
“Damn, man, Fayette-nam! You Army?”
“Retired Army.” Bam, just like that, conversations can be driven towards the military.
Now, what’s the point? At some point in my Army career, I became fascinated with two little games born in the Emerald Isle. I think it was W.B. Yeats I was reading, some little ditty about faeries pucking about stood out to me, and I didn’t know what the heck he was on about. Upon further investigation, I found out about hurling and Gaelic football. Mind you, I was deployed to Iraq at the time, stationed in Germany (where my wife was working and taking care of our oldest daughter who was barely out of the womb), and getting hurling equipment or footballs to the USA was precarious, much less out to the sandbox. I made the command decision to get started with football because it was a cheaper and easier entry point to the world of Gaelic Games. Contacting O’Neills, I was able to convince customer service to make APO addresses an option for online shipping. Really, I don’t recall how long shipping took, but it doesn’t seem like it was too bad considering.
Once ball and pump were in hand, I recruited some friends to learn the game. We looked stupid as hell, and the rocky ground was not conducive to hops or bounces of any kind, but we adjusted like good Soldiers do. Within a day, we had interested Iraqis, kids and adults, bringing mad soccer skills to the pitch. When we had the time, for the remainder of the deployment, we played Gaelic football very, very poorly. It was towards the end of our days in country that I found myself with orders to change duty stations. After my third tour in Iraq, I would be heading to Ft. Sam Houston, Texas to work as cadre with Echo Company, 232nd Medical Battalion.
Now that I had orders to Texas, I could safely contact some folks and start planning for the move, all while still in Iraq theater. One of the places to contact was an Irish cultural organization, Harp & Shamrock, who had put a call out for Gaelic Games a while back. My point of contact was the infamous Joan Moody herself, who would become one of the unsung heroes of the San Antonio GAC, but I’m ahead of myself. I chatted with Joan via email for a while, but redeployment, house hunting and moving from 0-degree German winter to a 65-degree San Antonio “winter” put my GAA dreams on hold. I may have forgotten, but good ol’Joan did not forget. My growing family, the wife pregnant with our second, settled into our new house (still my favorite house, in a neighborhood at the second highest point in Bexar County) and, just in time, Joan contacted me. She had a couple of guys, one a farm boy from Sligo with senior football experience, who were interested in getting a club started. Prior to meeting these fellers, me, my wife and two kids, one in a stroller, the other in a womb, printed some business cards and created a Facebook page for a team that didn’t exist. The tagline? “Become the founding father of a club promoting ancient Irish sport! No experience necessary!” We hoofed around in South Texas heat, to every sporting event, run, gym and athletic venue we could think of. At the end of a month, we had six whole members, and we were thrilled!
The field that was available for training, the one not taken by soccer players, was reminiscent of the field in Iraq, of which I was already accustomed. I was able to pass on tips and tricks to the others as we all kicked the football around, ricocheting that bad boy into the far reaches of Olmos Basin Park. Getting a ball stuck in a tree in South Texas hits different than getting a ball stuck in a tree anywhere else. They say everything is bigger in Texas. Well, everything will also kill you in Texas. Beware. The early days of training were fun, but they were not so productive. Enter the Coach, Sligo’s Own.
Sligo and I met at a steakhouse. I wore my Dublin jersey so that the boy from the West wouldn’t miss me. This was an authentic jersey, bought in Dublin just after I had returned from Iraq. Remember how I said I haven’t a connection to sports teams? Well, same same here, but I collect jerseys from the counties I visit in Ireland. Sligo and I hit it off immediately, both enthusiastically approaching the foundation of club in the Alamo City, and me learning what real “taking the piss” means. After our initial meeting, I contacted the third in our group, the Beard, and we all agreed to meet at the upcoming Highland Games. This time, my wife and I decided, we would not hand out business cards, but set up a table with a poster, video, Gaelic equipment and live demonstrations. It was here that we found our founding, as many of the original six faded away while most of those who approached our table at the Highland Games stayed and are still around over ten years later. At the time there were two other teams in Texas, Austin and Dallas. We were told to expect it to take over eighteen months to get a club off the ground. I told them I’d get it done in six months. The boys, rightfully, scoffed at me. I got the club running in four months, and we won tinsel that year at the USGAA Finals. In 2021 the San Antonio GAC turned ten years old, which is one of the greatest points of pride in my life. Call that silly, but even over military campaigns, which were part of my job, the GAC was, and remains, one of the most prolific events of my life. That is the power of sport, over and above loyalty to teams. So sayeth this military kid.
What’s it all mean? It means that when I talk sports with other guys, I talk hurling. I talk Gaelic football. I talk GAA and Gaelic Games. I talk about the link between competitive culture and musical culture and dance culture. I talk about food and, of course, I talk about drink. Most of all, I talk about the best thing the Irish invented. I talk about the Craic. Yet, even though good times is universal between people, I find it a difficult sell. Like it’s all too good to be true. I won’t lie—it takes time, passion, patience and boundless energy—but, like Christ said, what you put in you get back a hundred-fold. Contact me if you, too, are, or would love to become, an Apostle of the Puck.
Saol fada chugat,
Jay