As a kid growing up in Ireland March of course meant St Patrick’s Day which meant we got a dispensation to eat sweets (candy) in an otherwise sweet-less Lent, also meant a day off school, Mass (as it’s a religious holiday) my sisters birthday (Happy Birthday, Angela) and going to full and boring parades. Later it meant being in said dull and boring parades and when I was old enough to work in the family biz (12), it meant working when everyone else drowned the shamrock.
When I went to serve my time (apprentice), it also meant Irish Rugby Internationals, 5 Nations (I think it’s 6 now) 30 hours worked in a weekend since the hotel I worked at hosted both the Irish team and their opponents. And that lead to raucous parties the night after the game.
Coming to America added another wrinkle: college basketball. Before I came here we only used brackets to hold stuff up, and Cinderella was only found in Disney, and the Big East (four days we looked forward to as it was as good as some months tips-wise). I also met people who just came for those four days, and 25 years later we still stay in touch.
Twenty-three (23) years ago March added a new meaning when my son Ryan was born. I love him dearly and am very proud of the young man he has become. Ten years ago this March became synonymous with Danny Boy, but that in itself is a story for another blog! While March still means a combination of all of the above, it also means spring training and more importantly the end of spring training and my lady coming back home.