The doors of the crazy Donnybrook pub burst open, letting in at least twenty ravaging guys, coming from the rugby game. I stand beside one of them at the bar, waiting for the harassed bartender to take notice of us. This guy’s hand is bleeding, wrapped up in a handkerchief. He has an enormous devilish smile on his face and a cracked tooth. Others have black eyes. Cut lips. They pour liquor down their throats. They smash their mugs onto the bar. They make out with random girls, who laugh, and shove them away. They light each other’s cigarettes, and laugh uproariously. Some of them have the colors of the Irish flag painted on their faces.<\/p>\n
My sisters and I watch the spectacle of testosterone, huddled in our corner.<\/p>\n
A manic conga line forms and cuts a path through the pub.<\/p>\n
Jean turns to the little elfish guy named Brian who has become our new best friend. “So I guess Ireland won, huh?” she says as the conga line rages by.<\/p>\n
Brian replies casually, “Oh no, we lost.”<\/p>\n
We gape at him, turning wordlessly to stare at the unmistakably nationalistic ecstasy, ricocheting down the whiskey-soaked conga line. We scan the fanatical expressions on the green, white, and orange faces. We then glance back at Brian, our questions clear on our faces.<\/p>\n
He shrugs. “It was a moral <\/i>victory.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The doors of the crazy Donnybrook pub burst open, letting in at least twenty ravaging guys, coming from the rugby game. I stand beside one of them at the bar, waiting for the harassed bartender to take notice of us. … Continue reading