Boyleing Points

Boyleing Points

The son who will remain nameless (except when referred to by others) will be arriving back on these shores this weekend after a semester in Ireland.  That’s a huge assumption because he might on a whim join the French Foreign Legion or lose another set of glasses, misread the airport signs and end up in Mozambique. 

This time he might even have a good excuse.  The email read:

I nailed my head going on a castle tour through some tiny ass doorway (yes, it was that small if I'm calling it tiny).  Have had a migraine since, although it's better today compared to Friday when it happened. If it persists I’ll go to the doctor. Don’t think I'm concussed since my pupils aren’t dilated.”

Did you fall down, I ask?

No, but my lights definitely flickered.

I don’t ask if bumping his noggin had anything to do with celebrating his 19th birthday over there.  Over there is where the drinking age is 10 or 11 and the cursing is age is 4 or 5. 

The nameless one has never been confused with St. Patrick or any other saint but drinking is not a particular vice of his.  Which pleases his Irish mates.

I told them to celebrate for me, which was received quite well considering it means more whiskey for them.

He says the announcement went out.  Shane, Jack, and some kid named Cathal. Easy to spell, hard to say. 

"Tomorrow’s Sean’s birthday, I'll bring women. Cathal you can get the drink."

Cathal was having none of it. "Shane you're a ginger that works on a horse ranch. Whatever women would follow you, I can vouch for Sean when saying, they can stay home."

The lad who doesn’t drink told me “Don’t worry I’ll probably be waking up somewhere in Dublin after my birthday.”

I anxiously awaited email the next day hoping everyone was home safe. The message the next day was supposed to reassure me. Cathal jumped in the River Liffey and other than a few scuffles we were home by midnight.

What?! I say.  He doesn’t respond for hours.

Only kidding about the Liffey, although definitely watched our heritage in action.  Still, everyone got up for class at 8 a.m.

Like the legendary Irish independence fig­hter Kevin Barry who wouldn’t inform on his buddies and was executed by the British, the one who remains nameless offered no more intel on the night in question other than to say he pulled an Irish exit at his own birthday celebration for my health, safety and sanity.

A week later another email arrives. 

I ran into a bunch of the guys who were out for my birthday, got abused for hitting my head on the tour. But one of them did mention the aftermath of my birthday, "Got to say Sean, one of the best nights I ever had. I mean, I did wake up handcuffed to me own radiator in my room but I had my wallet so it was grand."

As he’s getting ready to return to the States, he writes "Can’t wait to get home even if the Irish girls are telling me not to."

And the Irish guys want to keep a piece of him, too. 

“We’re going to Warsaw in March. Jack, Shane, Cathal, and others are in. This is peer pressure Sean."

That’s nice of them.  But I’ve failed as a parent if my son gets talked into going to Poland in March.

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