Pray for Me

And, keep in mind, that I say this while not being a religious person. But some higher power will have to take pity on me this weekend if I’m going to make it to the next one. Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day—well, not the official St. Patty’s Day. It’s the day of Pittsburgh’s St. Patty’s Day Parade, which is held on the Saturday of or before March 17th. Tens of thousands take to the streets, bars, pubs, clubs, and gutters to celebrate Irish…stuff. Does it matter? There are green beads, green beer, and green body paint. And gallons of whiskey and Guinness. Viva la Ireland!

Shannon is having a party, and it kicks off at 8 a.m.--yes, that’s right; with an “a,” not a “p.” I normally have a predisposition to getting out of bed before 8 a.m. on a Saturday, but the aforementioned payoff makes it a fair trade. Last year I showed up at about 9 a.m.; the first round of Irish Car Bombs went off around 10. [Note: The picture seen to the right is an actual photograph of the shots being prepared that morning.] We made our way to the first bar of the day around 11. By roughly 1 p.m. I was passed out in a booth at a Station Square nightclub—or so I’m told. The only thing I honestly remember after the first bar is stumbling up the road to Shannon’s apartment in Mt. Washington at approximately 3 p.m. By myself.

I know some of you are not overly familiar with Pittsburgh and its landscape, so let me help paint this picture for you: Station Square is a large section of riverside real estate that is home to various bars, restaurants, nightclubs, stores, etc. It’s also where the city’s riverboats dock. It sits at the base of a cliff; Mt. Washington is the area of the city that sits on top of the cliff. When you see a scenic picture of the Pittsburgh skyline, chances are the picture was taken from Mt. Washington.

So that was the pitiful ending to my 2007 St. Patty’s Day: Passed out at the club at 1 p.m., retreating on foot up a long, steep hill at 3 p.m. I don’t know if it was my head or my pride that hurt more the next morning (at least the pain in my head was temporary). On St. Patty 2006, I had gone from about 8:30 a.m. to 2 a.m. that night; one year later, I completely erased any credibility that I had earned with that performance. For the past few weeks, conversation between my friends and I has been giddy with talk about this year’s St. Patty’s festivities. Yet each and every one of them has made a point of asking me if I’ll make it past 1 this time. I can hear the disappointment in their voices when they say it, and it makes me feel like the star quarterback who chokes at the end of the big game. You let the squad down. And now your cheerleader girlfriend is going home with the captain of the wrestling team. And you’re adopted.

This year is about redemption. Come hell or high water—mixed with Jameson—I will regain the title, not to mention the respect of my peers. I will fight like a champion. Line up the car bombs!