hurley lucky barry

Liam didn’t want a dog. Any time “dog” was mentioned, he’d wax poetic about his childhood pup, Lucky, and say that no other dog could ever live up to his first. Lucky was a Jack Russell terrier, saved from the shelter in Cork by a seven-year-old Liam and his older sister. They didn’t get permission before bringing the lucky dog home and springing him on the family. As is often the case, the rest of the household fell madly in love.

Lucky lived a life more luxurious than any of the kids, according to Liam. While Liam had to eat gross things like porridge or vegetables (remember, this story came from Liam himself – always take with a grain of salt), Lucky got sausages. While Liam was required to stay home and out of his mother’s hair, Lucky got to go to the English market every day. It was from that very English market that Lucky was snatched one day, and a heartbroken Liam grew up determined never to fall in love with another dog.

Well, as we all know, marriage is about compromise. A neighbor let slip that one of his friends needed to rehome a Jack Russell puppy, so I told him to bring the dog by for us to meet him. I knew, knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Liam wouldn’t be able to resist a wriggly, sweet little puppy. And I was right. The dog was given a 24-hour trial period, during which we would try to avoid naming him. I already had a name picked out, of course.

The first morning we woke with the puppy in the house, Liam went to take him straight outside. After taking him from the cage, however, he though the dog might want to see me first thing. Unfortunately, the pup lost his bladder right outside the bedroom door. That was about when I started to stir. Then, the house alarm blared. In his haste, Liam had forgotten to disable it. I jumped from the bed, wide awake by that point, and ran to turn off the awful noise. The moment my foot hit that puddle of pee, I went down into the splits, and there I stayed, laughing so hard that I couldn’t move. Liam had to help me up when he got back inside.

After that, there was no question: we were keeping that puppy. He just needed a name. Liam’s choice? Lucky. I said no way. We couldn’t expect this poor puppy who’d already peed in the house to live up to the rosy memories Liam had of his childhood dog. Besides that, the sister who’d gone with Liam as a kid to adopt the lucky Lucky had named two subsequent dogs Lucky. The name was no longer original.

Liam finally agreed that Hurley was a fitting name, and after a week or so, we realized no other name would have suited him as well. Liam took our new baby for his first checkup at the vet. The vet tech asked for the dog’s name, and Liam, still a little miffed that he hadn’t gotten his way, grudgingly replied, “Hurley.”

“And his middle name?”

Well, Liam didn’t even know dogs could have middle names. Without hesitation, he blurted the first name that came to mind.

The Irish National Sport—No, Not That One

For the past few months, much of my free time has been spent with the Nashville Gaelic Athletic Club. If you don’t know by now that Liam is from Ireland, here’s the announcement. He received an invitation in April to join the new hurling club here and was immediately overcome with excitement. I was aware of hurling and had a pretty good idea of how the game is played, but everyone I’ve met since then has asked one of two questions: “What the heck is hurling?” or “Is that the game on ice with the broom and stuff?”

So What Is It?

To answer your questions, it’s the Irish national sport, and there is no ice in sight. You might be thinking of “curling,” and our neighbors to the north enjoy that one. It also does not involve drinking until you throw up. It is, in fact, the most intense game I’ve ever seen. A mix between lacrosse and field hockey without pads and with a lot of Irish grit, the game requires some serious fortitude and an amazing set of lungs. The stick used is called a hurley (also now the name of our new puppy. We’re hardcore), and the ball is a sliotar (it’s Gaelic. Don’t worry if you can’t pronounce it. Try “schlither”).

The Nashville Gaelic Athletic Club

The team here in Nashville is small but growing. Last week, we all traveled to St. Louis for a tournament and had to borrow players from other teams to have a full squad. We see new people in and out each week, so I don’t think it will be long before we have our own full club…and then some. John Watson, a sculptor on the faculty at Belmont University, is our fearless leader, along with his wife, Anji, who is a surgical resident at Vanderbilt. The rest of the club is made up of other Nashville professionals: optometrists, web designers, teachers, and marketers. We’ve also been blessed with a couple from County Down in Northern Ireland for the summer.

I don’t actually play yet. I hit the ball around on Thursday nights for the informal practice, but the training on Sunday mornings is too intense for my leg. I hope to slowly build up some more strength in my knee again so I can join the girls’ team for camogie next year in St. Louis.

So, aside from working, this is what I’ve been up to. I thought I’d share our new obsession with you and show some photos of the club and the tournament. If you’re interested in learning more about hurling, do a quick search for your city. You might be surprised to find a club already in place. I know for sure you can join clubs here in Nashville, Atlanta, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Chicago, Kansas City, and New York City.

In addition to fun, fun, fun athletics, I’ve met some of the nicest, funniest, and most encouraging people here with the Nashville club. I can’t wait to see where this all goes!