Extra Point
By Mike Fitzgerald
By Mike Fitzgerald
OWWW! So that's where the KISS ME I'M IRISH button is. How did it end up in my back pocket? And why is this Guinness coaster in my shoe?
Another St. Patrick's Day and ... uh, excuse me. The fire alarm is going off. I better run for my life! Ah, it's just the office phone.
Hello. Top of the mornin' after to you.
"Is my disgrace of a son, Michael Robert Fitzgerald, in the house?"
Hi mom, it's me.
"And why is it you can booze it up on vacation for five days and not call your dear old mother or father? What kind of son did we raise? Paying all that money to send you to the good sisters at the Catholic schools - and then you were still too dumb to get into Notre Dame. God forgive us.
"I lit so many candles for you yesterday it almost set the old church ablaze."
Gee, mom. I tried to call but the phone lines were all jammed up. Remember, I told you that there is only one thin wire stretched from Hawaii to Chicago.
"Don't give me that blarney or I'll wash your mouth out with soap. And why do you have to take five days to celebrate St. Patrick's Day? Your uncles and cousins only take four days off - that's if they're working. And your father cut down to marchin' in three parades this year, although I haven't seen him since last night when he was doing a jig down at Ryan's Pub. Such foolishness.
"Between prayin' for you and your father I've worn out six sets of rosary beads in the last week. Why, I'd like to take his walking stick and knock him over the head with it, except that the poor stick would break in two."
But mom, you're supposed to have fun on St. Patrick's Day.
"Ah, shut your gob. And I suppose you forgot to put your red face in the church for a mass yesterday. Probably just as well. The roof would have caved in and we'd be stuck with the bill."
C'mon, mom. It was just a good day to get together and toast a few beers with my friends.
"Those hooligans you call friends! Why, you were probably carrying on with that sumo lad I read about in the paper. Ake O' Bono - the giant lad who smashed all the bar signs in Japan. He sounds like one of your old high school pals.
"And I suppose you'll be writing about that disgusting man Mike Tyson. At least he beat up an Englishman the day before St. Paddy's.
"But why don't you write about nice people, like your girls basketball coach you were telling me about, Vince O' Goo? He sounds like a fine lad and with a team full of Irish lasses, you said.
"Or how about the new Hawaii rugby coach, Fred O' Oppen? You said he is only recruiting Irish kickers and runners and tacklers."
Well, mom, I might have stretched the truth a bit.
"And what else is new son? I wish I had a nickel for every fib you told your poor mom. Why, I bet you're not even publisher of your newspaper any more."
Well, mom. I did forget to tell you that I was promoted to sports columnist, the highest position possible.
"Yes, son, and the angels are going to come down and land here in the sitting room any minute now. I bet you didn't even stop drinking long enough to eat some corned beef and cabbage or some Irish stew. You probably just had a pineapple slice from one of those awful drinks with the funny little cap on a toothpick in the glass."
I did eat a corned beef sandwich, mom. I can tell because there's mustard on my shirt.
"And when are you coming home, son? I can't even get your father to mow the grass anymore since he's always out playing that silly game of golf. A grown man using sticks to hit a little ball into a hole all day. Saints preserve us!
"Well, you be a good boy and try to stay out of trouble for once in your life.
"And, God forbid, if anything happens, may you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead."
Mike Fitzgerald's commentary appears every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.