In a move that is somehow both timely and outdated, I have
decided this week to tell you all about my new favorite sport, hurling. This
topic is timely, fresh, hip, and relevant insofar as the all-Ireland hurling
final is slated for this Sunday. It is outdated and sad in that my sole
encounter with hurling – the original all-Ireland final before they decided to
end in a tie and require a stupid rematch – was (whoops) two and a half weeks
ago. In either case, though, hurling is awesome. Allow me to enlighten you.
Despite the fact that no other country on earth plays or
understands this sport, hurling is enormously popular here in its country of
origin. Weird, right?
…Oh.
Going into the Match Formerly Known as Final earlier this
month, I knew nothing about hurling. I’d heard it was fast-paced. I’d heard it was violent. I knew who
was playing, vaguely. All I knew for sure was that it was a sport – and, as we
all know, “sport” in Latin, roughly translated, means “Sarah’s gonna hate every
second of this.”
My dear friends and readers, when I thought of hurling, I
thought wrong. Hurling is the greatest sport that has ever been. As advertised,
the violence is completely senseless and relentlessly entertaining. Pretty much
no maneuver is illegal in this sport, including, from what I gather, beating
your opponent to a pulp with your hurling wand in the interest of stealing the
ball from them. These guys go out there in shiny shirts, tiny shorts, and
literally no padding anywhere and just destroy each other for seventy-five
minutes…without stopping. There is a halftime built in to the game, but outside
of those blessed fifteen minutes, the action literally never stopped. No
time-outs. No stopping of the clock. No halt in the action to deal with
injuries, because injuries are for far weaker men than hurlers. On two
occasions during the game, a player was so badly injured that he could not
stand back up. In these instances, paramedics simply ran through the field of
play to the player in question, formed a human wall to keep the guy’s own
teammates from landing an errant stomp on his concussed head, and basically
smacked him around a bit until he could get up and walk it off. I think I saw
three substitutions the whole time.
Hurling. Is. Insane.
As the match went on, I eventually realized that hurling
reminded me of a lot of other sports I’ve seen through the years. In fact,
thought I, hurling might be better called by modified names of several of these
sports. What might those be, you ask? Well, well, well.
-
On-the-ground Quidditch with only Beaters
-
Public school lacrosse
-
Soccer at that tense moment right before people
stop playing and start just punching each other, plus sticks you can hit people
with, minus rules
-
American football back in the Rockne-ish era
where your death on the field was not just an occupational hazard but in fact
pretty much a guarantee
-
Attempted Murder: The Game
If you can find a way to watch the all-Ireland hurling final
(Round Two) this Sunday, I would highly encourage you to do so. The teams in
play are underdog Tipperary, whose colors are blue and gold, which is the home
county of my ancestors, and who you should clearly be rooting for, and win
factory Kilkenny, whom one guy on Tinder described as “the Miami Heat to your
Indianapolis Pacers.” Oh, and how do you spell those teams in Irish, you ask?
Thiobraid Arann and Cill Chainnigh.
Nothing in this country makes sense. I love it all.
