9 minute read
Retiring Retirement
Retiring Retirement Being Irish never gets old
An interest in ancestry brings many to Irish American Heritage Museum
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At 67, Patrick Hale will tell you that being Irish doesn’t get old. In fact, his retirement has only added to his ancestral pride as his nine-tofive is often spent at the Irish American Heritage Museum on Broadway in Albany.
Asked why there is an increased interest in one’s ancestry and Hale will sum it up this way:
“People may have started looking to their roots when they saw ‘Riverdance’ or heard Irish music and they wanted to know where they came from,” Hale said. “They’re looking to discover their culture.
“When visiting the museum, for example, everyone’s reaction is different. For some, it brings back memories and tales they were told by their grandparents. Usually, there was a storyteller in each family who would speak of the old country and sing the songs. Visitors rediscover what they’ve forgotten or discover what they never knew.”
Besides all of the practical behind-the-scenes work that he brings to the museum and the Ancient Order of the Hibernians, the Albany native has a treasure chest of personal recollections from growing up in the thenpredominately Irish and Italian neighborhoods of Arbor Hill.
Taking him even “closer to home” were the relationships and traditions brought about by his annual summer trips to Sligo in Ireland, where he grew close to his father’s side of his family.
With all of these rich-butpossibly-dividing influences, did the Irishman ever feel separated from his peers?
“I never felt like an outsider
because I was surrounded by families with such names as O’Keefe, Kelly and Stevens,” Hale said. “And you can’t forget that the Irish immigrants came in by the millions to escape the famine. “There were by signs that read, Robert ‘Irish Need Not Apply,” so they LaCosta took the jobs that were available and became the police officers, garbage collectors, railroad men, factory workers and Erie Canal laborers.” He loves his work at the museum because it speaks to him of why immigrants choose to leave their homeland. They are the same drivers throughout history whether it’s religious persecution or poverty. “Sadly, they faced the same story when they got to America,” he said. “There was prejudice against their brogue and the Catholic faith. The one advantage that the Irish had at assimilating was they already knew the English language.”
Seniors are most likely to enjoy the museum because, as Hale says, “We’re all immigrants.” And the older you are, the closer you are to your heritage.
Robert J. LaCosta’s daily devotional blog is on his Facebook page and robertlacosta.com and can also be received in your email by writing to norepcom@gmail.com.
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basis of the game, oftentimes. Disregard that there are nine players playing defense against one hitter. The contest is always played between the person who holds the ball and the person who doesn’t. The person holding on to that leather sphere challenges the opposition to a game of dare. He thought he threw hard enough to get it passed me for a strike, and I slapped it over his first baseman and down the right field line for a base hit. As soon as I felt solid contact with the ball, I shifted my attention to the next game of dare.
On Little League teams, right fielders are the worst players. But somewhere between Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers and earning a driver’s license that guy develops one of the best arms on the field. He’ll have the ability to throw the ball with the most speed, distance and accuracy; to deter someone like me from doing what I planned.
There’s that idiom describing opportunity as an open window, and some measure of time, but that means nothing to someone playing a continuous two-second loop of The Clash in his head. Because within the moment it takes Joe Strummer to sing, “Should I stay or should I go?” a kid with an 80 mph arm can throw a ball 200 feet. A guy like me — not the fleetest of foot, but I ran a 5-second 40 as a senior — takes nearly twice that long to run from first to second. First base was mine by rights, but my eyes were on the right fielder as I raced down the line, and we had yet to test his arm.
In science, time = distance/ speed. He was over the ball by the time I reached the bag, but I had it already in my mind to go for two. I knew that in order for him to make a play, he’d have to stop his momentum, turn away from the play and make a great throw. That gave me an extra “Should I stay” from Strummer, and I knew I was quick enough to make it close. At that moment, that fraction of time that reveals one’s apparent commitment to a task, we locked eyes on one another before I peered towards second.
There was once a sporting goods radio commercial that captured a similar scene. There was no narration. It started with the coach encouraging the batter to get a hit, followed by the unmistakable ping of an aluminum bat hitting a baseball. You could hear the batter’s footfalls as he ran towards first, and the first base coach yelling for him to “go for two.” There was nothing visual, but you could hear the base-running grunting, demanding his body for more speed. Then, the sound all baseball players recognize, the whoosh of an arm passing by the ear as the ball is thrown into the air. What follows is a cacophony of noises; a body sliding across the dirt, a ball making contact with a leather glove, and a collision before advertisers cut to the name of the store spoken in an alluring whisper. It always got my heart racing.
I sprinted hard with my eyes on second. I imagined the fielder gathering his legs, turning around, setting his eyes on second before letting the ball loose. That gave me some time. My coach would know what I was doing, but this was what I would have to explain to the rest of the team if the right fielder was accurate, too. But, when I went down for the slide, the shortstop flailed at the ball, sailing over his head just a split second before I arrived. I was safe.
The play wasn’t over. The throwing error allowed me to advance to third, just 90 feet away from home plate. With the pitcher rattled by what had happened, he pressed too hard and threw a fastball in the dirt. The ball got passed the catcher, and I ran in to score.
Now that my life has gone from dreams of playing in Yankee Stadium to writing the next great novel, I see the memory as an allegory: Talent gets you to first base. Knowledge, planning and execution get you farther.
The writer is managing editor of The Spotlight and editor-atlarge of Family Now.
