A Hard-hitting Intro to the Game

Square in the right eye. That's where the pitch hit me. (I'm a lefty-batter; so, the right profile got the brunt.) Third-grade, maybe fourth-, I don't recall. What I do recall is crying a lot, then my softball coach telling me to lie down on the bench and hold a glass of iced tea on my throbbing eye.

The only thing worse than the pain, was the humiliation: lying there like a weirdo with a glass of Nestea on my face. Shaking it off pretty quickly - pride overriding pain - I went right back into play, heading to my position, somewhere in the outfield: excellent placement for me, as getting nailed by an underhanded pitch was my best performance ever, on a baseball diamond.

Softball wasn't really for me. Dance and violin were my things. I liked the activity and energy of softball; yet, the uniforms and lack of glitter left me wanting. Ballet, gymnastics and Polynesian dance pulled hard focus at that age. For this eight-year-old, there was no contest between the fantasy of tutus, rainbow leotards and Tahitian skirts, and prosaic polyester knickers and a t-shirt. Bo-ring.

Fortunately for softball, it lost its worst player the day it gave me a black eye. Wait a minute. Was it personal? Did it edge me out with force? In truth, I was bound to quit the sport eventually. Softball just wasn't jazzy enough for the likes of Moi.

My dad seemed disappointed I quit; baseball was an overriding joy for him. He was rather pleased, nay, surprised, I'd made the team at all. I suspect, though, like when I kicked karate (boring outfits, also), one less extracurricular activity and its ensuing expenses had to please him. No matter, there was enough baseball out there for him, even if I didn't play.

Aside: It turns out none of my childhood pursuits would be a match for the sport where I finally did land: Irish step-dancing. Excess makeup, over-the-top bling and Shirley Temple curls?! Yes, please!

Baseball Zen

What I didn't appreciate at the time, about softball/baseball, was the leisurely practice of it: the blue skies, green grass and birds and little critters on the field. What is lovelier than a halted game, dozens of grown men standing about waiting, leaning on their bats and chatting with other players, whilst the whole stadium waits for a lone bunny, or a pair of doves, to clear the field? That, and when opposing players shake hands, hug or pat each other's butts, makes me really happy. The outfield bro-hugs? Just perfection.

Tina Belcher: “I never realized baseball had so much butt touching.”

Louise Belcher: “That’s how they communicate, Tina. It’s like Braille, but with butts.”

- Bob’s Burgers, “Torpedo” (S1,ep13)

All of this Summer serenity was there for the taking … until those explosive spurts of speed and inertia. A body at rest stays at rest, until affected by an outside force: in this case, a bat, another player, or a ball to the right eye.

Baseball is a game of mellow excitement. Maybe that was the draw for Dad. He was a quiet man, a listener. In fact, he was/still is a renowned, clinical and forensic, child and adolescent psychologist, on both coasts: reigning champ of all quiet, listening professions!

“What do you think it means?”

Baseball is a game wherein one can sporadically sit in silence, with little noise but the scritching of a pencil on a stats notebook, maybe the persistent “Let's go, _____!” chant from an excitable child on the Upper Deck, or the distant call of a concessions vendor. Depending on where you're sitting, you might hear the measured rhythm of a groundskeeper's rake or practice pitches, and subsequent catches, in the bullpen.

In the universe of sports, it is relatively chill, akin to golf. Lots of leaning back, folded arms and brief chats with other players on the field or in the dugout … until there's that satisfying crack of a bat, the rip of a fastball and the spontaneous cheers of half a stadium, intermingled with the excited voices of the announcers in the press box. If it's a homerun, there's organ music! Nothing bad happens when organ music plays, except maybe vampires rising from their coffins as the moon rises.

In the stands, there's always enough down-time for friendly conversations, or light-hearted arguments. Sometimes, it’s sweet, baseball-movie charm, like Kiss-cams or cutie-cute Drew Barrymore in the Farrelly Brothers’ Fever Pitch. Sometimes, it's drunky-drunks blasted on grain-alcohol riot-juice and picking fights with the mascot. Hopefully, those folk are far from your seats and tire out quickly.

“Whenever there's a potential riot, I'm getting blasted on grain alcohol!”

- Mac, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, “The World Series Defense” (S5, ep6)

Most stadium experiences are, hopefully, a good memory. Folks just want to enjoy a pleasurable game-day and dream big for their team. A childhood friend started a lifetime of love at Dodger Stadium. There she was on the Jumbotron: all long, blonde hair, cheery blue-eyes, and her wide, brilliant smile. Her husband-to-be saw her, found her and that was it. Baseball is love, sometimes.

Of course, even though there is time for convo, laughter, love and selfies in the stands, for the most serious of fans, that time is spent checking stats, surveying the field and eagle-eyeing all player movements. That fan was Dad, oblivious to all but the theater of the game.

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Do Not Disturb

Today, Major League games tend to run approximately two-and-a-half hours. Pitch-clocks, a timer ensuring pitchers deliver their pitches within a :15-:30 time-frame, depending on how many runners on-base, has shortened games a bit in recent years. Batters and catchers have similar time-restraints today. Games used to run longer, a lot longer, or at least it seemed that way, as a kid. I want to say, four or five hours, but that sounds wrong.

Hours and hours, Dad could spend at a game: overtime, extra innings and, wonders-of-wonders, the double-header (two games back-to-back). Heaven! Even sitting in the parking lot, inching his way out to the main road, was joyful.

In a planetary event, sometime in the 1980s, Mom's worst day and Dad's best day aligned when a San Diego Padres game went into extra innings … twenty-one innings in all. Pleading to leave was useless. Dad was pliable, malleable and patient to a fault, but not where baseball was concerned. “Thank goodness I brought my knitting,” was Mom's only relief. She talked about that “nightmare” for the rest of her life.

There was little difference at home: hours and hours on weekends, sitting in his leather club-chair, often falling asleep, watching any game televised. Two-way conversation was generally futile. Mom or I could chatter on any topic, uninterrupted, for minutes on-end, only to finally demand a response of some kind.

“An ‘ugh’ will do”, mom would exasperate.

Ugh, he would dutifully respond.

I learned then, baseball was a great time to ask for things. Ugh doesn't mean, no.

If he drifted to sleep whilst watching, and we tried to change the channel to, say, “Designing Women” he would suddenly awake and groggily say, “I was watching that.”

Mom said, he needed a hotel “Do Not Disturb” sign to hang around his neck during baseball season.

If he had to be out of the house during a game, sports radio was a faithful companion. Their faces weren't so familiar, but the voices of play-by-play announcers like Vin Scully, Bob Uecker and Dick Engberg were so familiar, it's as though they shared the backseat with my Hello Kitty backpack and me.

In October, after he'd exhausted all World Series analysis, pontification and coverage, he'd watch old games on ESPN. I didn't get it.

“You know who wins,” I'd judge.

“It doesn't matter,” he'd reply simply.

Pitchers and Catchers Report

By New Year’s, he'd start making his annual, happy observation: “Pitchers and Catchers Report” is coming, meaning the date the first wave of players, pitchers and catchers, report for Spring Training. Like a parrot, he would repeat it at regular intervals throughout Winter.

“Pitchers and Catchers Report. Pitchers and Catchers Report. Pitchers and Catchers Report. Squawk!”

When he wasn't working, watching baseball, doing yard work, helping Mom redecorate the house or taking us to Disneyland, or South Coast Plaza, he was reading.

Reading material fell into five categories: psychological books and journals; western novels; American Revolution non-fiction; baseball non-fiction; and, above all, The Sporting News.

Never was there a day I didn't see the old, analog, sports newspaper lying somewhere in the house. Even old ones couldn't be tossed until he gave the go-ahead, that he'd read every single word and stat. The Sporting News was where I first saw “Pitchers and Catchers Report” in-print.

Until recently, I'd always presumed it was a report about pitchers and catchers, not that they reported for Spring Training. Who knew “report” was a verb in this case?

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I’d Do It Tomorrow

It was a lifelong obsession, baseball. As a post-WWII child, a Navy brat, Dad played in the streets of Honolulu, Brooklyn, Birmingham, Puerto Rico and, his eventual, permanent hometown of San Diego.

High school, college and the Air Force all supplied him fields and opportunities to play. Later, in his professional life, would play on the odd, hospital- or government-team. As much as he cherished his psychological work, he would've traded that professional life in mental health for a professional life in baseball, in a heartbeat.

My husband and he shared an affinity for the game: both playing in elementary school, high school and both lifelong, SoCal-team fans. Both had been young dreamers, fantasizing of the Major League life; and both were utterly disillusioned by the Major League players’ strike of 1994/’95.

During one of their regular, ocean drives down PCH, they chatted casually, whilst listenng to a Padres game, on the life of a minor leaguer: the long road-trips on a team-bus, the low pay, cheap motels, bad sleep, and the cruel elusiveness of the Majors.

My husband assessed,"At this point in my life, seeing how rough that life can be, I don't think I'd do it.”

“Oh, I'd do it tomorrow,” Dad replied without missing a beat.

He oft lamented, he just didn't have the talent. “Some guys have an arm and no heart. I had the heart, but not enough arm.”

In the 1990s, Rotisserie Fantasy Baseball became an enthusiastic addendum to his passion. The only time he would go to a bar, would be to meet his fellow owners to draft their teams (whatever that means). I'm not sure, yet, but this is likely not for Moi: so many numbers, so much math. Definitely a game of statistics, which he revered.

The last game he ever saw was a Padres home-game. The walk back to the car was longer than he remembered and he was disappointed the Padres lost, again. He carried the glove he brought religiously to every game - in case of fly-balls - and dissected the game with my husband as they walked slowly. Per usual, he channeled his inner-Charlie Brown and found pride in being a “true fan”, regardless of a team's standing. There was a strange honour in having lost, no matter how often. “Anybody can be a Yankees fan,” he'd say. Although, he did love Derek Jeter: Yankees shortstop from 1995 - 2014.

“Have you ever watched Derek Jeter run? He's so elegant, like a gazelle.”

Charlie Brown's everyman approach to life, baseball and dogs was his purest school of philosophy, and he knew his philosophers. Don't blame the sun for getting in your eyes, Lucy. Put on some sunglasses and “do good catching”.

True fans watch, and play, in the rain, they sit behind a pillar if necessary, and nosebleed seats are great because at least you can see the whole field.

True fans never bet against their team and they don't leave a game early “because of traffic”.

True fans are crushed when their team doesn't make it to the playoffs; or, actually worse, makes it, then fails to advance to the World Series.

True fans can still enjoy the playoffs and World Series, even sans their team, rooting for “the better of two evils”; but they never, ever hop on the bandwagon and buy a new baseball hat, “just for the series”.

In their fifty-six-year history, the Padres have made it to the National League playoffs seven times; they've gone to the World Series twice; they lost both of those.

His theory was SoCal players, including San Diego Chargers football (now, L.A. Chargers) rarely win the Big Prize because “the weather's too nice here, life is too easy”. I never thought that made sense, but he believed it.

For comparison …

In their sixty-four-year history, the Angels have made it to the American League playoffs ten times; they've gone to the World Series once, and won.

In their 124-year history, the Red Sox have made it to the American League playoffs twenty-five times; they've gone to the World Series thirteen times; they've won nine times, including enduring an eighty-six-year drought known as The Bambino's Curse, starting in 1919 when the Red Sox traded Babe Ruth (TheBambino) to the New York Yankees.

So, regardless of his team's performance, at the end of each season, Dad would reiterate proudly, “Well, the Padres have been disappointing me for over fifty years. Go, Pods.”

We're Talkin’ Baseball

My parents call the North Shore of Boston home now. The area was an annual holiday destination: Salem at Hallowe'en is addictive, once you've experienced it. Marblehead is simply perfect. Boston-proper is heartening and exhilarating. It is as steeped in history as its harbor was in tea, in 1773. It is, for this writer, the greatest metropolis in this great nation; yet, that's another post.

So, whilst dad was never a Red Sox fan, the town was something very special to our fam. Moreover, as a Babe Ruth devotee, he respected the Sox’ first claim to The Bambino: 1915 - 1919. (Well, after his brief, inaugural stint with the then-minor league Baltimore Orioles in 1914.)

Sure, The Sultan of Swing graced New York's Polo Grounds/Yankee Stadium much longer than he did Boston's Fenway Park: 1920 - 1934, interestingly, the entire stretch of Prohibition, plus one year. Still, for whatever reason, Dad couldn't bear the Yankees. So, he stuck with The Boston Babe.

Now, as the 2024 MLB official season starts, I imagine Mom's once again talking to an open Sporting News as he reads it in his chair, or attempting conversation as he watches the Red Sox, Angels and Padres, by whatever means available, along the peaceful shores of Salem Harbor. Do Not Disturb.

It's As Simple As That

Like truffles in an egg carton, a child growing up with so much baseball in the air is bound to become somewhat infused. There were spurts of interest: the short-lived, childhood softball endeavour; a brief flirtation with softball in college (only to switch to Model U.N. after a professor proclaimed her disgust that I'd “waste time” on a sport); ball-girl tryouts in college; and, a longer, actual flirtation with Single-A ball (minor league): going to games with a friend, hoping the cute players would notice me in the stands.

I say, “me”, because the friend was a dude, btw: my bestie, at the time, and fellow Disneyland cast member. I didn't need another chick pulling focus. Driving out to watch the Palm Springs Angels was good old-fashioned fun and he was an excellent wingman, helping Moi to “pass notes”, as it were. By the end of that season, I only ever talked to one player; he just wasn't that into me. The Desert League then became boring quickly. I don't like the desert anyhoo, no matter how cute the players.

Eventually, as an adult, baseball was of almost no interest: simply something I associated with visiting Mom & Dad, as it was always on, in some form, somewhere in the house.

Ergo, I'm not a complete newbie to the game; but I'm no Rain Man either. Although, I do admit to mild, OCD tendencies and am a bit of a dork. So, if I return here later this season with reports from my new, statistics journal, don't be surprised.

Also, I do have a bro-in-law bordering on savant where baseball is concerned. Moving to the next level of fandom so I can talk to him at fam events and, more importantly, irritate my sis-in-law, might be well worth the deep dive into America's pastime.

Autonomic-loyalties have lain with the Padres and the Angels, as loyalties to Dad, my husband and my hometowns: San Diego and Orange County. (The Angels, btw, - formerly California Angels, then Anaheim Angels - are an Orange County team, not an L.A. team, whatever they call themselves now. Don’t forget it, kittens!)

Anyhoo, like the Pull-Ups commercial sings, I'm a big girl now, still a California girl; but, for ineffable reasons, a Boston Red Sox girl. I've fielded some squinty-eyed queries and good-natured ribbing over it for the last year. It's been hard to explain, because I don't quite know how it hit me so hard and fast.

Maybe it was Dad's passing and his reunion with Mom in Boston. Maybe I'm taking up the relay baton, carrying on his baseball traditions. Maybe it's just damn fun and it helps me feel closer to him. Yeah, it's probably all that, said the shrink's kid with confidence.

So, I don't need to explain it anymore, to anyone. It's as simple as that.

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Well, if it ain't the Queen of Suffolk County
Yeah, best stay out of her way
Yeah, you know she's here to stay
She don't joke and she don't play
She's tough like a tiger
She's all dressed up
She's soft like a kitten
But she'll still mess you up
Here comes the Queen of Suffolk County
Yeah, she's the Queen of Suffolk County

- Dropkick Murphys, “Queen of Suffolk County”

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I Get It!

 

As I learn more about the game, it's virtues and vices, it's heartbeat and history (Thank you, Ken Burns!!), it's intellectualism and it's most uncomplicated joys, I find myself oft turning to my husband and claiming, I get it!

I get it now, all of it: the gentle drone of a televised game on in the background, the greens and blues on the screen, the speculative chatter of sports-radio bros, the annoying sports-shouting at any given moment on ESPN, the search for any documentary available on your team (i.e., “The Game That Changed Everything: Yankees vs Red Sox, ‘04 ALCS”), the need for “just one more Red Sox tee”, the anticipation of Opening Day, the watching through your fingers during Playoff Season, the groans and cheers, the “What do I watch now?” lull of Winter, and, of course, the baited anticipation of “Pitchers and Catchers Report” and Spring Training.

I may not know fully what it means to be a Red Sox fan, but I'm finding out and having a blast doing so. To boot, being the history dork I am, learning allllll about the Red Sox, back to 1901, is sheer Heaven.

“Regret” is not part of the JennyPop patois. Moi is a strong believer in “You are exactly where you are supposed to be.” Regrets are pointless, as the past has passed. However, regrets can be useful to open windows on worlds you may have missed previously.

If I have one of few regrets, it is not taking advantage of baseball time with Dad. I don't know how deep I would delved into the game when he was alive, but I know now, I would've enjoyed sharing inside-baseball factoids with him, maybe even tracking stats. That is still to be determined …

One postseason afternoon in 2023, I found myself standing directly in front of the TV, hands behind my back, watching a Red Sox game. It hit me, at that moment, that's exactly what Dad would do. I always wondered why he stood there, frozen it seemed, so often.

Commenting on the realization, I asked my husband, “What is this? Why did he do this? Why am I standing here like him? So weird.”

“It's called hope,” he concisely concluded.

Dear Old Dad would be thrilled I'm finally paying really close attention. He’d be slightly disappointed I'm not a Padres fan. Yet, he'd be relieved, at least, I'm not a Yankees fan. Ha!

About two weeks before he passed, he and my husband were on one of their PCH drives. The Beatles were playing on Sirius: Dad's fave band for his lifetime. He didn't recognize the music at all, but commented only, “They're okay.” Keeping the curious conversation going, my husband then switched to MLB Radio, to talk about the Padres. Dad didn't know who they were either.

I don't think I can do The Beatles thing. Sorry, Daddy. I can, however, do the baseball thing and carry your torch.

Go, Sox, 2024! Anything can happen with a new season!! Do good catching, guys.

 

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Tessie” by Dropkick Murphys

 

2 ... 3 ... 4 …
Tessie, Nuf Ced-McGreevey shouted,
We're not here to mess around!
Boston, you know we love you madly
Hear the crowd roar to your sound!
Don't blame us if we ever doubt you,
You know we couldn't live without you,
Tessie, you are the only only only, -ly.

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*Tessie in it's original form: as the Royal Rooters Fan Club rally-cry, at the 1903 World Series, when the Red Sox were still called the Boston Americans. Tessie was adopted from a 1902 Broadway musical: “The Silver Slipper”. Empirically, the alpha version is the Dropkick Murphys’ Irish pub rock anthem of 2004.

Follow all the 2024 season with Yours Truly (@JennyPopCom on IG or right here at jennypop.substack.com) starting with Opening Weekend at Angels Stadium: Boston at Anaheim! Go, Sox! Go, Angels! Go, Padres!

But, mostly, go, Sox!!!

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May the leprechauns dance over your bed and bring you sweet dreams. - Irish lessing

To this day, across much of the Western Isle, the lore of fairies remains so strong, farmers will divert crops, homebuilders will adjust property lines, hikers will swing wide of their treks and the burliest and beardiest of men dare not trifle with the environmental curiosity known as, the fairy ring, a.k.a. fairy fort. In Irish, they are called lios or raths and at the end of the 20th Century, there stood, it was believed, some 40,000 fairy rings spotting the Irish countryside. Archaeologists believe the oldest of date to c. 600 BCE. These earthen mounds, sometimes notable only as remaining stone-circles or ancient, circular impressions around raised soil, are generally believed to be the evidence of pre- and early-Celtic dwellings: from the late-Iron Age to the beginnings of Irealand's Christian Era, c. 5th Century CE.

The Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fir Bolg, Ireland's earliest inhabitants of Ireland, were thought to possess mythical abilities and kept supernatural congress with banshees, leprechauns and fairies. These mythics considered fairy rings, also known collectively as tumuli, to be not only domains of the fairies, but portals to the supernatural world. It also remains a claim that fairy forts are where, if you dare, you might seek to find a leprechaun's gold. Repercussions of disturbing a fairy fort, even plucking a flower or cutting or brush within its bounds range from general maladies and acute melancholia to freak accidents and even death. However, curses present themselves in many forms. Of the more deceptive and heinous is "The Dance": Any human who dares to enter a fairy ring or fairy fort, thus disturbing it, must "dance with the fairies until they go mad or perish with exhaustion". Well now, I must have dared to enter a fairy ring, if not on my most recent holiday on the Isle, perchance in a past life, because I am exhausted ... and loving it. If going mad is for you, follow me into the fairy ring and keep reading.

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As with so many things Irish, The Dance has a long history, largely emanating from the Celts and Druids. Pagan entities, dating a good millennium before the entrenchment of Christianity on the Isle, focused their religious ceremonies on the natural world; this included dances-in-the-round and, often, around trees: symbols of life and vitality. Initially, accompanying music was that of the earliest forms: drum and song. The pinnacle of these ceremonies was Aonach, or Óenach: originally (c. 3,200 BCE) a congregation of Ireland's kings, called by the High King, usually to commemorate a notable death in the community. High King Lugh held the first of these ceremonies, to commemorate the death of his mother, Tailtiu, after, legend tells, she died from exhaustion, on August 1st, whilst clearing the family land for farming. This funerary event, held at the sacred Hill of Tara - seat of the High King - in County Meath, just north of Dublin, became an annual tradition, later known as Óenach Tailten and was celebrated about the same time each year: the last fortnight of July through the first fortnight of August. Eventually, this commemoration of death became a celebration of life, known as the Celtic festival of Lughnasadh: from the old Gaelic meaning "assembly of Lugh".

Lughnasadh transformed and extended over the years into four, cross-quarter festivals: (Imbolc: the beginning of Spring; Bealtaine: the beginning of Summer; Óenach Tailten, or Lughnasadh-proper: the OG of Celtic festivals, halfway-mark between Summer and Autumn solstices, and the beginning of Harvest season; and, finally, Samhain: the beginning of Winter). In a rough and dark existence, these gatherings of song, dance, feast, drink, trading, truces, dispute-settlements, sport, games and hook-ups, attended by folks from across all the land, were exciting diversions to plan and anticipate throghout the year, kind of like Comic-Con and WonderCon today. Millennia later, these festivals would give way to today's Irish Dance competitions, known as feis However, the feis of today, dotting small towns and metropoli across the globe, are dedicated to the competition of dance and song, with the added cheer and communion of hanging with old friends and new.     

As for the fairies? They've been there all along, dancing around trees in magical circles with the Druids and Celts, flitting and mischief-making along seaside cliffs and grass mounds of Samhain and Lughnasadh festivals, and treble-hopping and leaping in ballrooms and convention centers from Orange County to Dublin at modern feis. All mad, too, I tell you. All mad from the fairies' curse.

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After all that, What is Irish Dance, JennyPop? you might wonder. Well, what it's not, is clogging, but it has elements; it's not tap, but it has elements; it's not square dancing; but it has elements; it's not ballet, but ... yep. What it is, like the Irish themselves, is an amalgam of peoples continually contributing to the Emerald Isle's continual, cultural evolution: Celts, Gauls, Vikings, Normans, English, Romans, Silicon Valley developers. Irish Dance is a combination of ballet and tap dancing. Although, it can be said that tap dancing originated from Irish flat down dance technique.

The neolithic Celts and Druids danced for religion. The Christians settled in and borrowed bits of pagan dance, changing flowers and fairies to penance and Jesus, but continued to incorporate dance into ceremonies; and Irish monks, the smarty-smarts of the day, notated much of this in illustrated manuscripts, like The Book of Kells. If you observe carefully the motifs and decoration on modern, Irish dancers' dresses, you'll see the borrowed imagery of Medieval manuscripts. During the 10thC, as was their wont, Viking raiders invaded and burned the fuck-all out of most of Ireland's books and manuscripts. As the Irish are wont to do, they overcame this adversity by keeping their traditions alive via song and dance, and drink, to be sure. After a harsh raid, who doesn't want a bit of whiskey or mead?

As Ireland slowly recovered from the Viking Era, mainly by living amongst their invaders as generations meandered on (much like this post), Nordic infusions gained a hold in Irish culture and the mons went back to documenting Medeival life. Of course, it wouldn't be Ireland without more uninvited guests. In the 1thC., the Normans crossed the Irish Sea, kicked in the door and kicked up their heels. Unlike the Vikings and their metaphorical vineagar, the Normans used honey, proffering land grants and pretty English girls to the tribal Kings, and soon speckled the landscape with magnificent castles, keeps and fortresses. Within a generation, the Normans introduced their customs, including dance, into Irish culture. One such introduction was the "carol": a circular dance wherein the dancers "follow" the voice a solo siger, standing in the middle of the circle. Over the coming centuries, the carol would evolve into three, altogether new dances: the Irish Hey, the Riinca Fada (a.k.a. the Long Dance, featuring a long line of dancers) and the Trenchmore. These were no longer circle dances, but line-dances and they became all the rage by the 17thC.. Simple songs and bodhrans (a goatskin drum played with, essentially, a single drumstick, called a tipper) grew into great accompaniments with tin whistles, concertinas and the Irish bagpipes (a.k.a. uilleann pipes). Witness, the beginning of true craic.

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A Brief (for JennyPop) Note on the types of Irish dance

Traditional Irish Step Dancing : only the legs and feet move in Flat Down technique male and female dancers in long lines, circles, squares or as partnered reels. Traditional Iris Step Dancing consists of dances set to traditional Irish music with a fast tempo 

Modern Irish Step Dancing : full body movement with Ballet Up technique female dancers performing ballet up dance movements like leg swings, hopping and jumping or sashaying to the music. The female dancers perform in soft ghillies

Irish Set Dancing : with Flat Down technique

whole choreographed dance performance that is broken up into several separate parts. The set usually requires dancing in couples in four sets.

The Set Dance begins with all four couples dancing to the same choreography. This is followed by each couple performing the same sets as individual couples.

Irish Ceili Dancing : with Ballet Up technique very traditional dance form. It originated in the 1500's and is always performed to traditional Irish music. The Ceili Dances consist of quadrilles, reels, jigs and long or round dances. These were the most native Irish traditional folk dances.

Irish Sean Nós Dancing : with Flat Down technique

one of the oldest of the traditional Irish dance styles. It is the only one performed as a solo. It differs from other Irish dances in that it allows free movement of the arms and it is flat down with the heavy weight on the accented beat of the music.

Sean Nos Dancing is the only Irish dance that also allows the solo dancer to improvise the choreography simultaneously as the dance is performed. The taps consist of shuffles and brushes as the dancer moves across the floor.

Irish Two Hand Dancing : with Flat Down technique

Irish socializing. It is performed much like Irish Set Dancing with the exception that is it danced to polkas, Irish hornpipes, waltzes and jigs. Like the Irish Set Dancing, it is performed by couples with specific choreographic dance patterns, although in Irish Two Hand Dancing the patterns are repeated.

In Irish Two Hand Dancing couples dance in a relaxed style

*Flat Down technique refers to

Flat Down Irish dance steps, the dancer's foot strikes the floor in a twisting shuffle of the right foot while hopping into the air with the left foot.

There are also combinations of Irish dance steps that include the "1-2-3", shuffle, stamping the whole foot and tapping one toe behind the other foot that holds body weight.

Ballet Up refers to uniformly performed steps. The first comes from the ballet step, "chasse," "cabriole" which is to leap into the air while the left calf beats under the right calf that is extended forward in the air.

From the Neolithic to the Modern Era, Irish dance has weaved, zigged, zagged, leapt, slid, rocked and kicked its way into what we know today: a bright, cheerful jig seemingly designed for little bt sheer pleasure. Folks don't "dance a jig" when summat bad happens. Next tie you get happy and do a little dance, watch your feet. Religious rites in a circle, in a wood morphed into everything from happy, plywood-tapping, small-town pub patrons, to Saturday morning classes with bewigged little girls and vest-sporting little boys kicking their own bums in dance studios East to West, to the top-shelf of dancers, Riverdancers, forming the longest of line-dances, gracing the finest stages across the grandest cities of the world. 

Whilst Riverdance produced world-class spectacle, Irish dancers you see at a pub, a festival, etc., are generally a solo to a small group. If you;ve ever wondered how that much footwork can stay in one spot, the emergence of dance saw many an 18th and 19thC dancer utiliing the limited space of a room, but dancing on barrels or tabletops. (This is also a common occurraece at Malarkey's in Newport Beach, The Dubliner Irish Pub in Copenhagen and Dick Mack's in Dingle. 

By the 18thC, an era in which formality ansdstructure held reign in most aspects of life, Irish dance parameters became notably stringent and rigid, thanks to the new reed of Dancing Master, giving rise to the recognizable form we know today. "Dancing Master" was a prestigious vocation, a teacher who travelled to villages and towns across Ireland, holding group lessons for the peasant and privileged classes alike; though, the students were largely of the peasant class, taking advantage of these opportunities when they came to town. The best dancers would have been awarded solos, to perform for the town and, as dancefloors did not grow in the wild, some villagers would sacrifice their doors, giving the soloist a better platform on which to perform. What did grow in the wild, was the human nature to compete. There grew grand competition not only within a Master's group, for solo positions, but also amongst rival Dance Masters' and their groups throughout neighbouring counties. This fierce spirit gave rise to more competition throughout the counties and country; today we have even more fierce feis and competition, ranging from local to regional to national to international to professional, i.e. Riverdance. World Irish Dance Association, a.k.a. World's, and Oreichtas are premiere levels for sompetition. From toddlers to pro principal-dancers, don't let the guys' charming caps, suspenders, pressed vests and dress pants, or the girls' sweet dresses, shiny tiaras, mile-high, ringlet-wigs - I still don't know the tradition behind those wild wigs - and schoolgirl socks fool you ... dem folks is badass. Irish Dancing: like any other sport, only much harder.  

The pursuit of Irish dance is natural for this writer. A far-reaching background in dance and sport is a natural impetus: ballet, Polynesian dance, gymnastics, track, fencing and yoga, Of all these endeavours,fencing and yoga stretch well into my adult life. (Although, my mad yoga skills are far deadlier than my fencing skills. Why the self-centered disclaimer, JennyPop? Nobody cares, the fair reader contemplates. I state this because, it is the most brutal, joyful and rewarding athletic endeavour I've ever done.

What I can conclude, is at some point, my ancestors (MacPhersons, Grimes and Marshalls) must have fecked with a fairy fort; or I did, unwittingly, three years ago (for that is about when my Step Dancing journey commenced) on the road from County Clare to Dublin when our travelling party happened upon the Kilmacduagh ruins in Co. Gort, and wandered about the lands for a good spell. The only other explanation for chasing a curse, is one Kathleen Fitzpatrick: she who introduced me to The Dance, gave me my first lesson and my first hard-shoes, shared with me my first, impromptu pub-dance, on a very tiny dance floor at O'Sulivan's in Escondido, CA, and is my one and only Step-sister. Come to think of it, she was there, at the ruins ... I think she's a fairy, I think I blame her, for catapulting me into this dancing madness. Of course, it could have been anyone around me, for, as Lewis Carroll's Cheshire Cat observed, "We're all mad here."

"Leprechauns, castles, good luck and laughter, lullabies, dreams and love ever after. Poems and songs with pipes and drums, a thousand welcomes when anyone comes. That's the Irish for you!"

Folow @JennyPopCom