When Irish eyes aren't smiling

Just putting my beloved array of multi-colored, multi-sized cones in the trunk of my car after practice tonight when I get an angry tap on the shoulder.

‘Hey coach, I’m ____, my son is ____,’ says a man in an Irish accent straight from the set of ‘The Quiet Man’.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I respond, resisting terrible urge to say something like ‘top of the mornin’ to him.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he continues. ‘I just want to register my disapproval at the fact you showed my son and the rest of the boys that Thierry Henry handball last week.’

‘And what was wrong with that?’ I ask, straightening up, readying myself for what seems like a looming confrontation.

‘Well, I’m an Irishman!’ he practically shouts.

‘I gathered that.’

‘And that was one of the darkest days in our history and I resent the fact you held it up as a good example of somebody cheating to get ahead.’

Where do I start with this joker? So many options.

‘Okay, pal, that was one of the darkest days in your history? Didn’t you people have a Famine where millions died because they were fussy eaters or something? And weren’t you occupied by the English for a few hundred years, constantly trying and, ahem, failing to throw them out even though they very kindly gave you their language and culture?’

'You’ve got to be kidding right,’ he says, shaking his head as his wife appears and puts a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m not kidding. With all that history, you think a handball in a soccer match was that bad huh?’

‘We could have gone to the World Cup but for that!’ this hot-head is roaring into my face so I’m taking the calm voice option. I notice wife now has two hands on her man.

‘That’s my point. You didn’t go to the World Cup and that’s what I’m trying to teach your son and the rest of the team. He who dares wins. If you can’t accept that I suggest you take your boy over to ____, they have a great English coach. And apparently the Irish never had problems taking orders from the English.’

At this point, he makes a move for me but his wife has too strong a hold on his jacket. She leads him away, roaring abuse at me in a pitch so high only dogs could understand what he's saying. Nice job messing up your son's chances of ever playing for me again, pal.