Hello and happy Tuesday!
Apologies for the absence of a newsletter last week. For some reason I couldn’t, even after staring bewildered at the Substack draft page for days, manage to have a single idea of what to write about. I started to believe I’d never have an idea again! I can only imagine how desperately you must have missed my harangues.
So in the absence of a wacky, out-of-the-box topic idea, I’ve decided instead to write about something right under my nose. Something that has really become a constant presence under my nose, occupying every single one of my Thursdays and most of my weekends these last few years. Filling my home with those gym-class-core pinnies (see below), my bag with ceaseless crumbs of astroturf, and my head with instructions and rules that I will probably never need again.
Sports! Or particularly, Gaelic Football! Also called “G.A.A.,” or gaaah (pronounced as a word, not an acronym), or just “football”.
I started playing Gaelic football during my first month in Hanoi when, on a search for friends, I accompanied an Irish girl to practice (see: “training”), under the impression that it was going to be a casual pickup soccer session in a park. Apparently the Irish gods will smite me where I stand for admitting that I’d thought all Europeans called soccer “football.” I also might get in trouble for lumping Irish people into the category of European.
It took about 7 seconds at training, standing clueless in my Reebok Club C fashion sneakers, to realize that this was, in fact, an entirely new sport to me. But the fear of loneliness outweighed the pain of awkwardness, and so I stayed to learn the ropes from the O’Neills jersey-clad Hanoi team. And I returned the next week, then the one after that. And, as cheesy as it is to say, I fell in love with football. And thus began my unexpected tenure with the Viet Celts.
It feels absurd for me to explain what G.A.A. is when about half of my readership is, themselves, Irish people I met playing football (evidence that I succeeded in making friends! Yay!). But what the Irish half doesn’t understand (yes, you!) is that for us non-Irish people, it’s a really strange sport. The ball is in your hands, then it’s on the ground, then it’s in your hands again? There’s no off-sides? It’s all happening so fast!
I thought I’d hand it over to my Irish readers for an explanation of the sport. Here are a few responses to the question “How would you describe what Gaelic football is in one or two sentences?”
“Gaelic football is like if soccer, rugby, and basketball had a chaotic lovechild raised by a bunch of hyperactive Irish lads. You can kick it, hand-pass it, carry it, and occasionally get flattened — all in the name of Irish national pride.” - Joan Owens, County Meath
“An ancient Irish sport that’s the centre of the community at home and usually the second thing Irish immigrants look for when moving abroad.” - Sean Foley, County Limerick
“I’d say it’s a traditional Irish sport that encompasses the skills of basketball, rugby, and soccer. In Ireland it’s more of an institution than a sport and forms the lifeblood of communities across the country. You know it was banned by the English for a time… which really cemented it’s place in everyone’s hearts.” - Elaine Coleman, County Dublin
Now non-Irish people, I know what you’re thinking. These explanations give me a great understanding of Irish pride, tradition, and disdain for the English, but very little knowledge about what the game practically looks like.
Essentially, you carry the ball down the field in your hands, alternating between bouncing it off the ground or off your foot every four steps. You can either pass with a “hand-pass,” which resembles a gentle volleyball serve, or a drop-kick off your foot. You score three points by kicking the ball into the goal and one point by kicking it over the net. I should say some score this way. I, as a general rule of thumb, almost never score.
If you’re still confused, here’s a lovely little YouTube video.
In Ireland, where GAA has been all the rage since man himself stood up on two legs, they play with 15 people per side. Here in Asia, where a league has developed to suit the needs of Irish expatriates (and clingers-on like me), it’s played 9-a-side on a smaller field. A handful of times a year, we’ll travel to another Southeast Asian city to play a tournament. Just like how the county teams in Ireland travel to play each other. See, I’ve really gotten the hang of this!
Until joining the Viet Celts, I’d long sworn off team sports. Sometime around age 12, soccer had become uncomfortably competitive to me, and the risk of being the team’s weakest link had outweighed the benefit of comeraderie and shared experiences. It feels strange to say that, like maybe I should instead scold my young self for letting lack of talent stop me from having a good time. But when you’re that age, it can be really scary to be bad at things, and nearly unfathomable to lean into those things you’re bad it.
It reminds me of a conversation with my lovely friend Ziz on Bathroom Sink a few weeks ago. Ziz has recently re-entered the standup comedy scene (YAY) after a seven-year hiatus. The reason for the long break was that she’d been too nervous in her younger years to enjoy a set without vomiting, no matter how hard she tried to talk herself down from that fear.
Now, I don’t want to equate Ziz’s comedy rise with my casual sports career. She is hilarious, and I look like a baby deer learning to walk. But I do think there’s something to be said for the relief of reaching the point in life where you can fail at something (or, just be fine at it) without the primal fear of social ostracization rattling your nervous system.
I wrote about this briefly in this year’s Love Letter, speaking about the freedoms of adulthood. I was mostly talking about the liberty to do and eat whatever you want (groundbreaking content), but I’d like to add to that list the privilege of mediocrity. You can enjoy all the benefits of being a part of something, or doing something you love, without feeling the pressure of it “mattering” at large.
I think part of this comes from growing more comfortable with ourselves over time, and confident in those we choose to keep around us. Let’s be honest, middle school is a horrifying environment to be publicly bad at something. You have to see those jerks every single day for the next 8 years!
But an even bigger factor is probably realizing with age that we don’t matter that much to the whole wide world. My world was relatively small as a tween, and so I occupied a larger proportion of it. Being the worst at high school soccer tryouts felt, in retrospect, a bit like being the worst soccer player in the universe. But now, out in the ~~real world, I know that not only am I not Miss Worst Soccer Player in the Universe, I’m also never going to be the best journalist in the world. Or the smartest writer or the fastest runner. That’s a little freaky for a few seconds until you realize it’s actually incredibly freeing.
Moving to Vietnam made me feel smaller and less significant than ever. It’s part of why I’ve loved living here; becoming content with my own triviality. And if I may be so bold as to make my own assertions about GAA (forgive me, Irish readers! But I’ve given your notions a lot of time over the years); I’d say that’s part of the reason why Gaelic football here is so welcoming. Everyone (or most everyone, if I may be even bolder) has retired from the business of caring about performance, to instead lean in to the benefits.
My first few games playing with the Celts, it was remarked that every photo of me on the field includes a massive, dopey smile on my face. It’s an accusation I can’t protest. When I joined the club (after the scary part of learning the rules was done), I felt like a kid who’d just discovered playing outside.
It felt so akin to the feeling of running around just for the sake of running around. Running because it’s nice out, or because your friend is right over there, or because it will be time to go in soon. I hadn’t felt that way about exercise in a very long time.
When I retired from soccer at a young age, the next sport I took up was cross-country running. I have always and will always love the sport of running, but sometime between age 13 and the present day, I got more muddled in my relationship to it. Sometime during that period, I went from being a kid, not knowing I even had a body, to a teen who thinks about her body 15 times an hour. I went from having all the time in the world to living on a schedule, which means making choices. Often I ran because it felt good, but I’d also catch myself running as an obligation, a chore, a workout crammed into my schedule, or a punishment.
By the time I moved to Hanoi, where the streets are a never-ending obstacle course and the air is famously toxic, I chose to shelve my running shoes. I was becoming increasingly grumpy by my runs, partly because I just wasn’t enjoying it in the city, but also because I was growing uncomfortable with my own reasons for doing it.
So you can imagine how it felt so good when, quite unexpectedly to myself, I joined a team sport and just ran around for the good times of it all. When exercise was again a byproduct of just having fun. When I was no longer doing something I wasn’t enjoying and tormenting myself with hard questions about it. The only question I had to ask myself at football was, “How the fuck am I going to bounce this off my foot while moving down the pitch?”
And then there’s the other Greatest Gift of All provided to those who dare to play casual sports in adulthood—an excuse to act ridiculous. I should have suspected it in college when I started going to student-night baseball games, which are just a fantastic opportunity to wear a silly outfit, drink outside during the day, and watch fireworks. Sports are highly organized vehicles for fun and silliness. It’s kind of like how a baked potato is just a vehicle to get sour cream and shredded cheese into your mouth.
Taking part in the Celts has meant unfettered access to time in the sun, sing-alongs (the really good, corny inside joke ones where you change the lyrics), weeknight shenanigans, and theme parties. It’s given me an excuse to jump up and down with my friends (go team!) or to unite against a common enemy. I’ve gotten to grow close and share memories with people I might never have otherwise met, all under the guise of moving a ball toward a goal.
And for the first time since shying away a dozen years ago, I get to don my matching jerseys (and often a few matching bows and a bit of glitter) and be a part of the team. Sure, sometimes I’m still caught with a smile on my face.
The bullet points:
My blue hair is beginning to fade :( But I am now accepting suggestions as to what color I might dye it next.
Can you guys believe that I still haven’t completed my 2024 New Years resolution of finishing Jane Austen? I can. But it’s still disappointing!
This story includes a few “Irishisms” like training, pitch, etc. I plan to start my mental deconditioning of ~living abroad vocabulary approximately one month before I move home. Don’t bully me yet!!!
I didn’t plan for this to be timed with St. Patrick’s Day, but I think it’s nice that it worked out that way.
Wishing you joy, even (especially) in athletic mediocrity <3
Ryley
Loving Kitchen Sink and dying to support my work? You can always:
Ammaaaaaaazing Ryley. Smashed it. 💕🥰