YOU'LL BE GIVING A LOT OF RIDES HOME TONIGHT

HUNTSVILLE, ALABAMA - MARCH 17, 2010

I spent one memorable St. Patrick’s Day in Huntsville, Alabama. I know what you’re thinking, “Hey there traveling man, I’m sure Huntsville is a charming little town, but it wouldn’t rate high on my list of St. Patrick’s Day destination cities.” Well, no one could argue with you there. After all, I’ve met a lot of people over the years and I’m sure none of them would ever confuse Huntsville for Boston, New York, or Chicago.

I arrived hastily a few days earlier when my dad unexpectedly passed away. My brother and I had just completed a 5-day, ‘round-the-clock marathon of red-eye flights, setting arrangements, and preparing for the celebration of his life. We were beat and quite frankly it was time to blow off some steam.

It was St. Patrick’s Day, we’re Irish, and found ourselves with some downtime. The perfect release to our emotionally draining week was to head to an Irish Pub and do the old patron Saint of Ireland’s day, right. That’s exactly what we did.

We were saved by an incredible group of nurses that were coworkers of my dad’s sister-in-law. Mercifully, these wonderful people invited us to join them at one of Huntsville’s most well-known and authentically Irish watering holes. It was Finnegan’s Pub and the legend of my experience was further cemented when its 36 year run came to an end in the summer of 2013. My memories are even more cherished since that evening will be my one and only time there.

Located along Memorial Parkway, this treasure could easily be found just beyond the right field fence of the friendly confines of “The Joe.” Joe W. Davis Stadium was home to the Southern League’s Huntsville Stars minor league baseball team. They were the Double-A affiliate of the Milwaukee Brewers.

It was a dark and drizzly day which seemed ominously appropriate given the reason we were in town. By midafternoon, we met our hosts and joined the festivities already well underway. The place was packed and the joyful energy was welcomed. An acoustic trio sat in the pub’s sofa strewn entry playing traditional Celtic music. A high-table, back in the larger half of the tavern is where we would set up for the night.

Call it heresy, call it sacrilege, call it what you will, but this was one particular St. Patrick’s night that would have one less drinker among the throngs of revelers. I just wasn’t feeling it, but I wouldn’t let that stand in the way of a good time. So there I stood at a curved bar at least 15 feet long and five shoulder-to-shoulder people deep, waiting for my turn to order another club soda with lime.

Out of nowhere, the one lone and overtasked bartender loudly summoned me to the front of the line when he shouted above the chaotic scene, “Hey you! Buddy! Come up here!” Always ready to please, I quickly slid past the line of other waiting partiers that were undoubtedly left wondering what made me so special. He had a question for me. Something I was acutely aware of, but didn’t realize was so obvious.

My attentive server just had to ask, “Do you know you are the only person in here not drinking tonight?” Beginning to believe there could be a wrong answer leading to my quick removal from that fine establishment, I meekly responded, “No I didn’t. Is that a problem?” He reassured me when he said, “Not for me, but you sure are going to be giving a whole lot of drunk people rides home tonight!”

We shared a good laugh and my new friend asked me what I needed. Upon fulfilling my request, I attempted to give him the $1.25 for my beverage, but he would have no part of it. He told me it was the least he could do since I wasn’t “getting bent” that night. With that, I tipped him 20 bucks.

Follow me here. Back in college, I bartended at a golf course where the local men’s club would grudgingly part with their 25 cents-a-beer tips. It was a meager existence driven more by free greens fees and golf than prosperity from behind the bar. I knew it had to be the same for my Irish friend here.

Not having any of this he immediately threw the bill back at me and demanded “OH, NO WAY!” I was ready for his dissent when I told him that I knew what I saw there. Of course I did. I was back at that old golf course again.

I barked back, “Listen! This is your freaking place’s New Year’s Eve! Tomorrow you’ll be back to your five regulars tossing you 25 cents a pint! I use to be a bartender and I want to do this for you!” At that he smiled, nodded, and agreed that I nailed his place right on the head.

What was a genuine gesture with no alternative intent on my part, turned into quite the useful tool for the rest of our party. I had to laugh because I couldn’t walk three feet from my table without my mate behind the bar yelling above the masses, “Hey buddy! You good?!” Once, I was literally standing in line for the men’s room when he saw me and checked to make sure I was “good to go” and didn’t need anything.

Needless to say, once my brother realized no one should have to endure a 40-minute wait for a round as long as I was among them, he quickly added Designated Barmaid to my list of duties that night. I relished my new role. I loved walking to the front of the line, then returning each time to the cheers of my table holding seven pints of Guinness and one club soda with lime.