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Recollections of a Bronx Irish Catholic
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Sinner raids NYC church, steals $10,000 religious item
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Twenty years ago, it seemed only politicians and priests had plastic molded seats. Twenty years ago, under-12s were thrown over the turnstiles, no tickets necessary. And 20 years ago the concession stands definitely did not sell “Chicken Tikka on Pita Bread.”
From my seat behind the Canal End goalposts, it seemed the only thing Croke Park 2001 has in common with Croke Park 1981 is the potential to break your heart.
As the international headquarters of the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA), Croke Park is home for the indigenous Irish sports of huffing and Gaelic football. Located on Dublin’s Northside, it has been the setting for almost every GAA championship since before the founding of the Irish State. It has no parallel in American team sports, whose championships are played in different stadiums and cities every year. If your team is traveling to play “Croker” in the autumn, you know you’re in for a big day.
Bronx Irish Catholic By Peter Quinn, Contributor
In the 1950s, the Bronx was a melting pot of immigrants and first-generation families: Jewish, Italian, and Irish alike. Peter Quinn shares his story of what it was like to be a Bronx Irish Catholic, commonly referred to as a B.I.C.
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“Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, / Who never to himself hath said, / This is my own, my native land! / Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d, / As home his footsteps he hath turn’d…”
– Sir Walter Scott
Native land means different things to different people. To some it’s a nation with well-defined borders, like France or Sweden; to others, it transcends borders, à la Ireland or Korea. For many, I think, the term native land invokes something more intimate and parochial: a patch of earth that, no matter where life takes us, stays synonymous with home. For me, that place is the Bronx of the ’50s and ’60s, a lower-middle- / middle-middle-class agglomeration o