For several years I rode in the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade Uptown with a friend who rented a convertible for the annual event. Since he was the a politician, he got the attention; I was more of his manservant and security detail. The wives sat in the front seat; one driving and the other recognizing people in the crowd.
During the parade, tradition is to shower the onlookers with beads and trinkets (usually left over from Mardi Gras a few weeks earlier) but most coveted were heads of cabbage – leafy green projectiles purchased at the French Market earlier that morning. To round out the ammunition we had potatoes and onions. Other vehicles reportedly carried carrots in their arsenal, but I don’t remember having those, possibly because they looked too much like missiles.
During my first ride I quickly learned that appeasing a crowd from inside a convertible is different from standing several feet up on a float. Especially as the parade moved through the crowd crush along Magazine Street, some spectators found it easier to appease themselves just by reaching in the car and taking what they wanted rather than to rely on my name for its benevolence. Most others were far more passive, but it was hard to overlook that mournful stare from a woman who held a pot with the open side facing me. My making a successful throw was apparently all she needed for preparing dinner. (Then, I noticed the stash of already collected cabbages in a pot behind her.)
Meanwhile, my friend, the politician, had more to gain by shaking hands and introducing himself. I, on the other hand, was not someone that anyone needed to know.
I spent more time guarding the cabbage.Then I had a break. I noticed a man standing above the crowd on the overhang of a nearby shop. Instinctively, I reached for the potato bag.
We made eye contact. And then I was overcome by the male primal urge to fling the potato at him like an outfielder making the throw toward home plate. Miraculously, we connected. The imagination’s inner voice was that of a cheering crowd accompanied by an excited radio announcer gushing about the throw.
From then my objective changed. Anyone who wanted cabbages could take what they wanted. I was more interested in the spectators on overhangs and balconies. Not every throw hit the spot but my left throwing arm was getting a long overdue workout.
Last week, the various St. Patrick's parade organizers announced that potatoes, onions and any other hard vegetables were not allowed to be thrown anymore. Cabbages were still OK, but they had to be gently tossed underhanded. Apparently, other males had felt their primal urge, too, and played hard ball with the vegetables, resulting in lawsuits against the parade groups. I have not ridden in the parade lately, but I am disappointed.
No longer will I have a chance to prefect my curve ball Irish potato.
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