Having a craic at Ireland’s beautiful game with the Seoul Gaels

A Korea JoongAng Daily sports reporter gives Gaelic football, an old Irish team sport, her best go.

The Seoul Gaels scrimmage during their season kickoff in March. [MARY YANG]

Is there an age at which one becomes too old to discover new words? It took me 23 years, a move to Korea and the launch of this series to add Gaelic, the name of a beloved, centuries-old Irish team sport (never mind culture and language), to my vernacular.

But I’m impatient and intrigued, so it’s only a matter of days before I suit up (throw on sweats and grab my sneaks) to kick it with the Seoul Gaels, Korea’s oldest Gaelic football club, at a training session on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

The entirety of my Gaelic football education happens on the bus ride over.

The sport is a heavy metal mashup of football, rugby and — volleyball? — with some of the energy of ultimate frisbee: There’s a limit to the number of steps one can take with the ball before having to bounce or pass or toe tap — adding basketball and ballet to the mix, too. (Technically, volleyball, basketball and ultimate frisbee are all following in Gaelic football's footsteps, as the Irish sport has at least a few years on all of them.)

I skim the rules a la Wikipedia and watch a couple of YouTube videos of Gaelic footballers playing their variation of keep-away (the ethos of any ball sport) before I decide that it’ll just be one of those things I’ll pick up as I play.

Summer camp vibes

I arrive at the pitch and walk up to a sizeable crowd standing in a sea of backpacks and duffels.

It’s the season kickoff, and there’s a chorus of chatter as people catch up with old friends. Most of the players are not Korean (I later learn that just under half of the group is Irish) and, by a handful, the women outnumber the men.

I trade hellos with Gaels veterans and rookies alike, and it feels like the first day of sleepaway camp, where everybody starts to learn everybody’s name. We’re at a high school on the outskirts of Gangnam at the foot of Guryong Mountain, which gives this whole thing an extra campy feel.

The training grounds for the Seoul Gaels neighbor a mountain. [MARY YANG]

Minutes later, a loud voice announces that it’s time to start.

We form a circle, and Donie, this season’s Seoul Gaels chair, offers a few words of welcome and introduces the rest of the masthead. We meet Kevin, the spectacled women’s team coach. A wave of "awws" follows when Donie announces that it’s the final practice for one of the players; they’re leaving Seoul in two weeks, so join the group for a drink in the evening to say goodbye.

Getting started

Everyone peels off into one of four lines for warmups. A woman in a headband shouts out instructions, and I try my best to do whatever the person in front of me does.

It’s standard enough to start. High knees, close-the-gate hip openers (I do hear a few pops), but then the speed picks up and somebody throws in a leather ball. (Heftier than a volleyball, with a surprising amount of bounce.)

I lose every ounce of hand-eye coordination — not that I was working with much in the first place — as my brain glitches when we’re told to use our hands to dribble down the turf, a very important skill in this basket-volley-football-rugby sport.

Next, we come back together and form a spread-out blob, and the only instruction at this point is: Move. So I do, even though it’s very unclear what the point of this exercise is. I’m jogging in a wavy zigzag, once again copying those around me (mimicry is the highest form of flattery, so consider everyone flattered.)

I feel like a jumpy water molecule in a heat transfer diagram explaining what happens at the atomic level when a pot boils, this corner of the field a live-action remake of a chapter straight from my eighth-grade science textbook.

But there is meaning to the madness when about five or six footballs get thrown into the stew, and we practice passing the ball at random, lobbing or bouncing it over to whoever makes eye contact first. Forget soup, we’re making popcorn.

Order drains from the chaos as more twists come our way.

Whoever’s leading this exercise tells us to drop to our stomachs when we hear “Bang, bang!” — instructions that double as a practical lesson in self-defense. The last person to do so is punished with a burpee.

Everyone instantly hits the ground at the sound of the onomatopoeia. Is this what goes through a dog’s mind when their humans have treats at bay? Woof.

A few rounds later, a second trick gets added to the mix: “Wheelbarrow.” It’s a mad dash to find someone willing to go legs up, becoming the aforementioned garden vehicle, so someone else can pretend-push them around.

I do wonder what we’re training here. Maybe this helps with reaction time? It’s certainly exposure therapy for any introvert.

The final command is called “last one mounted” (nobody wants to be the last one mounted) where we’re meant to find a partner and, well, mount.

I lock eyes with a girl wearing a green Gaels jersey and my fight-or-flight kicks in, superseding any sense of common courtesy, and I leap onto her back with a yelp. It’s not until several minutes later that we learn each others’ names, but what better way to meet someone than via piggyback?

Gaelic football crash course

That’s enough of that, and we’re allowed a swig of water before heading back for more.

I see an explosion of neon mesh as pinks, yellows, greens and purples fly out like some party clown has decided to perform his magic act gratis.

“New bibs!” someone exclaims.

“It’s ‘cause we forgot where we put the old ones!” someone else calls back.

I’m handed a purple pinnie, which I layer over my layered T-shirts. (I came to practice bundled up, but others have opted for shorts and a tee, singular. It’s March.)

We split into four, and I head to the back of the purples, settled into my follow-the-leader routine.

Here’s where we get a Gaelic crash course. There are a handful of newcomers who need to learn the rules and the moves for the first time. (I, of course, am no novice thanks to the cram on my 45-minute commute.)

In Gaelic football, players are allowed to use their hands but can only carry the ball for a maximum four steps before needing to let go (don’t we all, at some point?) — either passing the ball to a teammate or back to themselves.

First up is the bounce pass — one of the options for a rebound-to-self — which is simple enough. Dribble up the pitch to the small colored cone and then do the same thing back.

There’s a rhythm to the frenzy, I find, during my turn. One two three four - Bounce! - One two three four - Bounce! -Turn turn turn turn turn - Oh gosh I almost lost the ball, don’t lose the ball, Ok we’re good - One two three four - Bounce! - One two three - and away the ball goes to the next in line.

Next we rehearse our hand pass — a straightforward way of getting the ball to a teammate — one person in line throws the ball to the next person on their return-from-cone. Catch! Underhand serve.

The more experienced players then get a chance to practice their solo, or toe tap, which is way more hardcore than it sounds. Let go of the ball after four steps on a run and somehow use your foot to return it to your hands like you’re a paddle with a string whilst still in motion? I opt to bounce again.

And what would amateur sports be without a bit of competition? We purples ready ourselves to go against the pinks, greens and yellows in a race to finish our passing before everyone else. We come in third. (Surely the teams must not be even.)

Then, because why not, we’re told the ball must travel through the whole line, passing it from one person to the next in an alternating pattern of over-the-head and in-between-the-legs.

“Move closer!” a tall man bellows, sharing his expertise in over-under technique. Personally, it seems like a lot of trouble to go through just to get the ball back up front.

Women's team training

We’re about halfway through practice now, and we get split up into lads and lasses; the boys stick to this side of the pitch while the girls are headed to the other end.

I trade my purple bib for a pink one as we go from four colors to three. Each freshly formed women’s team gets a blend of veteran players and newbies.

We form a circle to practice hand-passing (popcorn style) and one cheery-eyed blonde woman is appointed our coach. She offers plenty of “Nice job!”s and “Good one, Mary!”s (a softer touch than the bellowy tall man, but I think she might be being a bit too generous.)

Mary, second from right, braces herself to catch the ball. [MARY YANG]

Mary catches the ball! [MARY YANG]

We’re encouraged to try passing with our non-dominant hand. I suppose this sport demands ambidexterity, which is bad news for me, as I am barely dextrous to begin with. I give it a go, and it’s the saddest pop you’ve ever seen, as the ball bounces off the side of my fist and lands several feet away from its intended destination.

We then practice kick-passing. These skills are similar to those of football, but it takes some time getting used to the weight of a Gaelic-sized one. I pair up with a fellow newbie to practice our low kicks and long shots, although I learn that she coaches a youth football team while I spend my weekends blundering through a multitude of different sports.

My running shoes fail me, as the breathable mesh is no match for the leather. (I say this every week, but I really need to invest in a pair of boots.)

At one point, I miss the ball completely — and I’d put a lot of strength into the kick so the flailing that follows is particularly dramatic — but I do elicit a laugh and a “That was adorable.” I try my best.

Finally, we regroup to put our skills to the test. Two teams step up to a makeshift line about two penalty boxes away from the net — the third team in charge of returning the balls — and we’re told to aim for above the crossbar, between the invisible goalposts. (If they existed, they would look a lot like stunted rugby goals.)

There are two ways to score in Gaelic football — points for balls that make it above the net and between the goalposts, and three points for those that make it into the net.

For this exercise, missing the net is the point. So I should thrive.

I don’t — for the most part. I do manage to volley one over the bar, from a spot much closer to the net, and I decide that’s at least a step up from the previous flail.

When it’s the pink team’s turn to play clean-up, I volunteer to catch the strays that make it outside of the park. From behind the net, outside of the fence, I’ve got a great view of everyone shooting their shots, and it’s all quite majestic.

Mary, third from right, poses with her team, ″Barbie Dreamhouse,″ later renamed U.S.A. [MARY YANG]

The newcomers are herded to the sidelines to get a sense for the game as each team switches off defending against the other two. “Looks like Mardi Gras,” someone notes, as pinks and greens and yellows decorate the pitch.

I’m sent into the game, and it takes me all of three seconds after the whistle to get acquainted with the ground. Curse you lightweight running shoes that are great for training but transform into a slip-and-slide on turf. (If I do this series for long enough, are boots expensable?)

Everything in the mix

We’re rewarded a final water break before joining up with the guys.

In the crowd, I find myself staring at a sticker-sized shoulder tattoo of a Gaelic net. Under it is gothic lettering that spells out “An Ais” — Asia in Gaelic, the language. The owner of the tattoo explains this to me, as I marvel at the ink.

A shoulder tattoo of a Gaelic football goal says ″An Aise,″ which translates to Asia in Gaelic. [MARY YANG]

I am aghast when I learn that Gaelic is one of the few remaining amateur sports in the world, meaning even the matches broadcast on television are unpaid, and I realize that these guys must really be in it for the love of the game. Much respect.

Our team waits on the sidelines while the other two go up first, and we pass back and forth to kill some time. This is when I realize that the part of my palm between my thumb and my wrist has gone numb. (This makes for some bruising, but I’ll wear my battle scars with pride.)

There’s an elegance to the game. I watch people skillfully twist to protect the football and men pirouette into their handpass.

The entirety of my time on the pitch is a blur. I raise my hand to go on defense, as I don’t have any scoring prowess to boast, but making things difficult for other people on the pitch is something I’m confident I can do.

Mary is in the zone during a scrimmage. [DONIE KEANE]

It becomes apparent, however, that I’ve underestimated a Gaelic footballer’s ability to inspire fear. I lock eyes with a woman who’s carrying the ball and charging at me, and if there’s any time to call me a red flag it’s now, as this is as much a football game as it is a bullfight.

A final whistle blows, signaling the end to practice, and my heart is racing. I wobble my way through some lunges during the cool down.

A few announcements later — there's a St. Patrick's Day gathering the following weekend — I exchange fond farewells. Team building through over-and-unders and last-one-mounteds lends itself to making quick friends.

I’m about to walk away when someone walks around with a chocolate cake. It's spectacled Kevin's birthday. There are no plates nor utensils, so people grab chunks with their hands.

I do join the group for a drink at their watering hole in Itaewon, The Craic House, later that evening. Guinness flows. I enjoy a mango slush.

We craic on.

The Korea JoongAng Daily's Mary Yang is on a mission to try her hand at any and every sport that will let her in the door. She can't promise skill or finesse, but she'll give it a good go.

BY MARY YANG [mary.yang@joongang.co.kr]