The Names

The Irish have a digital problem. It's the apostrophe -- a point of honor for the Sons O'Erin.

We left hours early, knowing the traffic in the city would be massive. It is, afterall, the weekend of the 16,000-runner Pittsburgh Marathon, Pitt's Commencement, and a Penguin Stanley Cup playoff game.

But we had prepared with diligence, training for 12 weeks, eating right, and reserving a room near the finish line in the heart of the city. We were set.  Until the nice young woman at the check-in desk had no record of us.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't see it. Let me try again...No, Sorry," her pony tail swinging.

"It's the apostrophe," we said. We're used to this. Clickety-clickety click.

"Ah, there you are!"

So we're here in the room, digesting carbohydrates with our legs up, looking out over the Allegheny to the Mellon Area, already imagining the skyline without it.

Earlier we had visited the finish line to see what it looked like with normal brain function, then wandered about in the Convention Center buying marathon T-shirts and picking up a bag of freebies -- socks, Wheaties, packets of dehydrated iced tea, gift certificates, shoe freshener balls, water bottle, nutrition bar -- and looking for our names on the big board set up in the middle of the hall and reminiscent the Vietnam War Memorial in D.C.

People stooped to touch their names and take pictures with the Macro On.  We scowled.

At least the apostrophe was there.

As far back as I am likely to finish, I'm not  greatly concerned, for once, how they misspell my name.

I'll tell you how it goes.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved