Ballad of an Irish Son

Here it comes, a swift jab to the ribs, then the cry that starts it all, more demand than request. “You ‘ave to talk to Roddy!” The boy is breathless, cheeks red, hair matted with sweat. He’s been in a haze for the past half-hour, shouting and swaying and scream-singing Irish hymns amid a sea of his countrymen. You can’t help but marvel. This is lunacy. The kid pokes you again, then points to the small group of Irishmen vanishing behind the stage curtain at the UFC