Guinness posters and rebel photographs plastered the wall, along with Dublin street signs and an oversized Jameson mirror. Whiskey bottles lined the bar’s wooden shelves and an Irish tricolor hung from the rafter. Johnson’s Motor Car played in the background while Michael Collins’ patrons ate hearty food and drank dark stout. Hunt straddled a stool next to the mahogany bar and requested three menus from Connor, the round faced bartender. Soon enough, Hunt and Nick enjoyed medium-rare burgers, while Maria picked at her fish and chips. Half an hour later, they finished their meal and Connor cleared their plates as he continued to display his gift for the gab.

“Look at yer man here,” he exclaimed, wiping the bar with his towel. “Most Yanks don’t know a thing about it.”

“Grandad was Irish,” Hunt said. “When we were kids he’d take us up to Gaelic Park. Was a lot of New York Irish back then.”

“What’s hurling?” Maria asked, dabbing her chin with her napkin.

“Irish game,” Hunt finished the last sip of his Guinness. “It’s like rugby and soccer had a bastard kid and somebody gave it a bat.”

“Class game it is,” Connor said, pouring three new pints of Guinness. He set them aside to settle. “Kilkenny’ll probably take the All-Ireland Final this year. But my money’s on the lads from Clare. Anybody but Kilkenny.”