Seven years ago I was wrapping up a book with U.S. soccer star Carli Lloyd, a project written in the wake of her hat trick in the championship game of the 2015 World Cup in Vancouver, Canada. The first sentence in the book was, “I don’t do fake,” and if you know anything about Carli, you know that pretty much drills down to her essence. Anyway, we were close to the finish line when I arranged a lunch meeting with my editor in the Herald Square area of New York City. (That’s where Macy’s is, for the uninitiated.) The editor was Susan Canavan of Houghton Mifflin. The meeting was my idea, and it was idiotic. It was a Friday, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it was March 17, which meant that roving hordes of green-clad teenagers, all of whom should’ve been in school, descended on midtown Manhattan, with their beverages and green derbies and leprechaun outfits, and more beverages. This was not the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, mind you, a grand New York tradition that dates to 1762, when, according to the parade’s website, the marchers were a band of homesick, Irish ex-patriots and Irish military members serving with the British Army in the colonies.
My St. Paddy's Day Screwup
My St. Paddy's Day Screwup
My St. Paddy's Day Screwup
Seven years ago I was wrapping up a book with U.S. soccer star Carli Lloyd, a project written in the wake of her hat trick in the championship game of the 2015 World Cup in Vancouver, Canada. The first sentence in the book was, “I don’t do fake,” and if you know anything about Carli, you know that pretty much drills down to her essence. Anyway, we were close to the finish line when I arranged a lunch meeting with my editor in the Herald Square area of New York City. (That’s where Macy’s is, for the uninitiated.) The editor was Susan Canavan of Houghton Mifflin. The meeting was my idea, and it was idiotic. It was a Friday, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it was March 17, which meant that roving hordes of green-clad teenagers, all of whom should’ve been in school, descended on midtown Manhattan, with their beverages and green derbies and leprechaun outfits, and more beverages. This was not the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, mind you, a grand New York tradition that dates to 1762, when, according to the parade’s website, the marchers were a band of homesick, Irish ex-patriots and Irish military members serving with the British Army in the colonies.