Kyle O’Quinn sat down at his writing desk, his inner words eagerly awaiting their release onto paper. He picked up his quill pen and, as if guided by unknown cosmic forces, wrote:
“Eire, the emerald isle, my true home. How I yearn for the green expanses of your valleys, the brown cliffs, the blue waters. In this faraway room I hear your call. My goddess Eiru guides these Gaelic hands in whatever she desires, and the ancients once again speak through the prose which is not mine, but hers. She wept as evil Anglia violated her sanctity, she weeps still to this day, but peace and love will always reign on the green shores of her beautiful domain.”
“My mother Ireland, I will come home to you.”
Just as he was laying down his pen, his teammate and roommate Nikola Vucevic came into the room. Nikola scoffed. “Man, are you writing that crappy poetry again? I already told you, you’re not Irish, you just have an Irish last name.”
Kyle smiled. “You’re just mad jealous ’cause my beautiful Ireland is way better than lame old Montenegro. It’s okay Vuc, I understand that not everybody can be from a superior and storied land such as my own Ireland. Anyway, it’s not me writing it, it’s the goddess-”
Nikola cut him off. “Whatever, man. I don’t want to hear about it.” He went to leave before turning around and adding, “Oh yeah, congrats on the career high. That was pretty sweet.”
“Thanks bro.”