Sinead O'Connor - Am I Not Your Girl?

Sinead O’Connor-

Am I Not Your Girl?

I Take Her On…One-On-One

Stepping off the plane, I can smell the clean, crisp scent of Dublin. Just like Irish Spring soap, I think. Talk about truth in advertising! The Irish morning sun warms my face and I am momentarily blinded as I begin my descent from the airplane steps. I stop at the bottom and look around, as my fellow passengers push past. It is a beautiful Sunday morning and the sky is nearly cloudless. The temperature is remarkably warm, considering the season. I glance at my watch and see it is already 9:00 am. Whoa! Must run if I want to make my 10:15 basketball game with Sinead O’Connor! I gather my meager belongings and rush off towards the terminal.

After the usual baggage return hell, I run outside and look for a cab. I see a large golden one coming toward me and I signal to it. It screeches to a halt in front me and the back, side door opens. I hesitate a moment, expecting someone to get out. But no one does. From within, a shrill voice calls: “Top o’ the morning to ye! Need a cab?”

I look inside the cab and see no one. I walk over to the passenger window and peer in. On the driver’s seat is a tiny old man, dressed in lime green tights and a tunic. He is wearing a wide-brimmed green velvet hat and is sitting atop a small stack of books. Strapped to his feet are what appear to be two small stilts, one of which is holding down the brake pedal. He Turns to me and gives me a warm smile. I can’t help but notice the glint in his eyes as he says: “Get in, Lad!”

I smile back and approach the open door. The sign on the cab door reads Pot O’ Gold Cab Co. I smile at the effort this guy has put into the leprechaun thing. Inside, the man leans back and, with a little wink, he asks: “So, going to see a lass, eh?”

“I guess you can say that. Take me to the Arden Hotel, please”

“Ah, the Arden. You will be there in a flash.” He revs the engine and moves his stilted foot onto the gas. It lands a bit heavily and we lurch forward. As soon as we move into the flow of traffic, the cab takes off like a bat out of hell. The little guy cackles crazily as he works the steering wheel. While he’s whizzing me to my destination, he asks about my mission.

Since I am stuck fast to my seat, I decide to play along and tell him the story. “I work for the Kean College Independent newspaper back in the States. I usually do music reviews. Well, not really reviews, actually. It’s more like stories. Anyway, I heard the new album by Sinead O’Connor and I liked it. So, I asked to interview her. With all the Pope controversy and stuff, it was close to impossible. But I did manage to convince her manager to let me play a one-on-one game of basketball with her. I mean, I am the first person on earth to challenge her to a game of B-Ball. The manager thought it would be good publicity, so they paid for this one-day trip to Ireland so I could play with her. The only problem is that I am not allowed to ask her any questions. So, basically I am going to play her and hope that I can weasel some information out of her. What do you think, little guy?”

The leprechaun is silent as he drives.

“I said- what do you think?” I repeat.

The leprechaun jumps a bit and turns back to me: “I’m sorry what did you say? I didn’t catch that.”

“Never mind,” I mutter.

Once I arrive at the Arden, it takes me nearly a half-hour to get past the belligerent doorman. He keeps asking me who I am and what I want, and something about sour cream that I can’t really understand. I answer his questions, but he is still unbelieving. He mutters something about the potato famine and tries to take a swing at me. I duck and take a couple of steps back just as Sinead’s manager runs out and puts and end to the madness. He escorts me past the hulking brute, who continues to glare at me with bloodshot eyes.

“I’m sorry about him, Mr. Zayas,” the manager says as he escorts me into the lobby. “He’s had quite a horrible weekend, so far. Ok, so let’s go over the rules once again. When you meet Ms. O’Connor you must not ask her any questions, especially about the whole Saturday Night Live pope business. Is that understood?”

I nod. I notice that this man is really nervous. His brow is lined with sweat and he is continually wiping it as he speaks.

“You are to play one-one-one with her until one of you makes ten successful shots. During this time, you are not to address her as Ms. O’Connor. Just call her Sinead. Got that?”

“Yessir!” I respond enthusiastically. Then, I notice two large men approaching us. The guys get on either side of me and begin frisking me.

“A mere formality,” the manager explains.

After the brief frisk, I am led to the hotel gym and shown to the locker room. There, I change into a pair of purple shorts and a pink t-shirt (it was the only clean shirt I had on such short notice!). I glance down and see that someone left a pair of new looking sneakers under the bench. I look around to make sure I am unseen and put them into my bag. Finders keepers! I try to justify to myself. I get up and head out to the court.

I approach the court and see that four figures await me there. I recognize Sinead O’Connor’s manager, and judging by the camera equipment, one of the figures is a photographer. And then there is Sinead herself. Even though she is dressed in a baggy grey sweat suit and pink headband, she looks beautiful. She holds the basketball under one arm, and is in a conversation with the fourth, unknown figure. She notices my approach and turns to me with her free hand extended in a handshake gesture.

“Hello David,” she says with a friendly smile. “Nice meeting you.” She looks down at my feet and asks: “What happened? Didn’t you like the new sneakers I left in the changing room for you? Were they the wrong size?”

I think very quickly. “Oh, I loved them. But these are my lucky sneakers. I figured I needed these today. Hi. Wow, I can’t believe I’m here talking to you. I love your music. I mean, I…”

“Yes. Thank you,” she cuts me off. “But we’re not really here to talk, are we?” She smiles a pleasant smile again, but this time it looks a bit more strained. She turns to the fourth figure and introduces him to me as Digger. No last name; Just Digger.

We take a couple of publicity photos and soon the game begins. Her manager throws the ball up in the air and Sinead gets it. Now keep in mind that I don’t know anything about basketball. I only challenged her to a game of basketball because it was the first thing to pop into my mind. So, she basically gets off the first shot while I’m still trying to figure out which end of the court is mine. She slam-dunks it and the crowd of three roars. “Good shot!” I call out to her.

She smiles and tosses me the ball. I take it and start my feeble attempt at dribbling. She comes out of nowhere and snatches the ball away from me. She runs down to her end and dunks it again. I hear that guy Digger in the sidelines laughing, and it begins to piss me off. I need some sort of tactic here, I scheme silently. I get an idea and immediately put it into effect.

“You know, Ms. O’Connor, I really like your new album Am I Not Your Girl?” I begin as she tosses me the ball again. “It is very interesting to hear you remake all those old songs that influenced you into becoming a singer.”

“Are you going to talk or play?” she asks, a bit irritated.

“Oh, I am sorry.” I begin to dribble. Just as I sense her about to creep up and steal the ball, I stop and clutch the ball close to my chest. “It’s just that I want to tell you how much that album means to me.”

She has no answer as she flies past me and lands on the floor, arms outstretched.

I reach down and try to help her up, but she pushes my hand away.

“Why didn’t you try to score? Go ahead! I don’t need your help! Play!”

I pull my hand back and dribble down the court to my side and take a shot. It’s not even close. The ball sails awkwardly through the air and lands on the photographer’s camera, causing it to smash on the floor.

“Sorry,” I offer. “I guess there won’t be any pictures, eh?”

The photographer throws his hands up in disgust and walks away furious. The manager shoots me a disapproving look and I turn away and back to Sinead. She isn’t smiling anymore. I toss her the ball.

She takes off across the court while I follow, trying to get the ball away from her. She is too quick, but not quicker than my tongue: “My favorite songs are Success Has Made A Failure Of Our Home, I Want To Be Loved By You, and Don’t Cry For Me Argentina. To me, you ARE Evita!”

She shoots and scores.

I continue: “The album is so mellow, though. I mean, your younger audience doesn’t know most of the songs you have remade. The people who do know theses songs are the older audience you pissed off in the States. Don’t get me wrong. I agree with your point of view against organized religion. I just don’t think that will help out your album, financially speaking. This record sort of alienates your younger fans and your antics alienate your older, more conservative fans. A lot of small-minded people who can’t separate your beautiful music from your opinions no longer like your music. They think you are a liar, full of anger and hate. How do you respond to that?”

All the while that I spoke, Sinead just stood there glaring at me, ball in hand. From across the court, the manager screams: “I said no questions!”

Digger gets up from the bleachers and cracks his knuckles, seemingly ready for action.

Sinead stares me in the eye and screams back to her manager: “Wait! I got something to say to this hack!”

“Hack? Moi?” I say, offended.

“I am not a liar,” she begins. “And I am not full of hatred. But I hate lies. And so the liars hate me. The same who can’t stand the sight of a starving baby. Can you really say you’re not in pain, like me? Or any of us not living painfully? Pain is what their lies have kept us in.

“But the war has started now and truth will win. Many of us are going to lose our lives. That’s okay, because to live we have to die. The enemies of God will say that it is chaos. Just remember what Jesus did in the temple. And be patient.

“Exactly why do you think he was assassinated? Who was it that did the dirty deed? Who didn’t like the answers they received. Look at the one wearing the collar. Then or now, there’s only ever been one liar and it’s the Holy Roman Empire. And this is exactly what they did: They told us lies to take us away from God. So, yeah I am angry. But, I am not full of hate. I’m full of love. God said: I bring not peace, I bring a sword.”

With these final words, she raises the ball, throws it full-force at my head and walks away.

As I get up from the floor, only one thought fills my aching head: Wow! I think I’m in love with her!