Parade offers so many hands to shake, so little time

Hurley wants them to march down the middle and keep the pace like everyone else. They don’t. Those hundreds of available palms are too important to their job security. And so today, as on each parade day in Southie, a peculiar pageant will unfold: the running of the pols.

The 3-mile parade route can turn into 6 or 7 miles of sideline sprints, shaking hands, kissing babies, back and forth, getting behind their contingent — the family and the allies and the children carrying the banner with the shamrock on it — sprinting to catch up, getting called again to the curb, repeat and repeat. If you want to campaign in the St. Patrick’s Day parade, you’re literally going to have to run.

“After a half-mile, you’re sweating,’’ said Bill Linehan, a South Boston native who represents the neighborhood on the City Council. “By the end, all you can think of is sitting down and having someone bring you a beer.’’

In terms of pace and symbolism, the running of the pols has more in common with crossing a busy street than being chased by bulls or battling brides. A car stops for you, you take a few symbolic strides and ease off as you get to the curb, a small gesture of effort as thanks. In a sea of Irish-Americans, the most powerful ethnicity in Boston politics, it is an unwritten expectation of their elected officials — you better come when you’re called.

Each year, as parade day approaches, Jack Hart says he goes on a crash diet to try to shed some winter weight. He’s the latest in a line of state senators from Southie who have hosted the famed St. Patrick’s Day breakfast, a reputation-making smile-and-smear political roast featuring the who’s who of local politics.

He says he doesn’t want to look fat on TV or out of shape on the parade route because people will call him over and tell him both. Before he leaves his house in the morning, he’ll eat a big breakfast before the breakfast. “We serve corned-beef hash and scrambled eggs. It’s not exactly the energy booster you need,’’ he said.

Hydration is problematic during the parade route. A bathroom break can set a pol way behind.

Last year, Linehan drank plenty of water, ran into a friend’s house to use the bathroom, and came out to see his banner going up and over the biggest hill on the parade route.

“I’m running over the hill, I’m sweating profusely, people are yelling my name, and I’m heaving,’’ he said. “And I’m somebody who’s supposed to be in shape.’’

Parade day is, technically, a celebration of the culture of the Emerald Isle, the day when everyone is Irish. For many, it’s also an excuse to have a liquid lunch, and when they call for their elected officials, it’s often to let them have it.

“There’s a lot of pressure on you, especially if you don’t do well at the breakfast,’’ said Brian Wallace, a state representative from Southie who will retire at the end of this year.

“You’re on national television, you’re supposed to be funny, and a lot of us aren’t. On the parade route, they’ll let you know about it.’’

Wallace has lost 43 pounds since the last parade, under advice from his doctor. This will be his last parade run. “Luckily, it’s going to rain,’’ he said. “I’ll say those aren’t tears, it’s just rain.’’

With Wallace exiting, there’s going to be a handful of newbies in the parade who will be vying for his seat; the veterans say they cannot know what they’re in for.

Nick Collins and Mark McGonagle were both in the parade as children, with their youth hockey teams (McGonagle Rollerbladed). Today will be different.

Collins, a marketing consultant, watched Hart go through the running of the pols twice when he worked as his aide. He is expecting it to be similar to when he ran the Boston Marathon. “You’re going on adrenaline and the energy of the crowd,’’ he said.

McGonagle is more worried about his wife, who will walk the route with him, seven months pregnant. That and the fact that he is breaking in a new pair of shoes.

Running back and forth like a Wimbledon ball boy is most certainly a display of political pomp. But, Wallace argued, there is a larger statement being made, something more than simple glad-handing.

“It’s a symbol of what we expect as Americans of those who we elect,’’ said Wallace, who can remember standing behind the barriers as a young boy and watching then-Senator John F. Kennedy running to the hands on the streets of Southie. “They want to see you out front, taking the knocks. They want to see you working for them.’’