I, on the Irish (Tarred and Feathered, while Jesus Braved the Weather)
Within the Bottom 25 tour of their lopsided schedule, the Irish smeared the North Carolina Tar Heels (45-26) last Saturday, but this wasn’t your father’s old-fashioned butt kicking (I’m assuming your father bloodied you). Though I was sort of hoping it would be. I wanted to see a smothering defense on the boys in baby blue. A full-court press complete with about a dozen sacks on a storied basketball program which happens to field of football team. A trouncing the likes of which had not been seen since the Civil War. But the 2006 Irish don’t seem to roll that way.
Still I donned my Touchdown Jesus outfit and headed for the tailgate at Notre Dame. I don’t really look like Jesus. A bloated savior at best, perhaps arisen after three days drowned rather than crucified. And I don’t particularly like drawing attention to myself (though this blog might indicate otherwise). The one funny T-shirt I’ve had over the years—an “Air Garcia” number with Jerry Garcia, silhouetted in red with his guitar, flying through the air à la Michael Jordan—brought me into uncomfortable conversations with Dead Heads in train stations about the various times they’ve toured with the band. So I didn’t like answering charges of blasphemy, or explaining that the hair shirt was the brainchild of my friend, a Mary Magdalene in a down vest. Yet she denied it, thrice.
To compensate for the self-consciousness I guzzled Miller Lite and sipped whiskey, which Magdalene would have confiscated at the gate. We tossed the football, sampled cheeses and chicken, and wondered aloud about the overcast weather. As game time neared with fewer tickets in sight, I felt like a bit of a Dead Head walking with a raised peace sign, “I need a miracle.” It happened. We scored tickets and sat somewhere probably just southwest (or maybe in a complete opposite direction) of the student section and the real Touchdown Jesus.
“Let the bloodletting begin!” I cried. I had our whole section cheering on the offense with: “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!” Neither of the previous sentences is true. I sat quietly, not even turning when someone rattled off the famed Irish folks on my back. On the field, the homeboys rolled with the ball, but their defensive effort was as offensive as a sinner in a Jesus getup. It’s that defense that puts the fear of God into you: porous as the skin of a fallen fruit, half crippled with injuries, and at times as accommodating as an Old Testament whore. How will our boys hold up when they return to the opponents from the Top 10? Time will tell, friends. And who really knows what time it is? Maybe Chicago, they played with the Notre Dame band at halftime.
This week the Irish fly into Air Force. I hope to find the game on the airwaves somewhere beyond Westwood One. Cheers.
You wonder why people were so excited when they recruited two quarterbacks?!? They need a 275-pound-4.5/40-Judas at DE.
Comment by Steve — November 8, 2006 @ 1:49 pm