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I, on the Irish (Blog for the Holidays)

blogadmin — Mon, 04 Dec 2006 22:58:58 +0000

The Irish getting their teeth kicked in two days after Thanksgiving in Los Angeles is becoming a bit of a holiday season tradition. At least in the even-numbered years. And in spite of the heartbreaking loss in South Bend in ‘05—where NBC showed Matt Leinart praying on the sideline and said very little about all the Trojan luck that went into winning 34-31 with a second to go—Notre Dame seemed toothless in their quest for revenge in 2006.

I’ll resist the urge to Google the various outcomes because my imperfections are part and parcel of this charming blog. Just ask any of my six readers. But I suppose I could mark my life’s course by the annual Notre Dame – USC event. Just like an old-timer they used to trot out in the stands who had attended games going back to the beginning. But he’s probably dead now, so you’ll have to deal with me.

I recall vague images of a touchdown-dancing Anthony Davis in an early 1970s affair. Notre Dame had a big first-half lead, but in the second Davis ran like the devil himself (as if cast out of Heaven by a cannon) and the Irish were crushed something like 55-24. And was it fact or fiction that Ara, that much-loved coach weary of being circled by the God damn Roman centurion on the horse after all the scores, queried about having him shot? And don’t think he was talking about the horse. Around the Bicentennial it seems like a controversial fumble took the ball from ND’s Joe Montana and gave the game to the Trojans. I may have been at one or two of the games in South Bend where the student body lefts and rights from the likes of Charles White and Marcus Allen wore blasphemous 100-yard paths beneath Touchdown Jesus.

I can’t remember much of the 1980s. Like my friend Kevin says, “It was the ’80s and we were changing the world.” Sniffing glue in our parachute pants, glued to the television for a few moments with the “Solid Gold” dancers while our trousered teenage lust parachuted toward God and our chins, and stealing beer from suburban garages, we were changing the world all right. One self-service garage at a time. There was the suffrage associated with Gerry Faust, but perhaps the Trojans fell into NCAA hardship or penalty, so the rivalry may have petered out.

With our speech-impeded savior in Lou Holtz, it seems like the Irish handled their western foe for a while. Lou still talks about Notre Dame going out to LA and playing well, but I guess he was referring to last century. It seems like he sent Ricky Watters home from LA, and the Irish still won big once. I remember a Thanksgiving sometime in the mid-1990s. My girlfriend and I flew to Florida to stay with a friend of hers who was dying young. He was also trying to spend all of his inheritance before the grave got him. I left one restaurant and drove one of his two convertible Mercedes back to his house so I could see the game. That may have been a 10-10 tie for Christ’s sake. That night I awoke with cotton mouth something awful. I snuck into the heavily decorated kitchen and was drinking eggnog right from its container. The dying man emerged from the garage and asked, “Thirsty?” I jumped out of my sunburned skin.

Fast forward to the 21^st century and my memory serves me better. Though the losses are consecutive and mounting, I remember watching them with my father and another old guy in a Florida bar (2002), witnessing the beating in person with my brother (2003), keeping one eye on it in a strip joint (2004), and watching on bended, praying knee at home last year. Tyrone Willingham, even after such hype for that return-to-glory business, may have proved that nice guys finish last. Or exactly 21 points behind the Trojans in three straight years. And what can you say but “Sorry, Charlie,” when USC hangs a familiar 40-something on the Weis man this year?

Maybe you say you get them next year, or in two years back in Hollyweird with some recruited speed. When the Irish went west this year, I sped east on a touchy clutch. I watched the game with some friends like family in Richmond, Virginia. We deep fried a turkey, heaped damage upon my liver, and laughed like weirdos for three nights straight. And for that I’m thankful. I could have done without the loss, but as I get older, it’s pretty much expected. I’ve said it before: each year I’m losing time, hair from my crown, and inches off my vertical jump.

And time don’t wait for no blowhard bloggers. So I’m out of the game for a while. It makes me feel too much like Helen Keller out in the woods with an axe. It’s hard to see the trees through the virtual forest, and I can’t hear a damn thing when I’m chopping them down. Truth is my God’s honest tomfoolery may not be suitable for online consumption. I’ve got about one month to compile these piles of blog onto a proper page. After that, I’m selling vacuum cleaners. Those suckers make some noise, and I need not expel anymore wind here. So long for now. Happy Christmas to all, and enjoy the good fight.

I, on the Irish (Beware a dozen days after the Ides of November*)

blogadmin — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 19:48:48 +0000

In less than a month’s time, Notre Dame laid waste to the Army, Navy, Air Force, and have tried to schedule the Marines for next year. That soft November, complete with a helping of Carolina Tar Heels thrown in for good measure, could prove to be like the feast of the fattening bird that will lose his neck come Thanksgiving. In short, I’m fearful of how these boys will withstand the Trojans of California.

I spent the Army game testing my own manhood. Not really. I inhaled beer (a doobie-free weekend) and sipped whiskey while my brother and a handful of his brothers-in-law hunted deer in Michigan. My only sights and sounds of the ND-Army game were a late first half scoring drive that would affectively put the game out of reach and beyond worry in my mind. So while the men squatted with rifles in pup tents and atop various tree stands, I stoked the fire, smoked cheap cigars, and sampled bear meat (it’s like summer sausage with bullets).

These hunters, these brothers mad for the blood of deer, have made a history of such journeys. Forty years ago, two brothers who begot sons and even more daughters who got husbands, turned their attention to thinning out herds in the north. I’d heard many tales of these campfire adventures, but this was the first of which I partook. An opportunity, thought I, for another fish-out-of-water perspective. But I was granted neither pistol nor shotgun. My lone contribution may have been keeping several of the sons awake with my monster-like snoring on Saturday morning. I’m just glad they didn’t sleep with firearms.

A buck and a doe hung bleeding in the barn with care by the time of our arrival. But no more were had thereafter. At least not by our party. My brother shot five or six times at one fleeing fawn, but he ain’t never got no deer. I was satiated by the fire, tickled by the camaraderie of friends and family, and not yet troubled by a Trojan horse running circles around a chubby leprechaun, realizing too late that he’s untested in battle.

* I figure my pompous Roman calendar reference could use a footnote. We all know (or should) Shakespeare’s warning about the Ides of March. The ides is the 15^th day of March, May, July, or October, but it’s the 13^th day of the other months in the ancient Roman calendar. Google it, bitches.

High on the Irish (Waiting for the Drugs to Kick In)

blogadmin — Wed, 15 Nov 2006 21:41:17 +0000

For the good doctor, God rest him, it would have been a mild-mannered Saturday for the Air Force veteran somewhere in the high altitude of Colorado. But since I rarely smoke dope these days, I was prepared for a bit of a misadventure. With a few friends gathered in my cozy basement dwelling, I had hoped to showcase a new HD television, along with the Irish on the road against Air Force. If television is the opiate of the masses (even one to replace the Jesus I would not recreate today), why not let it wash over us in high definition?

My drug buddy (let’s call him Snoop Dogg) showed up with his eight-year-old garage stash, and faster than a slippery slope we were passing the pipe and arguing about what games to watch. Notre Dame, hopped up by some pre-game words from Weis or perhaps paranoid about the ground attack of the once shifty Air Force who used to run around Gerry’s kids (of Faust fame) for something like four straight victories, went to the air early and often to make the game a laugher. In back-to-back passes after the kickoff, Quinn found Samardzija, who scampered quickly and cockily with his flowing hair behind him into the end zone. Meanwhile, the handful of stoners in my apartment ridiculed my smoking skills. “Don’t suck it in so fast,” said one. “Keep it in your lungs longer,” chimed another. “You’ll never be one of us!” mocked a third.

I got the skank weed down my neck as best I could and waited for my buzz. I poured beer through my liver, stained my teeth with red wine, but never felt the switch flip to stoned. It wasn’t like the first time I found myself, high as a motherfucker in high school, at some kid’s house in Homeplace, the rough part of Carmel. His mother was in the next room. My jaw lost connection with my mouth and I could have been a poster boy for a “just ask why” campaign of the 1980s. Another time, home alone and higher than a teenage Macaulay Culkin on the outs with Michael Jackson, I stared into a mirror and saw my face transform into that of my brother’s. My mind, an overcrowded, clamoring space, was no place for drugs. I knew then that I should get that boy to a brewery.

Still, I wondered if the years had calmed me. Maybe somehow made more suitable to doobie. I was turning 41 a day after this Veteran’s Day, where the Irish would rest well on Sunday knowing that four teams above them in the polls would by Monday sag below them. As the day wore on, one couch-bound reveler compared the shindig to his college days, a couple of decades bygone. “Sitting around, smoking pot, watching TV, and listening to the Allman Brothers,” said he whom we’ll call George W., “it’s great.”

Sometimes it is great. Notre Dame is 9-1, and with God and some Irish luck willing, still in the hunt for a national championship. And won’t we have a high time if they can win their next three games.

I, on the Irish (Tarred and Feathered, while Jesus Braved the Weather)

blogadmin — Tue, 07 Nov 2006 21:48:56 +0000

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.

I, on the Irish (Shiraz in the Hands of a Drunken God)

blogadmin — Mon, 30 Oct 2006 21:42:08 +0000

Even the best-laid plans of bloggers and breakfast clubbers often go awry. Weary as I was from Friday’s festivities, I still dragged my carcass out from under a cave of blankets to join nieces and siblings for an early morning drinking opportunity before the Purdue-Penn State game. I fully planned on going to a new pub called O’Bryan’s Nine Irish Brothers to watch the Irish at noon. Seems like a reasonable option.

But what reasonable person starts drinking wine at 9 a.m.? Did I mention I was dressed in full Touchdown Jesus regalia? That’s me to your left, bleary-eyed with an unknown priest and nun. The breakfast club led to a lingering tailgate and it was the third quarter before my own brother and I arrived at Nine Irish Brothers. Because of some television glitch, they could only show one game on several screens. “God damn it,” I condemned the young beer fetcher. But she just glared at me in schoolgirl wonderment. Like the Stations of the Cross, Bob and I suffered through the rest of the Boilermaker shutout: 12-0. I fell off my stool three times.

Though I had no visions of it, Notre Dame defeated Navy for about the 122^nd straight time. Not since John Paul Jones (or maybe it was Roger Staubach) have the Midshipmen beaten the Irish. Sounds like Brady Quinn may have kept both Heisman dreams and a top-draft-pick possibility alive with his play. On Sunday, my day, I watched “60 Minutes” and the piece on Charlie Weis. The scoop it seems for Steve Kroft, was finding a football coach who swears like a sailor. Nice job, dickhead. Maybe next week you’ll expose a farmer who’s fond of growing crops.

For next week, as God and Dad is my witness, I’ll try to position myself better as the North Carolina Tar Heels arrive in South Bend.

I, on the Irish

blogadmin — Tue, 24 Oct 2006 22:11:18 +0000

Okay, maybe it was only my sister Kathleen that missed her baby brother’s blog, but I must admit: I kinda miss cranking it out. My short-lived, semi-professional football existence came to a crashing end (albeit one I’m rather thankful for) early this month. And that pretty much broke this blog’s back. So what could I possibly have left to say, dear reader? My sweet, voracious reader.

Well hear me out. Anyone who knows me knows of my love for Fighting Irish football. I’ll apologize to the haters up front. I realize I can’t throw a decent spiral, Notre Dame wasn’t accepting “C” students like me when I left high school, and I don’t even go to Mass anymore. Still I pray for the Irish on Saturdays, come close to weeping when they win tight games, and consider killing when they lose. Not anyone in particular, just myself or small squirrels.

So here I begin again. This will be my take on the Irish. For great facts, stats, funny stories, videos, and much more, check out these dudes at Blue-Gray Sky. It’s all the Notre Dame football stuff you’ll ever want, all year long. I met Jay, one of the founders, at a Purdue-ND tailgate and he’s a nice guy with a good thing going.

My story: I’m a bit of a naval gazer looking for a subject. When I say “I, on the Irish” I’m using the pronoun in the Bob Marley sense. As in, “Old pirates yes they rob I; Sold I to the merchant ships.” Could that be anymore offensive dropping from the fingers of a “C” student from the suburbs? But hereafter will be me—partly punny, semi-gonzo, or completely blotto—sharing stories with you, my tasty reader, of how I spent my Saturdays cheering on the Irish.

The season’s on the back nine (which would only make sense if I were writing about golf), so you shouldn’t have to bear with me too much longer. This past Saturday, I left a sleeper of a Wisconsin-Purdue game to catch the start of UCLA-Notre Dame. I went to a bar called Rowdy’s, which used to be a Burger King—named after the Purdue mascot (Rowdy, not Burger King) made of the same material as the giant penis that occasionally floats through the student section. There I found plenty o’costumed college kids, some of whom had been hitting the booze since breakfast. Not surprisingly, Purdue was losing on every television, 17-3. I didn’t like my chances of having even one channel turned, so I made a longer walk to the Levee and a bar called Scotty’s.

Long story short, because I’m already starting to bore myself with this one, I watched the Irish struggle against a gritty UCLA team. Brady Quinn was much sacked. The Irish defense looked from time-to-time capable of giving up the big play (which they did) and indifferent to tackling (though the defense played well overall). And as the game wore on, I’m thinking, “Wait, they could lose this.”

The bar grew red around me: Wisconsin fans. When my lady friend arrived, I’d whisper into her easily humored ear, “Badgers, we don’t need no stinking Badgers.” Not once did she laugh. Late in the game my buddy Dunn (who looks a little like the Fighting Irish mascot) called. I told him to get his lucky ass to the bar.

You saw the ending. It’s been in all the papers. The Irish, snubbed on a fourth and one, had to force a three and out from the Bruins, all while calling timeouts (which they kept) for any hope of a miracle. And it happened: 80 yards in about a half a minute in three big passes, the last of which was the Medicine Man Quinn pump faking, and then finding the Minor League pitcher Samardzija, who scampered to the end zone. I kissed the lady friend. Nearly tea-bagged Dunn (he ain’t all that tall). And did get a little misty-eyed. Later, on the replay on Westwood One, I heard Don Criqui’s voice cracking on the call. Half the world is weeping like wee little Irish men. The other half hates Notre Dame, so get bent. More next week when this naval gazer watches the Irish take on Navy.

The Longest Blog

blogadmin — Mon, 09 Oct 2006 18:07:36 +0000

Our long season came to a dismal final end on Saturday with a 14-3 loss to the Michiana Titans. Disappointing to say the least, especially given the fact that we’d beaten this team 31-0 in the season opener. But with turnabout being fair play and our turnovers falling in abundance (anyone counting them on his digits would have used two full hands and gone to his zipper for at least one other) the Lions really gave this one away.

For their part the Titans, who didn’t field more than 20 guys, took care of the pigskin and had some success on draws, while a fairly mobile quarterback kept out of harm’s way. Plus, their two-way players picked up several balls dropped and a few thrown. Our defense stood tough as always, but we couldn’t overcome double-digit turnovers, which oddly enough sounds like a MacDonald’s treat for cannibals. “Umm, double-digit turnovers. It’s got twice the fingers!”

With the abrupt end, I’ve stewed for about a day and half, trying to make sense of the season. I’m sure my father, who in his 82^nd year watched me play a couple of weeks ago as a rookie in my 41^st, would look for some sort of numerical perspective. He’s quite the number cruncher. In the 1970s, he remembered our phone number by reciting, “He rose at 8 and took 465 to get to work by 9:20.” I don’t know what slack boss would let you roll in at 9:20, but I should probably be working there.

Another time, my dad came up with an equation that measured his loves and losses in palindromes. “I lost my mother at 11 and met your mother at 22,” he told me. “We spent 44 years together, which took me to 66. And if I live to be 88, which I hope to hell I don’t, that means I’ll have spent half my life without her.”

I suppose I could look to the numbers when scanning our season for meaning. If you count the preseason win and the post-season loss, we ended up an even five and five—our good and bad times divided equally in half. Personally, I was proudest to be a Lion after two losses (to Kankakee and Indianapolis), when we rallied together only to fall just short in both comebacks.

I could also go to the roster on the Lions link to look at the names of the men I played with. Of those 50-plus players, we lost a handful to injuries while a baker’s dozen quit along the way. Our head coach left after the season’s third game. But there’s some real symmetry on both sides of the ball. Two offensive-minded brothers from “the region,” who off the field work in emergency and medical fields, were never short on advice or wisecracks. Two defensive brothers straight off the farm hit like they were harvesting pain. And a father and son team fired off on the defensive line with forearm shivers late into the season. You can still almost hear the younger man’s children screaming in Attica, “Rip his head off, Grandpa!”

Otherwise I spent some time with some really good former division one athletes, a few of whom even spent some time in the NFL. One of the world’s strongest men (really, he’s going to Africa to compete with others for the title) paved running paths on from his position on the offensive line. Some kids barely out of high school seemed like they could sprint for days from various gunner positions. And a big man named Boogie told me not to chase to the outside when blocking on points after touchdowns.

In practice I dreaded a “nine route” that put me directly in the path of some happy-hitting veteran linebackers. I learned the passing tree (most of it) from a guy who ran routes perfectly. But the only thing thrown my way all year was a number 13 jersey misfired in the locker room after the last game. Early on though, I made my first tackle in pads since the late 1970s on the young man who’s trying to get me in shape for next season.

Who knows if there will be a next year? I was too old, slow, and well-mannered for this semi-pro business seven years ago. I’d be wise to make a memory of it now. Save my hamstrings for jogging and less violent, more leisurely diversions. I’ve never been too wounded working with words. I don’t have any grandchildren (though it’s a numerical possibility had I been more popular in high school), but I suppose I could tell them one day about an on-sides’ kick recovery I had that kept us alive against the Sabers. Oh, I can build on that one for years.

Really I’m just grateful on having survived the season that dates back to the week before Memorial Day, when field-turf scrapes quickly turned to ankle sprains and hamstring aches. Either I’m lucky, or someone up there does indeed like me. Even as a lapsed Catholic, I wasn’t above an occasional sign of the cross before a kickoff or a tug at the St. Jude medal around my neck and beneath my pads. The patron saint of lost causes and possibly improbable dreams, St. Jude may have kept my spine in place. A good doctor in Indianapolis helped heal my hammies, which he likened in stiffness to oak trees, and I’m hoping that I may find my wind somewhere along a running path in the off season. So watch out for next year. Because if I return—God, legs, and coaching staff willing—I’m getting defensive.

Thanks to everyone—be you teammate, reader, family member, or friend—who’s endured my egocentric stint into immersion journalism. As a writer I’m usually more of a bleeder than a blogger, so I appreciate everyone who’s had to stumble through these “mind fields.” As this rush of words stops one shy of 1,000, the blog stops here.