Notre Dame was a proud army. But like the Egyptians of Bible times, they were surrounded by a raging red sea. They’d never seen such angry waves as the ones surrounding them. Then those waters, thousands of cheering fans, parted, and somebody released the hounds.
The battle was grim—no thing of beauty, no finely crafted football masterwork. Neither side had the quarterback to lead a rout. The Dawgs owned the superior running game and a defense that, like the proudest dog packs, was ready to fight to the death. In the end, that defense ended things and claimed victory on a supreme, forced turnover. And the red sea, which had flooded the surrounding city all weekend, now seemed to cover the world.
Hard to believe all that was thirty-seven years in the past, January of 1981.
I remember three brothers who watched it together on a flickering screen. A little more than fifty-nine minutes of playing time passed before they were able to enjoy it. The game itself was pure agony. And this time, not until Lorenzo smothered the ball and Mike Tirico said, “Ball game,” did we give way to joy.
Before that, we hissed at every penalty, cursed the heavens with every dropped pass. Referees were consigned to eternal hellfire, and offensive coordinators’ lineages were cursed so thoroughly that, thousands of miles away, their cousins felt it.
In short, it’s the closest thing a guy experiences to physical childbirth: about an hour of agony followed by years of the delight that children bring. Some will moan about the imperfections, about how weak the opponent was, but nobody would trade 1/1/81 for the finest sportscar, and this one’s a keeper, too. Already the memories of those “hands to the face” penalties are fading in the wake of a real hope that maybe, just maybe, we’re onto something good again.
The last time we beat Notre Dame, it marked a culmination, an achievement. This time it marks something a notch or two lower, but just as exciting: a grand entrance. Nobody’s pre-ordering championship rings, but we can see how it just might happen before we all reach senility.
In the same living room as before, the three brothers from the disco era watched again, this time with gray hair—and two sons the exact ages their fathers had been on the last occasion, 24 and 17.
The painful childbirth of a new Dawg generation is a rite of passage to experience together. Perhaps, many years down the road, those two sons will watch with sons of their own, on holographic televisions designed by George Jetson.
The machines change, but the people don’t. It feels just as good, even for Disco Survivors in need of hip replacements. Maybe a Notre Dame moment of ecstasy shouldn’t come as seldom as a solar eclipse or Halley’s Comet. Who’s to say we won’t reach the top this time, put down some roots, and stay there for a while, the way ‘Bama, the original rising Tide, has?
Why the heck not?
Our head coach is young and hungry.
The Miracle of St. Pruitt gave us an indoor practice facility.
Our recruiting looks like the basket of loaves and fishes once held by Touchdown Jesus—delicious stuff will just keep falling out of there, as much as we need. And with a defense like this one, you can dream as tall as you want. This is a pack of savage hounds. They don’t yap. They don’t even bark. They roar.
The Red Sea is rising. Fix your sails and get ready to ride the waves.
The battle was grim—no thing of beauty, no finely crafted football masterwork. Neither side had the quarterback to lead a rout. The Dawgs owned the superior running game and a defense that, like the proudest dog packs, was ready to fight to the death. In the end, that defense ended things and claimed victory on a supreme, forced turnover. And the red sea, which had flooded the surrounding city all weekend, now seemed to cover the world.
Hard to believe all that was thirty-seven years in the past, January of 1981.
I remember three brothers who watched it together on a flickering screen. A little more than fifty-nine minutes of playing time passed before they were able to enjoy it. The game itself was pure agony. And this time, not until Lorenzo smothered the ball and Mike Tirico said, “Ball game,” did we give way to joy.
Before that, we hissed at every penalty, cursed the heavens with every dropped pass. Referees were consigned to eternal hellfire, and offensive coordinators’ lineages were cursed so thoroughly that, thousands of miles away, their cousins felt it.
In short, it’s the closest thing a guy experiences to physical childbirth: about an hour of agony followed by years of the delight that children bring. Some will moan about the imperfections, about how weak the opponent was, but nobody would trade 1/1/81 for the finest sportscar, and this one’s a keeper, too. Already the memories of those “hands to the face” penalties are fading in the wake of a real hope that maybe, just maybe, we’re onto something good again.
The last time we beat Notre Dame, it marked a culmination, an achievement. This time it marks something a notch or two lower, but just as exciting: a grand entrance. Nobody’s pre-ordering championship rings, but we can see how it just might happen before we all reach senility.
In the same living room as before, the three brothers from the disco era watched again, this time with gray hair—and two sons the exact ages their fathers had been on the last occasion, 24 and 17.
The painful childbirth of a new Dawg generation is a rite of passage to experience together. Perhaps, many years down the road, those two sons will watch with sons of their own, on holographic televisions designed by George Jetson.
The machines change, but the people don’t. It feels just as good, even for Disco Survivors in need of hip replacements. Maybe a Notre Dame moment of ecstasy shouldn’t come as seldom as a solar eclipse or Halley’s Comet. Who’s to say we won’t reach the top this time, put down some roots, and stay there for a while, the way ‘Bama, the original rising Tide, has?
Why the heck not?
Our head coach is young and hungry.
The Miracle of St. Pruitt gave us an indoor practice facility.
Our recruiting looks like the basket of loaves and fishes once held by Touchdown Jesus—delicious stuff will just keep falling out of there, as much as we need. And with a defense like this one, you can dream as tall as you want. This is a pack of savage hounds. They don’t yap. They don’t even bark. They roar.
The Red Sea is rising. Fix your sails and get ready to ride the waves.
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