CurtisCandy
Local Derelict
- Messages
- 425
- Reaction score
- 93
It was 1967… Maybe 1968, either way a very long time ago.
I was walking past our television – no need to specify which one, in those days, you were lucky to just have one in the living room. I remember it being a cool, autumn day. The time of year when my mom would hear the screen door being pushed open and shout, “Put a jacket on!”
I remember the sun glinting off the perfect gold paint. That was the first thing that caught my attention. Had we not just recently been able to afford a color TV set, who knows if the moment would ever have come to pass. But come to pass it did.
Underneath the perfect, shiny gold helmet was a bulky, athletic young man. He ran to a herd of other young athletes, all adorned with those captivating - for some reason - almost magical, gold helmets.
From that moment on, Notre Dame football became my passion. Over the past 40 years, I have abandoned any sense of decorum or lucidity when my beloved Irish are on the field. It is a few hours per Saturday every fall when reason and rationality have no place in my life. There is only passion… Unadulterated, psychotic passion.
I spend the week prior to a game in anxious anticipation. I spend the actual game glued to my television, staving off nature’s urgent calls until a commercial break so as not to miss a play, be the Irish in the midst of a nail-biter or a 30 point blowout.
Simply put, I love Notre Dame football.
On October 15, 1988, that passion hit a zenith. The dastardly criminals from the University of Miami came strolling into South Bend, secure in their ranking as the #1 team in the nation, as well as the #1 object of derision in my soul. Just a few years earlier, they had cruelly run up the score against an overmatched Notre Dame team, pummeling them by a score of 58-7. If there was any justice in the world, a come-uppance was at hand.
Fortunately, justice had a capable accomplice named Lou Holtz. The Irish’s head coach uncharacteristically guaranteed a victory. Normally, I am among the most cynical of people, but somehow I couldn’t help but believe in Coach Holtz.
The Irish played inspired football. The swarming, tenacious defense created numerous turnovers, helping the offense hold a lead for much of the game. Throughout the game, I don’t know if I inhaled/exhaled more than half a dozen times.
With under a minute to go in the game, on a fourth down play, Miami scored a touchdown to move within a point. Instead of kicking the point after, and admitting the Irish were their equal, Coach Jimmy Johnson elected to go for a two-point conversion, thereby holding onto his precious #1 ranking. – If the conversion was successful.
Miami quarterback Steve Walsh took the snap and dropped back. He surveyed the field for what seemed like a light year, then launched a pass into the right corner of the end zone.
It is the trajectory of that ball that will live forever in my memory; in my very being.
As the spiraling pigskin headed for its destination, time absolutely stood still. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I didn’t think I could handle it emotionally if that ball somehow ended up in the hands of a University of Miami student athlete (criminal).
After what seemed like the duration of a reading of “War and Peace”, the ball reached its peak and descended… The receiver was there… And so was Pat Terrell, the Irish safety. In the play that will stay with me to death and beyond, Pat Terrell leapt in front of the receiver. Immediately, doomsday scenarios sped through my brain: “What if he tips it in the air and into the receiver’s waiting hands?”
#15 of the proud Notre Dame Fighting Irish would not allow that image to torture my soul for eternity. He emphatically slammed the ball – and Miami’s season – to the ground.
The feeling of exuberance and elation I felt literally left me speechless. All I could do was grin like an idiot, my fist triumphantly raised over my head, all alone in my living room. To this day, when I need to go to a “happy place” to escape life’s pressures, that moment is my place of retreat.
These days, the only thing that gives me that same type of joy and satisfaction is the anticipation of those Irish moments yet to come… As of this moment, October, 2008, I have seen the flashes; the moments… They are on the horizon… I hear the echoes; they are stirring…
Notre Dame WILL rise again. – With all deference to Coach Holtz, I GUARANTEE IT!
GO IRISH!
I was walking past our television – no need to specify which one, in those days, you were lucky to just have one in the living room. I remember it being a cool, autumn day. The time of year when my mom would hear the screen door being pushed open and shout, “Put a jacket on!”
I remember the sun glinting off the perfect gold paint. That was the first thing that caught my attention. Had we not just recently been able to afford a color TV set, who knows if the moment would ever have come to pass. But come to pass it did.
Underneath the perfect, shiny gold helmet was a bulky, athletic young man. He ran to a herd of other young athletes, all adorned with those captivating - for some reason - almost magical, gold helmets.
From that moment on, Notre Dame football became my passion. Over the past 40 years, I have abandoned any sense of decorum or lucidity when my beloved Irish are on the field. It is a few hours per Saturday every fall when reason and rationality have no place in my life. There is only passion… Unadulterated, psychotic passion.
I spend the week prior to a game in anxious anticipation. I spend the actual game glued to my television, staving off nature’s urgent calls until a commercial break so as not to miss a play, be the Irish in the midst of a nail-biter or a 30 point blowout.
Simply put, I love Notre Dame football.
On October 15, 1988, that passion hit a zenith. The dastardly criminals from the University of Miami came strolling into South Bend, secure in their ranking as the #1 team in the nation, as well as the #1 object of derision in my soul. Just a few years earlier, they had cruelly run up the score against an overmatched Notre Dame team, pummeling them by a score of 58-7. If there was any justice in the world, a come-uppance was at hand.
Fortunately, justice had a capable accomplice named Lou Holtz. The Irish’s head coach uncharacteristically guaranteed a victory. Normally, I am among the most cynical of people, but somehow I couldn’t help but believe in Coach Holtz.
The Irish played inspired football. The swarming, tenacious defense created numerous turnovers, helping the offense hold a lead for much of the game. Throughout the game, I don’t know if I inhaled/exhaled more than half a dozen times.
With under a minute to go in the game, on a fourth down play, Miami scored a touchdown to move within a point. Instead of kicking the point after, and admitting the Irish were their equal, Coach Jimmy Johnson elected to go for a two-point conversion, thereby holding onto his precious #1 ranking. – If the conversion was successful.
Miami quarterback Steve Walsh took the snap and dropped back. He surveyed the field for what seemed like a light year, then launched a pass into the right corner of the end zone.
It is the trajectory of that ball that will live forever in my memory; in my very being.
As the spiraling pigskin headed for its destination, time absolutely stood still. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I didn’t think I could handle it emotionally if that ball somehow ended up in the hands of a University of Miami student athlete (criminal).
After what seemed like the duration of a reading of “War and Peace”, the ball reached its peak and descended… The receiver was there… And so was Pat Terrell, the Irish safety. In the play that will stay with me to death and beyond, Pat Terrell leapt in front of the receiver. Immediately, doomsday scenarios sped through my brain: “What if he tips it in the air and into the receiver’s waiting hands?”
#15 of the proud Notre Dame Fighting Irish would not allow that image to torture my soul for eternity. He emphatically slammed the ball – and Miami’s season – to the ground.
The feeling of exuberance and elation I felt literally left me speechless. All I could do was grin like an idiot, my fist triumphantly raised over my head, all alone in my living room. To this day, when I need to go to a “happy place” to escape life’s pressures, that moment is my place of retreat.
These days, the only thing that gives me that same type of joy and satisfaction is the anticipation of those Irish moments yet to come… As of this moment, October, 2008, I have seen the flashes; the moments… They are on the horizon… I hear the echoes; they are stirring…
Notre Dame WILL rise again. – With all deference to Coach Holtz, I GUARANTEE IT!
GO IRISH!
