Week Nine - Go Irish, Beat Trojans

Fall break is as beautiful as I imagined. Sleep. Get reacquainted with Terri. Sleep. No Professor Rice put-downs (“What! Did you read this case in high school?”). Sleep.

On Saturday I take Lauren, age five, to Notre Dame’s game against the University of Southern Cal. After wins against Washington and Army, the Irish are now 5-2. USC, however, is undefeated and ranked fifth in the country.

Lauren and I park about a mile away from the campus stadium. On the way in, we practice our cheer: "Go-o-o-o Irish. Be-e-e-eat Trojans."

I tell her all about Notre Dame football. Paul Hornung. Joe Montana. The Four Horsemen. Win one for the Gipper. Touchdown Jesus.

USC is the 3½ point pick, but the weather favors Notre Dame. It’s cold, about 40 degrees with a windchill of 25. Lauren and I are bundled up like Minnesotans: sweat pants, turtlenecks, winter coats. I sport a blue and green cap with a gold monogram. Lauren has on a headband of the same colors.

We enter campus at Notre Dame Avenue. The branches of the roadside elms form a red and yellow archway.

"You see that building straight ahead with the round top?" I ask.

Lauren nods, and the leprechaun painted on her cheek jumps up and down.

"That's the Golden Dome. The Irish helmets look just about like that."

"Go-o-o-o Irish. Be-e-e-eat... what's the other name?" Lauren asks.

We stop at Notre Dame Law School and warm up. Then in the short walk to the brown-brick stadium, the rain starts. We find our wet bench in the student section. ND's color guard and marching band highstep onto the field. The blue raincoats of the band are shiny with droplets. With them comes the leprechaun, natty in a emerald suit, tie, and hat. He dances around the end zone and mimics the band's march steps.

Lauren points at him. "Why's he so short?"

"Leprechauns are supposed to be tiny."

"Where's the leprechaun for the other team?"

"They're the Trojans."

Lauren tightens her pink glove into a fist and bounces it to the beat. "Go-o-o-o Irish. Be-e-e-eat Trojans."

We’re surrounded by chanting students. Some have clovers painted over their entire faces. Others wear Golden Dome helmets with tiny Virgin Mary’s attached on top.

Notre Dame scores first after a 14-play drive to our end of the field. Fullback Marc Edwards runs nine yards for a touchdown. Lauren and I whoop and holler, then clap along to the “Victory March.”

"I'm hungry," Lauren says.

"Here, have a Twix bar."

"I'm cold."

"Here, sit on my lap."

"I can't see."

"Here, use the binoculars."

This toy occupies Lauren until the fullback scores again. Notre Dame now leads 14-7, and the fans sense upset.

Lauren points to the letters on the back of a nearby yellow jacket. "What does u-s-h-e-r spell?"

“Usher.”

"Oh, does he take money?" Lauren asks.

I explain that he’s a football usher, not a church one. Notre Dame scores again: 21-7.

"I can spell 'dad.' D-a-d. I can spell 'mom.' M-o-m. I can spell 'off.' Is that o-f-f or f-f-o?"

By now I’m cold too. It’s almost halftime. Lauren says she’s ready to go.

Back home I watch the second half on NBC, as the Irish win 38-10. Lauren sleeps, then shows Terri how a leprechaun highsteps around the coffee table. Next she teaches Stephie how to cheer.

"Go-o-o-o Irish. Be-e-e-at Trojans."

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