Go Irish!

I’ve been a Notre Dame football fan as long as I can remember.

I came by it honestly. My maternal grandmother, Delia Malloy from Mayo, was such a fan that when she was, herself, dying of cancer in 1943 she had my dad carry her from her bedroom into the living room where she could rest on the sofa and hear #1 Notre Dame play #2 Michigan in a game that determined the national champ. Notre Dame won, the story goes, she cheered weakly, and then died.

I like that story. I have a picture of my two brothers and me on my living room wall. We’re each wearing a Notre Dame letter sweater. Kevin is six, I’m four and my brother Pat is two. It’s the only picture I have of myself in which I think I look handsome.

When I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I promised myself I wouldn’t die until I saw the Fighting Irish win another national championship.

I don’t know if I can make that promise stick but I sure hope I can.

Last year the Irish had their worst season ever. They won only three games. They lost to Navy for the first time in 43 years. My emotions were mixed. I was sad for the team and the school but I was kind of happy because I figured I had at least one more football season to go.

The Notre Dame Irish took to the field for the first time this year two days ago. They were playing San Diego State, a team they should have beaten without too much trouble. Things did not go so well during the first three quarters. The San Diego State Aztecs pushed the Irish around and looked like they were on the way to a big upset.

My wife went to church during the game and came home early in the fourth quarter.
She asked me how the game was going. She knows about my promise to myself not to die before ND wins it all.

I answered without thinking just as Notre Dame gave up the ball after a third-down run that didn’t pan out. "For this I stayed alive?" I said. "They look like bums."

My wife was shocked. Of course I was joking. Kind of.

In any case, the Irish came alive in the last quarter, scoring two touchdowns and winning the game by eight points. Then I felt pretty good. I felt good because, all joking aside, I do want to live long enough to see Notre Dame win big.

I guess I should be unnerved by every ND win. But I’m not. In fact, I feel pretty secure. That’s because I’ve also promised myself that I’m going to stay alive until the Chicago Cubs win the World Series. The last time that happened was 1908. So the odds of them both winning all the marbles any time soon seem pretty slim indeed.

I thank God I’m able to enjoy small things like football and jokes about the cancer. If I couldn’t laugh, who knows what I’d do?

When I was at the VA hospital the other day I walked past a young vet who almost certainly just returned from Iraq or Afghanistan. He was in a wheelchair being pushed down the hall by a nurse. He looked like he should have been a freshman at Notre Dame or at San Diego State or someplace. Instead, he was sitting in the chair, unable to hold his head up, leaning precariously to one side. Both legs of his sweatpants were folded around the stumps of his limbs.

After I watched the ND game, I remembered him. In an instant, I realized how unimportant Notre Dame football is and the Cubs, too. Immediately I remembered that even a guy with terminal cancer could have it worse. And though I may be wrong, I thought the young man in the wheel chair would be willing to change places with me in a heartbeat if he could just walk into a room, sit down and watch a football game.