Earl and I are off to the University of Notre Dame to watch the Fighting Irish take on Duke’s Blue Devils. I had vowed I wouldn’t go to another ND game this year, but circumstances changed my mind. Two of my Chicago friends are going to be there; so I’m willing to suffer four hours in the cold stadium to have dinner with them in a warm restaurant afterwards.
The thing is: My friends are rooting for Duke. So two of us will be happy at dinner. Given this season’s statistics, I suspect it will be my friends.
I hadn’t realized how much tradition there is to Notre Dame football until Earl got tickets to three of this season’s games. It’s not just about winning, although it’s all about winning. It’s also about tailgate rallies, packing the stadium, buying Irish memorabilia, eating hot dogs sponsored by various college organizations, and generally believing that the University of Notre Dame is God’s boot camp. If you survive it, you’re home free.
Of the three games Earl had tickets for, I’ve gone to one while Alex, Earl’s grandson, went to the other. Now I’m attending the third. But not because I’m a diehard fan. I want to see my girlfriends, and I really don’t care who wins. Sorry, Earl!
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