down around a lake. In the distance, we could hear a marching band. It was hard not to get into the spirit that seemed to fill this place. I had to remind myself we came here to stop a sniper from killing a bunch of college kids.
Al definitely got into things, especially the number of pretty college girls in tight sweaters and short skirts who bent over to tickle under his chin. Al wasn't the only one. We kept walking and found another lake and in between the two lakes there was this beautiful stone grotto where thousands of candles lit the twilight. I guess people really wanted to beat Michigan.
'Hey Duf, let's say a prayer,' Karl said.
'I didn't picture you a religious guy. Certainly not Catholic.'
'Something about this place makes me feel like saying a prayer.'
It was beautiful. There were about fifty people there, some lighting candles, some praying, and some just sitting. Karl walked ahead and lit a candle. I knelt and said a prayer and Al lay quietly next to me. I noticed a small figurine of St Francis of Assisi off to the right and figured that probably made Al feel good.
I stood up and met Karl as we walked toward the marching band.
'Hey, Karl. If this place has a French name how come they're called the 'Fighting Irish,' I said.
'Your first name is the name of one of the original Irish clans and you don't know?' Karl said.
'Hey, I'm half Polish.'
'The Fighting Irish came from stickin' it to the man back in the twenties. This place was Jackie Robinson to the Catholics.'
'Huh?'
'In the twenties, Catholics were oppressed, man. Notre Dame is so popular because they won football games against big state schools filled with Protestants.'
'What does that have to do with being Irish?'
'Back then, Catholics were oppressed, but the Irish were even more so. It was an insult to call all Catholics 'Irish.' So, when Notre Dame kicked the shit out of a school like, say, Michigan, the papers would say 'The Fighting Irish Win' but they meant it to be derisive. Like saying the 'Grambling Niggers Win.'
Because the school was proud of being Catholic, they adopted the derisive term. Kind of saying 'That's right we're Catholic and we just kicked your ass.''
'Really?'
'Yeah, oppressed groups often adopt derisive terms and wear them defiantly and proudly. African-Americans will call each other 'Nigger', Gay people adopt the word 'Queer', Italians call each other 'Dago'. It's a way of taking the power out of the term.'
'No shit. So this place stands for something besides rich Catholic kids and a good football team?'
'Yeah. Back in the thirties, the Klu Klux Klan marched on South bend. The school president forbade the students to do anything. The kids defied him, met the Klan and drove them out of the city,' Karl said.
'Kind of makes you proud to be Irish and Catholic,' I said.
'Fuckin' A-right.'
We both took a second to look back at the candles lighting up the Grotto.
'Let's go stop this. This place stands for something special,' I said.
We walked, but just below a trot. We saw the crowd ahead of us and the tubas in the back row of the marching band. There were thousands of people following the band, singing along and pumping their fists. The sun had set and it was chaotic and very difficult to watch and see anything except a sea of people. We caught up with the band and walked along the middle of the pack. Karl broke away and jumped up on statue of Moses holding one finger in the air next to the library.
'Duffy! Duffy!' I heard him scream through the band's rendition of something called 'On Down the Line!'
I ran to the statue.
'He's here, I just saw him.' He pointed into a sea of people dressed in green and blue and gold. 'He's wearing a green 'Irish' shirt,' Karl climbed down off the statue.
'That helps,' I said.
Karl didn't listen, instead sprinted all out in the direction he pointed. Al and I followed along no idea what Karl planned. The band and the mass of people had marched around the basketball arena called the Joyce Center and headed inside for the pep rally. Karl ran to the entrance and stood on a sawhorse, used as a barricade. He looked back and forth, trying to spot Newstom. The band marched right into the arena. A quick glance told me it was filled with crazed Irish fans waiting for the pep rally to begin. I tried to follow behind the band, but a security guard asked for a ticket and wouldn't let me through.
'You need a ticket for a pep rally?'
'Yes sir,' he said. Al disagreed and ran right between the big guys legs. You could hear him barking over 'Cheer, Cheer for Old Notre Dame.' Without a word I took off after him while the cop seemed confused by the sight of a short legged Irish fan. Karl jumped off the barricade and ran with me, as we searched for Al in the crowd.
Coach Weis stood at the microphone and the crowd went nuts. We ran up on the top level by the bleachers where the students stood. I saw Al whip around a corner and cut through one of the tunnel-like entrances to the concourse. Al barked like crazy and I could see him though he was about 20 yards ahead of us. Suddenly Al took a sharp right turn into one of the arena's men's rooms.
Karl and I caught up with Al, who stood in front of a long row of urinals barking at nothing. I looked up and down. With the exception of a guy in the last stall, there was no one in there.
I could see the guy standing, like he had just finished taking a crap and he pulled up his jeans.
A knapsack dropped to the floor of the stall with a loud metal clang.
Karl and I looked at each other. Karl nodded at me and I moved quietly over to the stall. I took a deep breath and threw all my weight into the stall door.
The door banged off the wall violently, grazing something and slamming into the tile. A short squatty Asian guy wearing black jeans, army boots, and a camouflage jacket stood there fastening his jeans. I rushed him and pushed him up against the wall over the toilet. I had taken him by surprise with his hands down.
I was in close with him, but I put as much as I could into a hook to his body. My fist slammed into something firm, but I had too much adrenaline going through me and I doubled the hook up to his head. He went down awkwardly between the toilet and the stall wall. I jumped down hard with my knee on the guy's chest and again hit something firm. I didn't pay attention and threw a right hand across the Asian kid's face. The Notre Dame fight song blasted across the bathroom tile in a weird distorted way. I barely heard the shouting behind me. Then I felt a couple of sets of arms pull me off the kid.
'Stop or I'll shoot!' the guy standing above me said. I was on my back now, with a cop's knee in my chest, his partner's service revolver pointed at my head.
'Check his bag, check his bag-he's got ammunition!' The one cop kicked the bag over to the guy holding the gun. With one hand holding the gun on me, he zipped open the knapsack. Cans of Spam, chicken spread, and Vienna sausages soup spilled out.
'It's canned food for the soldiers' night at the pep rally, asshole,' the cop kneeling on my chest said.
30
Jail really kind of sucks.
Jail on the weekend of a gigantic college football game sucks more.
First, I was stuck in a holding cell with a dozen guys, half of them dressed in green, the others in blue and gold, or as I came to learn from one especially adamant Michigan fan, maize and blue. His commitment impressed me. The fact he barfed regurgitated beer and some sort of pork product right after making his point impressed me less.
On Friday night these drunk Notre Dame and Michigan fans almost seemed as though they had a good time. It was as if getting arrested at a pep rally and fighting with opposing fans made one the ultimate athletic supporter. By Saturday, when they awoke hung over, not at the game, and facing felony charges, they all seemed far less jovial.
