A weather proof, worthy pilgrimage
SOUTH BEND, Ind. — As we made ourselves uncomfortable on a damp wooden bench, huddling against each other with precious little leg room, we heard from a public-address announcer bursting with enthusiasm.
“Game-time temperature, 39 degrees!” (Cheers) “Wind-chill factor, 31!” (Thunderous roars) “Rain in the forecast, wind out of the southwest at 37 miles an hour” (Huzzahs) What a day to watch football at Notre Dame Stadium.
We hadn’t planned it quite this way. Back in April, noticing that the Stanford-Notre Dame game fell on my birthday, my wife and I made plans for the pilgrimage, one we’d fancied for years. She grew up in a huge Irish Catholic family living in the Chicago suburb of La Grange; I attended some epic Notre Dame-USC games at the L.A. Coliseum and spent a lifetime admiring the Irish’s fabulous football tradition.
As the great day drew closer, we pictured azure skies, a crisp autumnal breeze, burnt-orange leaves drifting off tree branches. We’d feel the spirit of Knute Rockne, Frank Leahy and the Gipper. I’d strike the Heisman pose beneath Touchdown Jesus and send out the photo. We’d get that same feeling I’ve known at Augusta, St. Andrews, Wimbledon, the old Boston Garden, Wrigley Field: immersed in tradition and loving every minute.
We got all of that except the weather, and the lead-in was beautiful. Across from campus, we saw the early stages of bustling neighborhood parties. A teenager warmed his hands and a green football against an open fire. We made a point of arriving outside the stadium in time to watch the gigantic Notre Dame band pass by us, marching and chanting to elaborate orchestration on its way to the field. The climate was chilly and gray, but promising.
The true believers know that strange, Irish-tinted episodes can take place inside the venerable stadium, christened in 1930, and the gods of Notre Dame football had a special plan: It rained only for the game. Not before, not after, and without relent. This made for a challenging fan experience — sort of like realizing you really shouldn’t have gone skiing in jeans — and it wasn’t so great for the Cardinal, either.
Stanford head coach David Shaw’s team has played under a wide variety of conditions, with one constant: This is the least productive offense in the Pac-12 Conference, and easily the dullest. The potential is there, and it would be unwise to assume this pattern continues all season. But it exists as we speak, perhaps bottoming out on Saturday.
Outside of an outright gift — a touchdown set up by a recovered fumble deep inside Notre Dame territory — the Cardinal became familiar with the feeling of being stopped cold: 205 total yards, just 47 rushing, an average of 3 yards per play. Shaw couldn’t have enjoyed the disparity in penalties (nine of the 10 were called on Stanford), but once again, his team made some sloppy mistakes.
The defense was stellar, as usual, until it really mattered. Cornerback Wayne Lyons drifted out of character on Notre Dame’s final drive, crashing into a receiver without even looking back to find the ball, and drew a costly pass-interference penalty.
As for the game-winning touchdown pass to Ben Koyack, Shaw said it best: “There was no coverage.” Koyack was all by himself awaiting Everett Golson’s pass, both Lyons and Jordan Richards rushing to the scene too late. Before long, the victorious Irish players had gathered in front of the students’ end zone to sing the Notre Dame alma mater — not an original idea, but something magnificent to witness in this setting.
With the exception of those grumpy folks who seem to base their entire existence on a hatred of Notre Dame, I highly recommend this experience, setting up your weekend in Chicago. Driving from Illinois into Indiana, there’s a sign that reads “Crossroads of America,” and that’s no boast. Along the way, you’ll see exits for Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Ohio and Missouri.
Maybe your idea of a glorious football experience is Levi’s Stadium, where the Internet rules, everyone’s looking down and an enormous video screen captures the essence of modern-day technology in a stadium drenched in red. I sort of prefer a Saturday at Notre Dame Stadium.
Once inside, there is no way to watch but to be in your seat, looking straight ahead. The scoreboards are small and functional, with no replay capability. There are no TV sets near the concession stands. A lot of folks are dressed in green, but hardly all of them; the crowd offers a grand kaleidoscope of colors, “dressed warmly” being the only theme. The configuration is a simple, concrete oval and delightfully democratic, offering no accommodations to make people feel more special than the rest.
The first Stanford-Notre Dame game was the Rose Bowl of New Year’s Day 1925. The coaches were Rockne and Pop Warner, and Stanford sent the great Ernie Nevers onto the field against the fabled “Four Horsemen” of the Irish. To watch Notre Dame today, at home, is to be generously overwhelmed by the past. Here’s a vote of hearty approval.