Winning

Earlier this year, Charlie Sheen lost big. Catastrophically, disastrously, embarrassingly big. However, in outlandish interview after outlandish interview he claimed that he was in fact, winning - that he just had a different definition of the word than the studio execs. We all made fun of him, and said he had gone crazy. But fresh after another Notre Dame loss, I'm thinking perhaps Charlie did know a thing of two. Maybe there was something to his redefinition. After all, I had a winning Saturday despite witnessing a humiliating loss. I do believe us Domers have more in common with Charlie than we thought.

Winning to ND Nation obviously does not mean beating USC under the lights, during the first night game since 1990 ... that would be too easy, too contrite for us enlightened football fans. Instead, we have to define winning in other terms.

For my cousin Tom, winning meant that his smoked ribs were given the seal and siege of approval by Peter.

For Peter, it should have been said ribs, but apparently it was the Song Girls.

(Oh there were more pictures ...)
For my friend Keith, it was the potential of winning a multi-stakeholder bet, gaining a pair of sweet receiver gloves, and coming away from the weekend with MBA bragging rights.

For my friend Rhiannon, it was actually winning that bet.

And for my friend Carrie, it was knowing that she just plain won.

For my brother and sister-in-law it was experiencing a beautiful Notre Dame weekend from a fresh set of eyes.

And for Lyla, it was being the cutest little center of attention ever.

For my sister, it was telling the burly guy next to her to kindly remove his hand from her butt when he began encroaching on her space and comfort zone.
For my parents it was having everyone together for a weekend at the Dondo and having nothing to do but hang out with their family all Saturday morning and afternoon.

For me, it was sitting on the field (I mean, we were on the grass) next to my big sister. And enjoying the game from start to finish. Yes, I was there for the entire game. I heard every song the band played, I saw the Irish run out of the tunnel and onto the field, I did the synchronized hand motion during the 1812 overture, I shouted out the "ARE" of "WE ARE ND," and I left the stadium with all the other disappointed Domers. I hadn't done that since high school probably. And I took it as a personal win.

For the University, winning was the cash cow kind of day that they produced. A day that will hopefully enable the marketing whizzes employed by the University to invest in a couple new pump-up songs other than the first three lines of Crazy Train next year; or a jumbo tron so we can relive the inane, catastrophic mistakes that the team continues to produce; or perhaps rally towels that aren't the same color as the night sky; or better yet, how about a well-coached, well-disciplined, swaggering team, that will finally perform, convert and win.

In the third quarter, when Notre Dame was on the 1 yard line, about to tie up the game, and then fumbled, turned the ball over, and watched USC run it back for a touch down, I remembered exactly why I don't make it through many games anymore. They are downright depressing. After that mistake, and after the compounding ones that followed, I started looking into the crowd more than onto the field. I looked at all the people who had built this weekend up for weeks. I looked at the fathers out there teaching their kids about the legacy of Irish Football, and how this was the year they were going to turn it around. I looked at all the mothers watching their boys get beat up again by USC. And I watched all the students starting to sober up, come down from their high, and lose hope that they will get to lift up the person next to them to do push ups. I watched the crowd's winning air disappear as they realized their golden bubble had popped.    

Back in the late 80s and early 90s, I was a young, but HUGE Irish fan, and I believed that South Bend Saturdays during the Fall had one tag attached to them, and that was winning. The 21st century of Irish football has reshaped that tag. We all think we're winners still - we dress like, walk like it, tailgate like it, and spend money like it. The only problem is, everyone outside of the Dome, calls our bluff week after week. And exposes us. And makes us appear a lot more like Charlie than we'd like.  

I don't have an answer, and I'm no football analyst, I'll leave that up to my brother's comment. But I just hope that someday, when I take my kids to campus, the highlight won't be their trip to the bookstore so they can buy a Notre Dame Fencing shirt, it'll be a relevant Irish win.

While I continue to define a winning Saturday in South Bend by the weather, my outfit, the tailgating scene, and the company I keep, winning on Sundays is still exactly what it should be.

Stuffed cabbage and a big Steelers win.

Lo.

(I adapted Smitten Kitchen's stuffed cabbage recipe in an attempt to remember how my Grandma made hers. The combination worked though and it tasted just as I remembered it.)