Devil's Night

When I was in sixth grade I worked with my Dad to take our little vegetable garden to the next level. After all, I was the Double G, and it was my responsibility to carry on the potato farmer's legacy. I went beyond the Big Boys, beyond the string beans, beyond the herbs, and even beyond the zucchinis. In May, I laid the seeds for a miniature pumpkin patch.

All summer long, while my Dad worked his green thumb magic on the flower beds, I kept careful watch over my vegetables, and specifically over my pumpkins. I watered them every day, I untangled the zucchini vines from their vines as they fought to gain more ground, I talked to them, told them to grow big and strong, and coaxed them to prove the other Shadyside amateur agronomists wrong. Pumpkins could and would grow in the city of Pittsburgh.

By mid-summer, I had watched pumpkin flower after pumpkin flower fail to convert to fruit. I was getting nervous, disappointed, sad that I might not get a pumpkin out of the mass greenery that I had accrued. And then I saw one, a green lump. And under the next leaf over, another green lump. I saw about eight all together, and I knew right then and there that they would turn into proud little pumpkins.

When fall came, a couple had fallen casualty to the wet weather and the slugs, but five were still going strong, ready to be picked, and ready to join the ranks of the big Simmon's Farm pumpkins that were being prepped inside for carving. I gathered them, carefully cutting them from their vines, preserving their gnarled stems. And I might just have named each of them. I seriously think I loved those pumpkins.

Although our Halloween display tended to pale in comparison to the neighbors with spider webs, scarecrows, bushels of hay, and flying ghosts, I couldn't help but think we had the best on the block that year. Because five of the pumpkins were homegrown by me. And not even the first iteration of the puking pumpkin could compete with that.

On October 30, Devil's Night, of 1993, I was really nervous - scared for our display and the little pumpkins that were part of it. The ones that I had spent all summer tending, loving, and nurturing, who were out in the cold, vulnerable, hoping that they wouldn't be targeted by the neighborhood bullies who were notorious for their Devil's Night antics.  I figured it would be okay though - after all, there were better displays to disrupt. I gave them each a hug, said they'd be alright, and found a way to fall asleep.

The next morning, when I woke up, all of our pumpkins were gone. The big carved ones, the ceramic one that my parents loved, and each of my little baby pumpkins. I was so, so sad. The saddest sixth grader in school that day. I thought it was so unfair. Why? Why would someone care so little about the person who loved those pumpkins so much?

I got over it. But to this day, there's a little bit of Don't Mess in me on Devil's Night, which is tonight. And in Big Town, USA, where the pranksters outweigh the police units, I'm pretty sure there are some little punks looking to make their troublesome nature known tonight.

At half time of the Steeler game, we carved our pumpkins. A couple of beauties grown at Maynefield Farm, which is down the street from us.

Then we lit them and put them out to tell the Halloween spoilers to bring it on. Because tonight, I'm ready for them. I've got a Don't Mess Antonio Brown dance in me. I've got the Ancho chili pasted, Don't Mess Beef Brisket Chili that I made for dinner in me.

And I've got the Mr. - the one who taught the obnoxious teens who honked at my little Mini yesterday to think twice before messing - next to my Mrs. And I know that lethal combination will keep all the vagrant teens away.

Ain't no one messing with us ... or our pumpkins this Devil's Night.

Lo.

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.)