what it was, was football

Saturday afternoons in the Fall have always meant one thing to me in all my years: The Pride and deep Tradition of Notre Dame Football. But this year has been different. It's as though Autumn's golden leaves are shattering as they hit the ground instead of the familiar graceful descent. Like Golden helmets are splitting apart instead of darting swiftly across the goal line to a cheering crowd.

Charlie Weis waddles onto the field, hikes up his britches, looks concerned, and they get slaughtered. And then he hikes up his britches to his armpits and waddles off. So all you see as you shield your eyes looking into the sunset is the silhouette of a pair of large pants with a head protruding out the top.

1-8 is now where they reside. Buried in the dark cellar. Right next to the shelf with the dusty jars of preserves.

While up in the attic, an old delightful record of Andy Griffith's monologue is playing, and things seem a little better....for a little while.