Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

by Sweany, Brian;

  “Oh, oh, oh, I know,” I say, sticking my hand in the air like Arnold Horshack from Welcome Back, Kotter. “It’s because you’re too insecure to have friends who are hotter than you.”

  An uncomfortable, almost standoffish silence hangs in the air between Beth and Lang. If I could feel my tongue, I’d probably try to articulate some sort of mediation. What the hell, I’ll give it a try:

  “They’re called Bui-Doi! The dust of life! Conceived in hell! Born in strife!”

  “Uh…” Beth says. “What’s going on?”

  Lang smiles. “I find it’s best to just let him finish.”

  “We owe them fathers and a family, a loving home they never knew. Because we know, deep in our hearts, that they are all our children, too!”

  Chapter eighty-six

  “Ty Detmer is the least-deserving winner of the Heisman Trophy in the history of college football. That’s a fucking fact, Gillman!”

  “Hank, language!”

  “My car, my rules.”

  My stepfather and I sit in my Subaru, arguing as we drive up Highway 31. We’re attending the Notre Dame-Michigan game together. Last week, Gillman hosted a viewing party for Notre Dame’s opening game in the 2004 college football season because they were playing his alma mater, Brigham Young University. They were playing BYU in Provo, I got tired of Gillman harping on about BYU’s supposed “tradition,” and at some point during the game I declared, “You want to see tradition, Gillman? Tell you what, if the Cougars beat the Irish, I’ll buy us tickets to next week’s Michigan game and personally drive us up to South Bend. Just you and me taking an old-fashioned father-and-son road trip.”

  Final score: BYU 20–Notre Dame 17.

  “Rocket Ismail better than Ty Detmer?” Gillman says. “Is that a joke?”

  “Ty was just another overrated stats machine destined to flame out in the NFL, while Rocket was probably the most electrifying player of the decade.”

  “Says you, Hank.”

  “Says me and everyone who doesn’t live in Utah. And what happened to Detmer the first game he played after winning the Heisman?”

  “Oh no, here we go.”

  “Two broken arms, Gillman!”

  “It was two separated shoulders, actually.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “If that isn’t God coming down and smiting him, I don’t know what is.”

  “So your theory is that Ty Detmer’s shoulders were not separated by a Texas A&M defensive player, but rather by God as vengeance for Rocket Ismail not winning the Heisman Trophy?”

  “That’s no theory.” I shake my head, my left hand on the steering wheel and my right pointing at Gillman. “And you’ve got a lot to learn about Notre Dame football.”

  Gillman and I walk just past the northwest entrance of Notre Dame Stadium. “And right here was where I stood as an extra when Ned Beatty got off the bus. I remember he had on a faded brown trench coat and dark brown cap pulled over his ears and tufts of silvery-gray hair poking out of the bottom of his cap that made him look like my Grandpa George.”

  “So you were here when they filmed Rudy?”

  “For some of the scenes, yeah.”

  “That’s quite a memory, Hank.”

  “It’s kind of hard to forget that season.”

  “What year was it?

  “Nineteen ninety-two.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t mind. After Mom canceled our season tickets, she gave me two tickets for each of the remaining home games. I missed the Stanford game because of the funeral, but I went to BYU, Boston College, and Penn State.

  “Dad had told me the Rudy story a hundred times before Hollywood ever got a hold of it. An old classmate tipped him off that they were going to be filming most of the campus scenes during the BC and Penn State games. I remember he had the dates, November seventh and November fourteenth, circled on his office calendar. I brought Jack with me to the BC game, but he was four years old and didn’t know what was going on. We made it to our seats right before kickoff, but we missed all the pageantry: the gold helmets coming out of the tunnel, the band’s high-step routine to Hike Notre Dame, the Notre Dame Victory March, even the national anthem and ‘America the Beautiful.’”

  “Your father would have been pissed.”

  “Totally,” I say. “At six–one–one Notre Dame was ranked number eight in the country. They had tied Michigan back in September and lost to Stanford the Saturday after Dad was killed. BC came in with a seven–oh–one record and a number-nine ranking. It was the highest both teams had ever been ranked when facing one another. I saw a guy holding a poster that said The Pope Needs Four Tickets. ND won the coin toss, deferred to the second half, and Boston College chose to receive. The Irish defended the south goal, and I expected a great game.”

  “And did it meet your expectations?”

  “Depends on what my expectations were.”

  “A win maybe?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Two BC fans arrived late, toward the end of the first quarter. There was a TV timeout on the field, so the teams were huddled on opposite sidelines. The two BC fans sat down next to Jack and me, and one of them complained that he didn’t realize there was an hour time difference between Chicago and South Bend. They parked on the opposite side of the campus and had no clue what had just happened. The guy asked me, ‘What did we miss?’ and I pointed to the scoreboard. It was twenty-one–zero Notre Dame with four minutes still left in the first quarter.”

  “Ouch,” Gillman says. “Still, it had to be a fun day with Jack.”

  “Like I said, he really didn’t know what was going on. The highlight of the game for me was halftime. A bunch of extras in vintage nineteen seventy-two Notre Dame and Georgia Tech football uniforms stormed the field. They executed about a dozen plays, we were given cues to cheer, and at the end, the Notre Dame players carried Sean Astin off the field.”

  “So you get to see that scene essentially replayed every time you watch Rudy now?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. But that game was bittersweet. Not just the circumstances of why I was there, but the game itself. The whole day left a bad taste in my mouth. Coach Holtz called a fake punt when the Irish were leading thirty-seven–zero. They won fifty-four–seven, and no part of me felt good about rubbing it in BC’s face. It was like Notre Dame had become as ugly and embittered as I felt. When I got home, I pulled out my shoe box of Notre Dame ticket stubs dating back to the first game I ever attended.”

  “Which game was that?”

  “Georgia Tech nineteen seventy-eight. Vagas Ferguson ran for a school-record two hundred fifty-five yards.”

  “Don’t tell me you threw out all your tickets.”

  “Nope.”

  “Good.”

  “I burned them.”

  Gillman and I half-sprinted across the west side of campus. He watched as I crossed myself beneath Touchdown Jesus. As I patted Number One Moses on the head. As I saluted Fair Catch Corby. As I crossed myself again at the steps of the administration building and Our Lady atop the Golden Dome. By the time we got to the stone steps behind Sacred Heart Basilica, Gillman was hyperventilating.

  “You okay, old man?”

  We reach the bottom of the steps. Gillman hunches over, panting. “I sure hope…this was…worth it.”

  I pat my front pocket. “These things have to be done just right.”

  Tucked in a small hillside just behind Sacred Heart, the Grotto is a one-seventh scale replica of the original Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes, France, where the Virgin Mary is said to have appeared to St. Bernadette. Dozens of white votive candles are perpetually lit inside the cobblestoned sanctuary, with that number hovering closer to a few hundred today, given that we’re playing those
Godless, Catholic-hating secularists known as the Michigan Wolverines.

  I light a candle and drop a dollar in the collection box. A kneeler and a wrought iron fence run the full width of the Grotto. I wait for a small, elderly nun to vacate her spot and kneel in her place, convinced the kneeler will of course retain a little extra Catholic mojo.

  I pull the rosary out of my pocket. It belonged to Grandpa George. He carried it with him during the war. Oxidized brass links connect fifty-nine beads of black onyx. Fifty-four of the beads converge into a brass Sacred Heart pendant, from which hangs the remaining five beads and a brass crucifix. I wrap the rosary twice loosely around my left hand. Using my right hand, I hold the crucifix in between my index finger and thumb. I recite the Apostles’ Creed.

  “I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended to the dead. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.”

  I grab the larger bead just above the crucifix. I recite the Our Father.

  “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

  I grab the second smaller bead. I say a Hail Mary.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  I grab the next bead and repeat the Hail Mary prayer.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  And again.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  I move to the fourth bead.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  Finally, I throw in a Glory Be at the fifth bead.

  “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

  I stop. Shoving the rosary back in my pocket, I know this is all I have in me. There are people who make it through a full rosary every day, and that’s not just one time around. A full rosary is three rotations. It comes out to something like seventy-five Our Fathers, one-hundred-and-fifty Hail Marys, and another seventy-five Glory Bes. Grandpa George tried making me sit through a whole rosary once. I got about halfway before my knees went numb and I had to pee. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit for eight-year-old bladders.

  “About an hour until kickoff.” Gillman whispers from behind, hushed and respectful. “Probably should think about making our way to the stadium.”

  “I’m ready, Gillman.” I stand, offer my kneeler to another nun—for bonus points, of course.

  On our way back across campus, the Young Republicans talk us into bratwursts in front of Doyle Hall. Gillman hands me the mustard.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No, Hank, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For sharing today with me. I know Notre Dame games were you and your father’s thing.”

  “That they were, Gillman. But don’t start getting soft on me. You’re a decent guy and all, and you’re real good to Mom and Jack, which in the end is all that matters to me. But I still think you’re a total whack job.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You would.”

  “Well, Hank, you’re one to talk.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “For someone who isn’t the biggest fan of all the pomp and circumstance of organized religion, that was a quite a show back there at the Grotto.”

  “I’m a fan of organized religion, Gillman. Just not your organized religion.”

  “You’re a true believer, my friend. Against every impulse in your body, you have faith. Just admit it.”

  “Faith?” I finish off the last bite of my bratwurst and discard the wrapper. “The only goddamn thing I believe in is Notre Dame football.”

  “Hank, language!”

  “My campus, my rules.”

  Chapter eighty-seven

  The rain is cold and ferocious. I can’t see out the front of my Subaru. The water veils my station wagon in a sideways sheet of foreboding. Jack is standing outside, waiting for me. He runs to my car, his clothes soaked through to his wiry teenage frame.

  “Need a ride?” I say, opening the door.

  Jack slides into the car, shuts the door. He runs his hand through his wet hair and pulls his Prep letter jacket around his face, trying to shield his bloodshot eyes from me.

  “Can we just go?” he asks.

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere, anywhere.”

  Jack is about an inch taller and twenty pounds lighter than me. Fifteen years old, a month and a half into his sophomore year in high school, his jacket bears his athletic accomplishments: a block-letter P on his left chest; two chevrons, one in soccer, one in golf; a couple all-conference recognition patches in each sport.

  “Where are Mom and Gillman?” I say, shifting the car into reverse.

  “They went to Brown County for the weekend.”

  “Car still in the shop?”

  “Yep.”

  In the great Fitzpatrick tradition, Jack’s car seems to spend more time in the body shop than on the road. He only has his permit, and he’s already wrecked his car twice.

  “So how stoned are you?”

  “Whatever happened to ‘no questions asked’?”

  “I guess I forgot about that after I picked up my brother standing in a monsoon in front of a strange house with liquor and marijuana on his breath.”

  “You can smell all that?”

  “I’m guessing Jim Beam and a couple rounds of bong hits in a small enclosed room.”

  “How the hell did you—”

  “The Beam was easy,” I say. “Cheap bourbon has a fairly distinctive smell, and I still drink it enough to recognize it almost immediately. As for the bong hits, your eyes are redder than Ben Johnson at the ’88 Seoul Olympics, and the cannabis smell coming off your skin, clothes, and hair is way too strong to be delivered by just a joint or bowl.”

  “Who’s Ben Johnson?”

  Man, I’m getting fucking old. “Never mind,” I say.

  We head to Wagon Wheel, the late-night greasy spoon on Central Street that’s frequented by no one under the age of seventy-five. I used to take Grandpa George here when I was a teenager, a few months before I learned it wasn’t cool to hang out with your grandfather in public and a few years before his death taught me I was a dipshit. The waitress brings us two plates of biscuits and gravy.

  “Not hungry,” Jack says, pushing his plate away.

  “Like hell you aren’t.” I push his plate right back at him. “Now eat and talk to me.”

  “I can’t do it anymore, Hank.”

 
“Can’t do what?”

  “Live under the same roof as Gillman.”

  “Come on, Jack. He means well.”

  “Does he?”

  “So he’s a little controlling.”

  “Last night he found a couple of those little travel bottles of whiskey in my nightstand.”

  “And I assume he grounded you, which is what parents are supposed to do.”

  “He grounded me all right. He said when he and Mom get back from Brown County I’m losing all cell phone privileges for the rest of the semester.”

  “Damn!” I say. “That’s like cutting off your arm.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I’m kidding, buddy.” I sip my black coffee, slowly and with intent. I return my coffee cup to its saucer. I have to get these words right. I’m more than his big brother, and I need to start acting like it. “Look, as much as I want to back you up, I’ve gotten to the age where I’m not allowed to be on your side sometimes. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think it would, so tell me, what’s really bothering you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Saying you have problems with Gillman is like saying the sky is blue. We all have problems with Gillman. He’s a dick.”

  “What happened to ‘he means well’ and he’s just ‘a little controlling’?”

  “I was being nice. So come on, fess up. You having problems at Prep?”

  “No, Prep is awesome. The Ridge sucks, dude.”

  “Excuse my French, little brother, but fuck you.”

  “Ha.” Jack’s first smile of the night. “I love getting you all amped up.”

  “Well, it’s working.”

  “Like I said, Prep is cool. I just had an issue tonight, at the party.”

  “What kind of issue?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s this game kids at Prep and the Ridge are really into right now. It’s called a lipstick party.”

  “Never heard of it.”