Getting One’s Irish Up to Face Tough Trojans

“Hello, operator, get me the coach, Mr. Lou O’Holtz, himself. Phwat? Why ‘tis the coach of the Fightin’ Oirish, thimsilves! Nowter Deem! The finest football tame in all the land. Every man jack of them over 7 feet tall and the grace of God purrin’ in their hearts and if ye don’t think so they’ll break your arms for ye. A grand sight! The battle o’ the Boyne!

“Phwat? Oh, ye better look under the ‘haitches.’ We don’t put the ‘O’ under his name till he beats the heathens.

“Hello, Coach?! Is that you, now? Ah, ‘tis a darlin’ man ye are! Tis Oi. Shamus! Ye may remember we met at the home of the sainted Paddy O’Broyne of the fillums, may his soul rest in peace.

“Now, Saturday will be a grand day for the wearin’ of the green, will it now? We’ll rock the heathens, them and their white harse and all. What is it they call themselves? The Greeks? Ah, yis, the Trojans. ‘Tis no matter. By Saturday night, they’ll be a chalk drawing on the floor.

“Now, Coach, there’s wan thing Oi have to tell ye. They’re big. Oi mean, some of thim should have elevators in thim, if ye know what Oi mane. They have these rings in their ears and for all Oi know keep shrunken heads in their rooms. God knows where they found these craythers but if ye see them coomin, don’t get out of your Land Rover or throw away your gun. Some o’thim should have a horn growing out of their head.

“They have this wan player they wheel in in an ambulance just before the game. Ah, how Rockne himself would have loved this little game. Ye remember how the Rock would call on his blessed grandmother on her deathbed, when he needed a touchdown or two? T’would turn out all she had was corns but no matter. Well, these heathens go ye one better! They win wan for their poor, dear sick quarterback--and he’s there to help! Ye have to admire the audacity of it. Also the mendacity. Not even Rockne himself ever thought of that!

“Would it help ye, d’ye think, to have your first string line show up in wheelchairs? What these scoundrels do is, they bring in their quarterback with a sheet over his head. Thin, he gets up and throws two touchdown passes. Now, how’re we goin’ to get George Gipp to overcome that?! We’re in no position to be disputin’ miracles but this is a bit too much. Last week, ‘tis said he had the measles. This week, it’s laryngitis. Or, maybe it’s meningitis. Either way, he’ll play four quarters. And beat your brains out, if you’re not careful.

“The rest of the team doesn’t need any sad stories. Ruffians, the lot o’them. Your quarterback may be the one who really needs round-the-clock nurses by the final gun.

“Do we have any broths of lads a’tall anymore? Is it all speed we’re after? We used to put out on the field the cream of every coal mine and cornfield in the land. Ivery man jack o’thim with a name that began or ended in an ‘O.’ Ah, the might o’ thim. We had a line that could not only read an eye-chart but understand it. Ah, the marvel of those names! Carideo, Schwartz, Savoldi, Sitko, Angsman, Tripucka, Swistowicz. Syllables that once through Tara’s halls. Ye have a youngster in the grand tradition this year. Raghib Ramadan Ismail. May his tribe increase. Sure, if he can run with the ball, we’ll cheer for the man who calls himself King George.

“Coach, Oi know it’s a delicate matter but have ye given any thought a’tall to changin’ the way ye look? I mean, ye bein’ the successor to the great Rock and Iron Frank Leahy, and all, d’ye think it would do ye some good to let your hair fall out or get your nose broken? I mean, why, only the ither night I was in this bare, havin’ a drop o’ the crayther when this great California lout with the smell of a dozen French fancy houses to him and enough gold chains about his neck to light a room cooms up an, sez he, ‘Well, I see you Micks have stepped on your necks for fair this time, how is it you don’t get yourself a real coach?’ ‘Well, now,’ sez Oi, ‘what’s a real coach? That farmer ye have coaching the Greeks or the Babylonians or whatever it is ye call that excuse for a tame we play this weekend?’

“ ‘Well,’ sez he, ‘how can ye win with Woody Allen coaching your elevens? You want first downs, you get one-liners. You need Woody Hayes, you get Woody Allen.’ ‘Well,’ sez Oi, ‘were ye aware a’tall the first tame has reservations back to South Bend at the end of the first quarter? Or maybe the beginning? An’ why wouldn’t ye button your shirt? If I want to look at hairy chests I’ll go down to a zoo. You’ll get your death o’cold.’ ‘Why,’ he sez, ‘ye snotty Mick, I ought to bust yer head,’ and, sez Oi, ‘How in the world will ye be doing that, ye without your purse an’ all?’

“ ‘Well,’ he sez, ‘why wouldn’t you get a coach named Pat or Mike who looked like a bricklayer, why d’you get one that looks as if he’s about to say, ‘Did you hear the one about the two nuns and the talking horse?’ ‘Well,’ sez Oi, ‘maybe it’s our secret weapon. He looks that harmless and he’s a killer. Did ye ever stop to think Jack the Ripper may have looked like Woody Allen?’ ‘Knute Rockne looked more like Jack the Ripper to me,’ sez he. ‘Lou Holtz looks like one of his victims.’

“We left it at that. Ye can’t argue with people who don’t believe in leprechauns. Tis well known Californy is a quare place peopled by all kinds of odd ducks, psychiatrists and the like. Do me a favor, would ye? Roon up the score if ye get the chance. They need teachin’ a lesson.”