‘Twas a Result Not Fit for Wearin’ o’ the Green

The second quarter opened on a bad note. The USC halfback ran through the Notre Dame defense. USC took a 7-3 lead.

“Well,” says McClanahan the expert on everything, “What’d ye expect?! Haythens, the lot o’ them! What is it they call themselves, ‘the Mongols’?”

“The Trojans!” snaps McGonigle the publican, irritated. “They call themselves Trojans. Don’t ye know anything?”

“Well,” says McClanahan, “I knew it was some kind of pagan horde. Cossacks! They have no regard for human daycency, at all!”

“I know,” sighs Clancy the undertaker. “And our lads out there with the grace o’ God purring in their hearts and the light of saints in their eyes. Didn’t we light a candle for this game only last Saturday?”

“And gave up potatoes for Lent!” shouts Houlihan, the doorman at the Hilton.

“Hennessy-Tennesy’ll not tootle the flute this night!” roars Carmody the night clerk. “Nobody feels like singing!”

“The overalls are in the chowder,” agrees McClanahan gloomily.

“It’s the officials,” announces Flanagan the cop. “Protestants, the lot o’ them!”

“Republicans, even,” agrees O’Connor the night clerk. “Not a workingman in the lot!”

“Usen’t we to beat these people?” complains Daly the bill collector.

“51-0 one year!” crows Kelly the night watchman. “Ah, ye should have been there! ‘Twas the Battle of the Boyne all over again!”

“Their coach looks a fair enough fellow,” comments O’Grady the criminal lawyer, spotting USC’s John Robinson on the sideline. “A round fellow. He looks a fellow you could trust. He looks a priest.”

“Bite yer tongue! Hold yer blasphemy!” snarls McGillicuddy the unemployed woodworker. “His heart is as black as an English king’s! He’d win by a hundred if he could. We’d get no mercy from the likes o’ him. Cromwell probably looked like that.”

“Cromwell bayonetted babies,” notes Corrigan the flagman.

“Hey, look at that!” says McGonigle, rising in his seat as Notre Dame gets the ball and the lead, 10-7.

“The saints be praised!” cries Garvey the paperhanger. “Can we have a bit of a tune? Cheer, cheer fer auld Nowter Deem, eh?! Did somebody go out for a pint? Oh, the woonder of it all! God’s heard us!”

“A chorus o’ ‘McNamara’s Band’ might not be amiss!” glows Milligan the undertaker. “Galway Bay!”

“That’s for later!” glowers Horan the pessimist. “‘Tis not over yet! The haythens may get the ball yet!”

“Are they all nine feet tall?” complains Quinn the parliamentarian.

“It’s the sun,” explains Costello the anthropologist. “Even their flowers are big out here. Their tomatoes look like pumpkins.”

“The Irish used to be bigger,” insists Corwin the pants-presser. “Gipp was bigger.”

“And the ball heavier in his day! Don’t forget that!” says Noonan the chimney sweep. “There was heavy liftin’ back then.”

“Gipp was a Protestant,” puts in McDonough the sourpuss.

“Not when it came to the dyin’!” shouts Ratigan the theologian.

“Rockne changed over!” cries Eddington the collector.

“He had to. He saw the effect of prayer in the Army game,” explains Hennessy the nurseryman.

“He invented the forward pass!” shouts Tumulty the crossing guard. “We’ll all have a drink to Rockne now!”

“Rockne used to beat these people, 27-0,” glooms Gavin the pessimist.

“More than that even!” cries O’Donnell the statistician. “Rockne never lost to them!”

“You saw the fillum then! The one where Paddy O’Brien played Rockne. Or was that Mr. Reagan?”

“Reagan played Gipp, ye great dummy!” growls McDonough.

“I saw the fillum 14 times by count!” boasts Haggerty the critic. “The cinema’s finest hour!”

“Whisht! Be quiet!” shouts Dolan the clock-maker as Notre Dame fumbles. “The Tartars have the ball again. We’ll be seein’ that damned horse now!”

“If horses were wanted, we’d be goin’ to the rodeo!” protests Feeney the cobbler. “Did anybody think to bring a wee drop o’ the creature? I need it for me arthritis.”

“In Rockne’s day, we’d be ahead by 18 now,” glooms Sean Logan the gravedigger.

“‘Tis well known!” agrees Murphy the historian. “Rockne had the ear o’ God. We never fumbled in Rockne’s day. Now this fellow, Hertz or what’s his name now?”

“Holtz, his name is Holtz,” corrects O’Casey, checking his program.

“Well, he’s no Rockne, now is he?” growls McDonough.

“If they make a movie of his life, who’ll see it now?” glooms Hannifin the filmgoer.

“Woody Allen’ll play him. And we all know what that means!” moans Monahan the nightclub bouncer.

“Nine reels of therapy!” shouts Carmody. “It’ll play the art houses.”

“Paddy O’Brien got the Acadamy Award. The Buster itself!” shouts Finnegan the beer salesman.

“The Oscar,” growls Haggerty. “They call it the Oscar, ye great goof!”

On the field, Notre Dame mounts a drive. The Irish lead, 17-10. They’re going to ice the game.

“Can we have a chorus o’ ‘Danny Boy’?” shouts Brady the unpublished author. “All 40 verses. The Wearin’ o’ the Green!”

“Up Sligo! Up Roscommon! The lilt that once through Tara’s halls!” cheers Murtaugh. “Did yer mother come from Ireland!”

“A little bit o’ heaven!” glows Clancy.

Suddenly, down on the field, the unthinkable happens. The icing field goal is blocked. USC runs the ball back to the Notre Dame 16.

“Mother of God, what was that?!” cries Carmody, his face ashen.

“It’s not legal,” Kinsella assures him. “There are laws and rules.”

“It counts. ‘Tis the Lord’s will. The haythens will score,” predicts Cobber Finn the barkeep. “It’s a tie game, lads.”

“A bottle with a hole in it,” says O’Callaghan the paralegal.

“Us again, huh, Lord?!” says Horgan the iconoclast, looking menacingly at the sky. “Erin Go Bragh, is it? Ekrin go to hell, it is. We’ve been had, lads. Who missed Mass?”

“Well, what’s that now?!” cries Cleary the optimist. “A lovely game, after all. We didn’t lose now. To the pubs now. Innkeeper, a glass of your best. We’ll have that tune. ‘The Rose of Tralee’! Come Back to Erin!”

“There’ll be no singing this night,” snarls McGonigle. “Any man singing is little better than an informer. Hold the corned beef and cabbage. Nobody feels like eating. The pipes are not playing. We got beat, 17-17. Go home and make a good Act of Contrition. We’ve paid for your sins this day! With a blocked field goal!”