Aggressive Mediocrity · Athleticism


Gather around, baby kittens. Mama has some talkin’ to do. We have upon us the single greatest weekend of all weekends. The greatest day of all days. And, that, my dears, is GameDay. I dare you to name a day more ferociously energetic, more downright magical than the first Saturday of the college football season. For me and many brilliant others alike, we specifically celebrate the first Saturday (or Sunday, as the case may be) of Notre Dame Football. As another season approaches, we set our sights on that beautiful National Championship trophy. And we’ll get it, don’t you fret.

See, that’s the thing about Notre Dame Football. Football altogether. With every season comes an entirely renewed sense of confidence and faith. Regardless of seasons past, we look only into the future. We forget the endless failures and proceed with complete certainty in our ability to succeed. In any other realm, this mentality would be viewed as insanity (and, like, it probably is, but whatever). A legendary, legacy football program, Notre Dame has not won a National Championship in the 24 years I’ve been alive. Twenty-four years of failure. Safe to assume number 25 will fare the same. Nay, my friend. Nay.

Number 25 is always different. Regardless of the Bob Davie years, the 2012 BCS Championship obliteration, or The Bush Push (which, for the record, is the single most egregious offense to have ever occurred on the field. Don’t fucking fight me on this. I didn’t go to school the Monday after that aforementioned felony in mourning. I still have remnants of PTSD), we look to the future. And we are confident. We are steadfast. We are absolutely certain this year will be different.

I love football. Absolutely love it. I always have. My most prized possession is my Julius Jones jersey my father bought me when I was seven years old. God, I loved that beautiful man—half running back, half angel. Football has taught me a slew of crucial lessons. It’s shown me the entire spectrum of human emotion in the span of a four-hour (thank you, NBC) period. It’s shown me the absolute maximum volume level my voice can reach. Along with my father and grandfather. Spoiler alert: it is loud. It’s shown me that Brady Quinn is the most stunning creature to have ever graced this earth and that remotes break when thrown at walls. So do phones.

But most of all, it’s taught me that in spite of my pessimistic disposition and blackened soul, I can muster an unbelievable, literally insane amount of faith. We all can. Football can elicit an unwavering, extraordinary amount of faith.

Can you imagine having that kind of faith in any other facet of your life? That kind of faith in yourself?

That would be pretty cool. I mean, it’s not gonna happen, but dream big, you know?

Anyway, in summary:

Football is magic. Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush are the direct descendants of Satan.

And Go Irish.

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