Wow, three updates within the last two hours from Casey, Heather and Lauren. Good reading. The only one missing was Tessa, but she updated six hours ago, so that's not bad.

Two weeks ago, I ended an e-mail to two college friends by saying "Irish 34-24" in reference to what I thought the final score of Notre Dame's game with Florida State would be. I wasn't really trying to peg a final score; my point was they'd score a lot of points, including a field goal or two, and they'd win rather handily. The game ended 34-24 only after Florida State scored two meaningless touchdowns late in the game.

So Brad asked for my prediciton for the Boston College game last Saturday. I said "Ryan Grant for 150 yards," meaning I thought the Notre Dame running back would get 150 yards rushing. I don't know if he broke 100. I wish I'd predicted "Irish get jobbed by the refs," but then again, no I don't. I just wish they'd won. I've been thinking about it, and the fact that Notre Dame committed five turnovers and fumbled a total of eight times (recovering five of them somehow) makes the official's obvious missed touchdown catch for the Irish a little easier to take. There is the argument that that touchdown, had it counted, would've given Notre Dame an early 7-6 lead and the momentum; as a result, the game easily could've played out differently. But when you fumble eight times, turn the ball over five times, it doesn't matter that you only lost 14-7. You're not winning that game.

Ah. There it is. I think I've just found closure.

I found out today that the newspaper for which I used to work promoted one of the staff writers who used to cover high school sports to the beat covering the New Jersey Devils. I'd heard the Devils beat writer left, and there was a time when I worked there that I wanted that job. I knew the beat writer was unhappy and I hoped I'd be around when she left.

There's a part of me that still wants to cover sports, and my jealousy at this news reconfirmed that the dream still lives, that it hasn't faded yet. But as the aforementioned Heather said today, "It doesn't have to. But the dream of writing sports at the [newspaper] does." Which is true, of course. The bottom line is that I still want to write. But in this job, with its faults (I'm in the office at 7:40 on Monday night, though I should be out of here soon), I still have the bulk of my nights off, not to mention weekends. I'm leaving early Friday to go to Baltimore for the Notre Dame-Navy game. I've watched every game this year, I've been to two and watched four of them at bars with good friends and other grads. I'm going away for Thanksgiving, seeing friends and family I haven't seen in years both then and at Christmas, and I'm making New Year's plans.

And the writing dream doesn't have to die. Sportswriting too. I still have an opportunity to cover minor league baseball on a freelance basis next summer, and I intend to follow up on that lead. Who knows, someday this may all lead to that dream job at Sports Illustrated.

And then, as Heather says, "you can stay where you are, get used to the magazine life, and take a combined magazine and sports-writing resume to SI. Where you will get hired and promptly hire me."

"You're funny," I said.

"Funny?" she answered. "Where is the joke?"

"I didn't say it was a joke; I said you're funny. Because you keep mentioning it. 'Die, horse, DIE!"

"Ha ha ha. Yeah, my middle finger is pointed in your direction, bucko."

"Shouldn't it be pointed up?" I asked, smartly. "Up your ass."

"It's pointing northeast right now. � OH NO YOU DI-INT!"

"Aw ��SNAP!"

"SHEEEIT BRIZZO."

"Hellz yeah, Biotch."

"Fizzuck."

And that's when I ended it, because it just got silly.