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Sunday, Sept. 12, 2004 - 10:13 p.m.

Return to glory ... yet again

The sun rose in a blaze of orange as the plane rumbled down the runway. 6:12 a.m., ATA Flight 273 was on its way to Chicago Midway and as we rose above Newark -- 1,000, 5,000, 10,000 feet -- New York City emerged from the jumbled megalopolis below. The picture outside my window was as if a 2-year-old had taken a crayon with a name like Tangerine and recklessly smeared the wax across the open space above Manhattan. The sleeping city was silhouetted, dark against the flaming sky. The harbor glistened and a cruise ship crawled toward the Hudson and was, at that moment when I gazed out my window over the right wing, just passing by Lady Liberty herself. It was September 11, 2004, and I had a feeling it was going to be a spectacular day. How could it not be? Here I was witnessing the most sensational sunrise in my lifetime, a spectacle so brilliant I may never see one that comes close to measuring up ever again. It may have been a once-in-a-lifetime sunrise. It pushed that Grand Canyon morning five years ago to No. 2.

Yet there I sat in seat 17F -- my camera safely tucked in my carry-on bag, securely stowed in the overhead compartment, having shifted -- audibly -- during takeoff. It was a sunrise worth breaking FAA regulations if there ever was one. In hindsight, maybe I should've known a day starting out so well, even with such a profound disappointment, would only get better.

I managed to put my frustration behind me and not berate myself over it too much. The flight was smooth and by 7:30 -- Central time -- Steve had picked me up and we were on the way to South Bend. The day grew hot quickly, so that as we parked the car on a side street and walked down Notre Dame Avenue onto campus, we were glad for the shade of the trees. A few early brown, crisp leaves dotted the sidewalks, as a college football weekend should have. We stopped at the alumni center and the bookstore, walked across the wide-open South Quad with its various organizations -- the Army Rangers, the men's water polo club team -- already selling burgers and hot dogs at 10 a.m. to raise money for their equipment and their trips. The Dome shone like a freshly shined trophy beneath a cerulean sky, mere wisps of clouds as accents. We crossed beneath the oaks and elms of God Quad to the student center, continuing through to Stonehenge, the campus peace memorial featuring four sets of stone archways and jets of water set in a pool. In honor of the first home football weekend of the season, the water had been dyed green -- probably not by a University employee.

Meandering past the library -- and Touchdown Jesus -- we circled the stadium and traversed the parking lots, the tailgate parties already well underway. Steve's friends and former roommates had not shown up yet, so we continued to the eastermost part of campus, out behind the baseball field and next to the soccer pitch. We arrived just as Debbie and Jim were setting up the tables and laying out the food. Julie arrived to help her parents moments later, her 10-month-old son Tyler in his No. 1 Notre Dame jersey in the arms of another classmate of ours, Kathy. Laura and David showed up half an hour later, and soon their parents stopped by to make it a small reunion.

"Driving up here yesterday," John, Kathy's and David's father, said to me, "was the first time I really felt like we don't have a chance in this game in a long time."

This admission surprised me -- and that reaction, in turn, caught me off guard. I had the same feeling last October when this group, plus Bryan, Mia and all of our parents, stood near this same spot and spoke with confidence before the game against Southern Cal. After a thrilling start in which the two teams exchanged touchdowns on their first two drives each, USC went on to win going away. So why did I have this sudden confidence in the Irish after they lost 20-17 to BYU a week earlier and 38-0 to this Michigan team they were about to play nearly a year ago? I think because it was Michigan. Notre Dame can go on to win its next eight games by an average score of 52-6 to head to Los Angeles with a 9-1 record, and I'll still feel apprehensive about facing the Trojans. But this was Michigan, a team that hadn't won in South Bend since my first home game as a freshman 10 years ago. Something told me it could be done.

The hours flew by and before I knew it, it was 1:30 and we would soon be packing up and walking over to the stadium for the pregame festivities. I got to the seats only a few minutes before Steve, who had left to catch up with his crew, and we settled in high above the 35-yard-line above the Michigan bench. The teams finished their pregame drills and ran off to the locker rooms for last-minute pep talks and the bands emerged -- first Michigan, then Notre Dame -- from the tunnel behind the north end zone. But before the Irish band came out, we looked to the skies as the Army Rangers parachute team descended with the flag, floating down to scattered landings across the field. Once the Band of the Fighting Irish lined up to play the patriotic portion of its program, former basketball player Danielle Green strode across the field carrying the flag to present to two members of the Irish Guard, who would then high-step it over to the flagpole. Danielle was back on campus for the first time since returning from Iraq having lost her left hand and part of her arm while manning her post. Struck by an overwhelming sense of patriotism, I sang along -- albeit quietly -- to "America the Beautiful." Clearly, I don't support our President or his war, but I'm not about to hold a soldier accountable for his mistakes. He won't even hold himself accountable.

The flag at half-staff, the game began and all Michigan could muster in the first two quarters against Notre Dame's bend-but-don't-break defense were three field goals for a 9-0 lead. Our offense, once again, looked lethargic, missing opportunities to capitalize on good field position provided by the defense. Yet I did not feel that impending sense of doom so familiar from a week earlier, when I witnessed a 13-3 lead for BYU at the half, or from last season's opener when Washington State held a 19-0 lead on this field and somehow the Irish pulled off the overtime victory. After a spectacular leaping catch by Matt Shelton on an underthrown ball cut the lead to 9-7, Michigan nudged it up to 12-7 before the first decent drive of the year gave Notre Dame its first lead since sometime last November at 14-12.

And it felt good. Why was I not worried? Why was I not skeptical? I can't say, but it soon became 21-12 and I started to think it could be done. At 28-12, I knew it was in hand, and I did not waiver from that sentiment when we couldn't run the ball well enough to keep possession, giving it back on a punt or two until Michigan managed to finally find the end zone for a 28-20 score with a little over two minutes remaining. Their attempt to get the ball back on an onsides kick failed and while we couldn't quite run out the clock, we gave it back to them with just nine seconds to go and their short pass got them nowhere.

And it was over.

The students wasted no time in carefully stepping down onto the field, a sea of green flowing from the stands as if the dam had broken. It's a yearly ritual at the final home game, when the seniors make their way down -- calmly and and in an orderly fashion -- to enjoy their last football game and take pictures. But even in these unexpected celebratory times, it's the most organized field "rush" on any campus I've seen. And in all the on-field celebrations I've seen at Notre Dame Stadium, not once have I noticed the students attempt something as pointless and cliche as taking down the goalposts. I question whether Notre Dame has even bothered to install those "breakway" contraptions that many fields have converted to.

Steve and I moved down nine rows to join Julie and her sister in watching the students celebrate, in watching the Notre Dame band adjust their postgame routine and line up along the sidelines since they couldn't get onto the field. We shared in the schadenfeude of the sight of Michigan's band forced to stand there in formation, their exit blocked by our celebrating student body and our own band as it played its postgame set. Once finished, the on-field security and held the students back and the Irish Guard led the band out through the tunnel, the Michigan musicians tagging along in their only chance to escape the Irish celebration inside.

It was then we made our exit as well, walking around to the northern end of the stadium to watch the students emerge from the tunnel outside and spill onto the lawn stretching toward Touchdown Jesus. Only then did we feel we had soaked in the full atmosphere of the stadium and we too descended to campus.

Sitting alongside the reflecting pool beneath the library mosaic, Steve and I waited for his gang to assemble while small groups of students thrashed through the shallow pool of blue-dyed water. It was as it should be. It seemed like days of old that I may not even know. Was it a bigger game than the No. 1 vs. No. 2 matchup with Florida State in 1993? No. Was it a bigger victory? Perhaps. The students rejoiced as I can only imagine their predecessors did 11 years ago.

I have no reason to believe this, little to support it, but to me it felt like this is what it could be again, regularly. And soon.

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