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Wednesday, Oct. 22, 2003 - 4:04 p.m.

At least our governor can pronounce our state name

Man, I've told this story so many times already.

So, at Notre Dame you have the football stadium on the southeastern corner of campus. If you're standing to the east of it looking north, Touchdown Jesus is in that direction, the basketball and hockey arena on your right. Beyond the arena lie, in order, the outdoor track, the football practice field, and the soccer field. South of those, respectively, lie a parking lot (south of both the arena and track), the baseball stadium and open grass.

On that open grass behind the center-field and right-field fences is where we always tailgate because that's where Julie's parents -- her mom works in the business college -- set theirs up. There's a road that runs between the soccer field and the grass parking area, and it was just off that road that we were tailgating when someone in our group comes over to me and says, "Joe Montana just walked that way," and pointed east ... away from the stadium.

"He has to come back this way!" someone else said.

So for the next 15 minutes, we positioned ourselves right along that access road and kept watch for a tall man in a black v-neck sweater, or something similar based on the description from the person who saw him.

After several false alarms, we had a positive ID.

"There he is!" someone said (all the identities of who's speaking a blur now). "Along the other side of the road, walking this way near the fence."

Across the access road from us was a small strip of grass before the fence that enclosed the soccer field. It was on this strip that we'd set up a beanbag toss and spent time pairing up to play a game not unlike horseshoes, only instead of trying to ring the shoe around the stake, you try to get the beanbag into the hole in the homemade boards that were propped up.

Four people went over to "play" a game while six more of us went to "watch." Good fortune cleared the space between Joe and me, providing me with a pretty clear shot for a photograph, which I took from about 60 feet away as Joe was looking to his left as he walked towards us. As he neared, I expected one of the girls to say something, to ask him for a quick photograph, though I wondered if he'd agree to one, if he'd stop and risk being recognized by more people and potentially swarmed. No one said anything, and I found myself standing in Joe's path as he closed in.

When he was about five feet away, I stepped aside and said, "Hi."

"How you doing," he replied in a deep voice, a slight smile on his face, an expression I'd like to believe was part satisfaction that he knew I knew who he was and part appreciation that, there I stood, camera around my neck, letting him pass with a simple hello.

And as he passed by me, I felt it: a brush against my arm. There was little room for me to move to my left and with people walking with him, Joe had little room to move to his left. His right arm brushed against mine. The 47-year-old arm that once threw five touchdowns in a single Super Bowl came in contact with a 27-year-old arm that once threw seven touchdowns in a tackle football game in the schoolyard -- while pretending to be Joe Montana.

The women -- Mia and Jill among them -- admitted they froze. I chalk it up to them not wanting to risk ruining the image. If he was in a hurry or in a bad mood, we ran the risk of a brush off, of a gruff, "Sorry," or something as he continued walking, turning down a chance to have his picture taken with some big fans who remember his final NFL days and were barely walking during his storied college years.

I don't know if it would've been a problem, though, had we managed to stop him. He'd already walked past hundreds of tailgaters on his way to wherever it was he went, and now he was heading back. Surely we weren't the only ones to notice him the first time and watch him go, then waited for him to return. Notre Dame fans are like that: Wow, there he is! If the opportunity is right, you stop him and ask for a picture or an autograph. If not, you're content with the story of seeing him, of a picture from afar, of saying hello. I don't think I'm using the term too loosely if I say I met him. Words were exchanged and a literal brush with greatness takes the place of a handshake.

I also met Carson Daly, in a much more interesting setting, and shook his hand and talked with him for about a minute, even had my picture taken with him (god knows why), but that story's not nearly as cool as the Joe Montana one. (For the record, Carson was in the Main Building watching the trumpet section of the band play the Alma Mater and Fight Song in the rotunda. He wore a green #34 jersey -- Vontez Duff; DUFF MAN! OH YEAH! -- and cap, then stepped outside to watch the band begin its march across campus to practice. Walking down the front steps, he shook hands with two speechless, star-struck girls sitting on the pedestal at the bottom of the steps. They barely realized who he was before he'd passed, then jumped down, mouths agape, to tell their parents. Carson then walked into the Basilica as I went around to the Grotto. Then, as we left the Grotto, we passed him on his way down.)

The game featured an amazing offensive first quarter in which Notre Dame and USC traded touchdowns on each of their first two possessions before the Trojans went nuts and their prick-ass of a bastard coach, Pete Carroll, went and ran up the score for the second year in a row. His second string didn't make an appearance until late in the fourth quarter, after the first string had gone for the first down twice on fourth down rather than punting or trying a field goal.

Afterwards, as my parents walked back to our tailgate, a couple of USC fans near them walked along gloating, "We beat you, we beat you!"

Mom turned around to them and simply said, "Ah-nuld, Ah-nuld."

They looked at her, the glee gone from their faces, and said, "Oooh ... low blow."

Way to go, Mom.

It was a horrible football game, but a great weekend simply because, as I've said before, it's more than football.

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