The margin between being really good and etching a spot in history is thin. A made field goal in the season opener (Michigan) or a completed two point conversion pass in a mid season tilt with the number one ranked team, and greatness is forever out of reach. However, those are make believe scenarios. What IS true is that a disparate group came together and fulfilled a commitment to greatness. Led by a coach who preached a faith in the university's spirit, a quarterback whose abilities were constantly questioned, and a ferocious defense, Notre Dame answered every challenge the season presented. What is true is that the 1988 Fighting Irish were unbeatable.
I was three years old when the Irish toppled West Virginia in the 1989 Fiesta Bowl to claim another National Championship. Oftentimes, I was regaled with stories of a great party at our home in South Bend that night. Or at least, I used to be. The author of said stories hasn't been with us for over two years now and is solely responsible for my affinity with all things Notre Dame. I am my father's son. Frank Stams and Rocket Ismail were two focal points of many stories from my father about that '88 season. I've seen the Miami game and the West Virginia game, the two most important tilts from that season. I can only imagine what it would have been like to live through that season as a teen or 20 something college student.
It was almost too good to be true in 2012, dad's last season, that they could have done the unthinkable beating Alabama to win their first sine 1988. We all know that never happened, but the games before AND after dad left us seemed almost mythical to a degree. The night game against Michigan, the overtime game against Stanford and of course, the last day I spent with my father, watching them find a way to beat BYU. A week later, dad was gone and, surrounded by family and friends, we watched that team storm into Oklahoma and dominate the Sooners. My brother and I never cried so hard. I finally believed in that team and in the spirit of my dad two weeks after his death when they nearly lost to Pitt. Dad was with us that afternoon. I will take it to my grave that Pitt missed a chip shot, game winning field because of him. It's a wonderful story and I promise I'll tell you some day. A significant part of my relationship with my father was Notre Dame, but it wasn't everything. My best friend reminded me after a tough loss the next season that I can't reduce my relationship with my father to just this. Naturally, he was right. But the good times far exceed the bad watching Notre Dame play every autumn. I feel like that 1988 season is only a figment of my imagination and only exists through youtube videos or DVDs. But dad was there. He lived it; he lived so much of Notre Dame and I wouldn't change a thing with my love affair with that university. Dad's legacy lives on in mysterious ways sometimes. That day, when Notre Dame is finally back on top, it'll happen... and it will be incredibly bittersweet.
Friends give me a lot of grief because, admittedly, I like a lot of teams. Many of my allegiances are inexplicable. But for what Notre Dame means to me and my family, no explanation would ever suffice. Until you've lived it, you couldn't possibly understand. Born in South Bend, it becomes a part of who you are. There is only one Notre Dame. The mystique, the lore and the magic is rivaled by nothing else. The 1988 Irish had it all. By now, it seems like a distant memory. But no one can ever take away what they did on and off the field. They have cemented their own legacy in Notre Dame lore. They simply could not, and would not, be beaten. I love you, dad. It'll happen again one day. And I'll miss you more than ever when it does.
We are... N.D.