Monthly Archives: October 2014

By Sandra Snyder on October 18, 2014

“Has anyone else got anything to say before I start this meal?”

Ellipse, ellipse, ellipse. That means we skip over some dialogue from one of the greatest movies ever made, that being “Rudy,” and get right to the most salient point.

Then Pete speaks. Silly Pete. He talks crazy.

“Mr. Ruettiger, at halftime, could we watch some of the Indiana-Purdue game?”

Mr. Ruettiger, soulmate of the late, great Edward Francis Snyder — may my father rest in peace, dear Lord — promptly told him how it is, was, and always would be.

“There’s only one team we watch in this house, right?”

“Right.”

Right on, Rudy’s dad. Raise your children up right, and you can change the entire world. Smiley face.

Anyway, here in the land of the hapless, things might sometimes seem, well, indeed hapless — water still occasionally rains from the ceiling and anything that needs replacing is still not ever “standard” size — but they are traditional. And that means Saturdays in fall are as sacred as Sundays. Edward led us by example, and we are left to hold his blazing torch high.

And Saturdays really don’t get much more sacred than when Notre Dame, the “house team” from time immemorial, is playing a big, crucial, season-defining game. That happens tonight in Tallahassee, where our beloved Fighting Irish will engage in a seminal Seminoles match-up against Florida State. Upcoast, preparations are well under way, and at least one disaster already has been averted.

OK, so maybe I tried to improve upon a good thing and create a more open living room by turning a space-sucking coffee table into a television stand and relocating the original stand to the basement, which required unplugging about a thousand cords and untangling as many cables. And maybe something went a little haywire in the process. And maybe I just happened to receive, repeatedly, that dreaded 775 error on my DirecTV screen, you know, the one that indicates the box and the satellite have encountered some sort of communication problem, and it’s probably something you did, you idiot …

Me, idiot. Not you. You wouldn’t lose your head like this just before a big game.

But all is well now, and that is all that is important. It may have taken three phone calls and one “advanced” technical-support person on site — always buy the coverage that guarantees tech support, people! — but the main television is happily spouting football commentary now.

I am pretty proud my place has been chosen as “default house” for most gamewatch parties, so I really don’t want to risk messing things up by pulling antics such as this too often. Which means I hope I’ve learned my lesson.

Oh, who am I kidding?

Back to my point: In this family, there is a key rule: Notre Dame is watched together, what though the odds, or — shall I say? — regardless of whether any individual members of the extended clan might happen to be at any odds, which can happen on occasion. Say you get into a little text tiff with your older sister earlier in the week and she announces that she won’t be watching the game with anyone on Saturday. Well, you can pretty much dismiss that nonsense talk immediately.

Time and Notre Dame heal all wounds.

Regardless of what happens in the lead-up week, you prepare the menu counting everyone in, because, unless prevented by physical distance, attendance is mandatory at gamewatch. Those who are sorely missed because of that distance take part in the form of virtual commentary, and they send pictures of babies dressed in game-day gear or equally adorable videos of little voices spouting the party lines:

“Go Irish. Go go. Irish Irish.” “Touchdown!” That sort of thing.

A little indoctrination never hurt anyone.

Now let’s talk menu.

Earlier in the week, my nephew and I had roughly the following conversation:

Ryan: Are we watching the game at your house Saturday?

Me: Sure, we could. (“Default house” means if no one steps in and says I really want to take this one, we come here.)

Ryan: Cool. I think we should watch at your house. But can we PLEASE get REAL food?

Ah, yes, real food. Allow me to explain. A few weeks ago, I group-texted the clan to come hungry because I had been cooking all day.

Darling nephew responded with dread, something along the lines of “But it’s not really a party unless food is ordered.”

Out of the mouths of teenagers.

In other words, as he and his brother used to say as wee ones, “Can we get pizza from a place?”

Put another way: Glad to hear you MADE pizza, but the best kind comes from a cardboard box with grease all over the bottom. You don’t buy it at the grocery store, and you DON’T make it yourself, especially if you have any wackadoodle ideas about fancying it up, flatbread-style.

Sauce, cheese, maybe some pepperoni, call it a day. And get off Pinterest, please. Only bad comes from that.

But, children, let me tell you what I also made.

Cauliflower buffalo faux-wings. Peanut-butter hummus. And pagach. Mmmm, pagach …

Yeah, they weren’t exactly sold, but the pagach proved more of a hit than I expected anyway.

OK, so I have a ways to go in convincing the younger members of this family that a game-day spread really should be as interesting and exciting as the game itself.

“Define real food,” said I to my nephew.

“Sizzle Pi would be good. Or McDonald’s.”

Now Sizzle Pi, for anyone not local, is a bit of an institution around these parts of Northeastern Pennsylvania, representing as it does that oddly delicious incarnation of pizza known as “fried Sicilian.”

OK, I will allow it. It doesn’t come in a big greasy box anyway, and you can cut it up into small pieces, and it makes a decent showing on a buffet.

But I draw the line at McDonald’s. Unless they are now in the business of gourmet sliders, kid, I just can’t let you “ugly up” my table like that.

Compromise is a beautiful thing.

As are rules.

When it comes to gamewatches, especially BIG gamewatches, we have those, too. We have assigned seats, for example. Oldest brother is now unofficial “head of household” and gets Edward’s former chair, deemed the most comfortable and at the best angle to the television. His wife happily takes the right corner of the main couch, where you have to strain a bit more to see. That’s because she not only married into this Notre Dame madness but sometimes likes to doze off during the games anyway, especially the night ones. Oldest sister claims the next-best spot, because birthright. Mom takes any old seat because she’s happiest, bless her heart, when her clan is happy, etc., etc.

Non-game-related chitchat should be kept to a minimum, and sometimes flags are thrown and penalties are strict. My brother-in-law — fortunately for us, a diehard Domer BEFORE he married my sister — once flagged me for talking at an inappropriate time and benched me in my own kitchen for five minutes. But that happened during the national championship game a couple of years ago, so the penalty was not as harsh as it sounds.

Lots was on the line, after all, and we had all agreed to the rules upfront.

Tonight’s contest has almost as much on the line. Could be a blowout. And not the one for which we hope.

But whatever happens, here in this place, loyalties are fierce, fire-tested, and will never subside. We live by the Irish, and sometimes our spirits die by the Irish. So come what may …

I’ve said my piece. And now I must away. For I have some roasted-red-pepper hummus to prepare, and it seems I’ve forgotten to buy the tahini.

If chickpeas were left off the menu, the kids would be so devastated. Snicker, snicker.

So carry on, friends, and be well. Just remember: Eat, pray, and love thee Notre Dame.

~ SJS (AMDG)

“Son, in 35 years of religious study, I have only come up with two hard, incontrovertible facts: There is a God, and I am not him.”

— Father Cavanaugh to a young Rudy Ruettiger