I had almost forgotten what a
dreadful experience watching television can be. Why it was called, in its
infancy, the idiot box.
Or the boob tube … take your
pick, they’re both applicable.
What happened was that, two
years before my wife and I moved back home, we canceled our cable
subscription, believing there was no rational way to justify spending over
$225 every month for a service we rarely enjoyed and seldom used.
It was like paying $15 a day
to a bum squatting in the sun room.
So we cut the cord. Actually, we slashed it with extreme prejudice.
And aside from the
occasional news story or a live sporting event, I don’t think either one of us
ever regretted the decision, though my wife did miss the Hallmark Channel and
“Murder, She Wrote.”
Upon leaving Coastal Carolina
for our hometown late in 2023, we set up housekeeping in a trim and tidy
three-story house, a comfortable place she’s turned, magnificently, into a
home.
One of the first things we
did that icy January move-in morning was schedule a visit from the local cable
company installer.
“Internet and phone only,” he
was told. “No cable television.”
Oh, the guy tried to sell us
on reconsidering, citing an appetizing “newcomer’s rate,” but we ignored him,
shortening his brief visit.
Since early 2024, then, we’ve
been doing without it exceptionally well, using various streaming services and
relying on Sirius radio.
Some loyal readers have, by
this time, already detected the weak link in our united front; I refer, of
course, to Notre Dame football.
The University of Notre du
Lac — Our Lady of the Lake — was founded about 20 years before the Civil War by
Father Edwin Sorin, who, for reasons that defy easy explanation all these
decades later, chose a vast Indiana wasteland for the site of his vision.
Forbidding in the winter,
barely tolerable the rest of the year owing to floods, tornadoes, criminal heat
and abominable snowstorms barreling out of Lake Michigan to drop an average of
110 inches of the white stuff between Halloween and Easter, the place was
remote and barren — in short, a perfect spot for discipline and angst.
The closest town, located at
the south bend of the St. Joseph River, became home to immigrants from Western
Europe, Germany and Poland and, obviously, Ireland, which soon became the name
of Notre Dame’s football team, one that would rule the ’20s and ’30s.
By the time World War II had
ended, the Fighting Irish were a national phenomenon, particularly among
American Roman Catholics, who embraced Notre Dame as their very own.
Hence, the Subway Alumni came
into being, and it still thrives.
My father was a South Bend
native who, after serving his country honorably in the 101st
Airborne — the Screaming Eagles, to those of you with military history
knowledge — went on to earn degrees from Indiana University, Kent State and
Ohio State, getting his doctorate in political science in 1964, thanks largely
to his wife, who typed every word of his dissertation, using carbon paper,
care, compassion and cup after cup of highly caffeinated coffee.
Both of my parents were tenured
professors, but to their credit, neither tried to influence me when it came
time to choose my college, so I was accepted by three excellent schools — specifically, Wittenberg, Ohio Wesleyan and Miami University in Oxford.
But Notre Dame was always in
the air, hovering patiently, just waiting for me to take a crack at being
admitted — it with an acceptance rate of somewhere around one of every 10
applicants.
When I arrived for my
freshman year in fall 1973, it felt like a bit of a homecoming since Dad
had three brothers and a sister living in and around South Bend, and we, as a
family, had spent many summer days and cheerful holidays among them, always
feeling welcome and getting to know the ND campus pretty well.
The Irish won the national
championship that year, going undefeated and subduing Alabama 24-23 for the
title. When I left after my senior year in spring 1977, Notre Dame would
go on to capture yet another crown, making it seem like God liked us.
It took another 11 years to
reach the summit, and since then, nothing, though Notre Dame made it to the
championship game earlier this year, only to fall short against Ohio State. I
went back to campus for a game last season, watching us roll over Virginia, and
it was good to get back again, even though it was very cold.
But seeing the Grotto, the
Golden Dome, Father Sorin’s statue, the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, Dillon Hall, #1 Moses and Touchdown Jesus
once again renewed a sense of belonging, one that’s curiously elusive when I
listen to the games on the XM radio.
Which is how I found myself
in front of a television set last Monday evening, gearing up for the opener
against the Convicts, AKA the University of Miami, which proceeded to dog whip
us.
My wife’s middle son had
kindly given us access to his apartment and big-screen TV, but the game itself
was hideous, made even worse by the steady torrent of mindless commercials,
which reminded me precisely why I abandoned television long, long ago.
Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where watching ND football can be very painful.
