My National Championship Assist...

I had the distinct honor of having assisted the Notre Dame Fighting Irish Football Team in their winning of the National Championship – sort of.

The game in question was an end-of-season match up with the highly touted Florida State University team, which was carrying a 16-game winning streak into this game with Notre Dame.

It should be no surprise, as every right-thinking person knows, Notre Dame stands for everything that is right and good in the world, whereas Florida State represents the Forces of Darkness. It can’t be helped. It’s just the way life is.

The year was 1993 and the game was hyped as the “Game of the Century” – among other “Games of the Century” before and since.

It started out as an exciting match-up and escalated into an all out conflagration. Florida scored on the opening drive and Notre Dame answered with 21 points of its own.

Things were dicey late into the 4th quarter. Notre Dame was ahead 31-24. But, with 3 seconds remaining in the game, Florida had the ball on the 14 yard line – close enough to smell the goal line.

My part in the story actually began 20 years earlier in 1973. Again, it was football season and I was watching a Sunday NFL match-up on TV. It was the playoffs, close to Christmas, and cold to the bone. It was cold everywhere: cold at the field on TV; cold at my home in Southern California (believe it or not), and it was cold in my living room. I was wearing a coat and gloves and had the heater cranked up to about 185 degrees trying to take the chill off.

It does, in fact, get cold in Southern California. It’s rare, but it does happen. Most years, 600 trillion people watch the Rose Parade and Rose Bowl Game on television January 1st and say, “Hey Martha, those nutcases in California are wearing tee-shirts, shorts and sandals. Put away your mukluks, we’re moving there. Right after the game.” But, it was cold this particular December. Very, very cold.

The game I had been watching was not terribly exciting. I remember trying to stay awake but nodding off occasionally. Between the heater bringing the room temperature up to about 90 degrees, and the Arctic parka I was wearing, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Then the doorbell rang and startled me awake.

When I opened the front door I was first taken aback by the blast of cold air that hit me in the face. It was a bone-chilling cold that almost made me take a step backward. The next thing I noticed was a thin young woman standing on the porch with some kind of a basket.

She was saying, “I’ve made these Christmas ornaments and if you like any of them, I sell them for one dollar each.”

They were okay. Nothing spectacular. Just cast ornaments painted by hand.

As I was saying, “No thanks,” the next thing I noticed was that she had on a thin cotton print dress and no coat. As I was closing the door I remember thinking, “She’s going to freeze!”

But, just before the door closed completely, I noticed something that truly horrified me: she had no shoes. She was walking door-to-door, selling these trinkets, without a coat, and she was barefoot! But, the door closed anyway. It was as though I couldn’t stop it. I had said, No thanks, and simply closed the door on her.

I sat back down in front of the TV, not at all sleepy anymore, and kept thinking, “She is barefoot. Barefoot. Barefoot. She is barefoot.” And then I honestly and truthfully thought, “I am going to hell. This was a test. And I am going to hell.” I had failed – miserably.

After about three or four minutes of distress, I got up and checked what money I had on me. Nada. I scrounged around in the bedroom and came up with three dollars and headed out the front door in search of L’il Miss Barefoot. I thought that maybe I could still save myself.

“Saving myself” was probably not the perfect attitude to have about the whole situation. “Helping another human being in need of assistance” might have been a little more appropriate. But, I was cold and wanted to get back to the game.

At any rate, I couldn’t see her. I stood on the sidewalk out front with my hands in my coat pockets and freezing my ears off. I watched up and down the street for her to emerge from one of the houses. Nothing.

Maybe someone invited her in to look more closely at her trinkets. Naw. They just weren’t that impressive. She had to be on the block somewhere. Maybe she was headed East and had slipped around the corner onto that side street.

I got out my keys and backed the car out of the driveway. After driving around the block and not finding her, I decided that she must have gone into someone’s home and that I had simply missed her when I was locating some cash or driving the wrong direction. The solution was to determine the maximum distance that she could likely travel on foot in any one direction and then set up a matrix over which I could drive until I found her. It was easy.

Forty-five minutes later I walked through the front door, tossed my keys on the table and sat down with a puckered brow and a bad attitude. You would think that if you were trying to help someone, they would have the courtesy to at least let you find them. But, no such luck.

As the days past, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow missed my one and only opportunity to redeem myself and ultimately enjoy the hereafter at some point in the distant future. I had failed. Miserably. It was a sick feeling and it stayed with me for years.

In fact, at any time since then that I’m approached by a person seeking money, no matter the circumstances, I give them what money I have. And yet, each time I hand out the money I’m thinking, “This could be a thousand dollars and it won’t make up for my ignoring that barefoot girl.” It’s a sour feeling each time I give.

I don’t always have paper money in my wallet. So, I took to carrying coins. I would save my change and let it collect in my pocket. It served two purposes. First, I always had change – lots of it – for those in need on the street. Secondly, it reminded me of carrying marbles in my pockets when I was a kid.

I was a renowned marbler when I was a kid – known far and wide; clear into the next tract of homes, some said. It was fashionable (also mandatory) that we wear those salt and pepper corduroy pants to school. The legs flapped in the wind and they “zipped” when you walked. ZZZZ-zzzz, ZZZZ-zzzz, ZZZZ-zzzz.

But, the one advantage those pants had was huge pockets. I’d pick up a 100-bag at Well’s Market, break it open and store half in each pocket for the school day. Once I made the mistake of storing a whole 100-bag in each pocket. They fit – right up to the brim. But, when I sat down in class, about 30 marbles rolled out of each pocket and scattered around the room. Ms. Candice had everyone collect them for her. She stored contraband in a cigar box in her desk until the end of each semester. She had to get a second cigar box.

At any rate, the lose change reminded me of the marbles. Someone would start to say, “Do you have change for…” and I’d pull out a handful of coinage that was usually dripping more lose change on the floor than they were looking for in the first place. I could change a $50 some days – in nickels.

So, I doled out change by the tonnage over the years, and still suffered for my transgression against the Barefoot Contessa.

As it happened, my younger brother became a college football coach. He didn’t coach at the level of Notre Dame and Florida State. But, he was a good coach at a good college in Southern California. Because of his coaching, he had insights into the inner workings and strategies of football that we, the unwashed masses, didn’t have. It was interesting to listen to him whenever a game was being played.

So, it should be no surprise that my brother and I discussed the Notre Dame-Florida State game for days ahead of its kickoff. Unfortunately, we lived about 500 miles apart and would have to discuss the actual game on the phone during timeouts.

When game-day arrived we were ready. Each of us had a television, remote control and a telephone. At each time out, we would mute the commercials and call each other to strategize. It seemed at the time that our strategizing could make or break the game. Should Coach Holtz switch to his passing game? Should he have the offense go for it on 4th down? We were delirious.

We pick up our story again with Florida State 14 yards from a touchdown with 3 seconds remaining in the game. There was a timeout called and my brother and I strategized briefly. But, when play was just ready to resume, two things happened nearly simultaneously. The TV commercial break ended, and my doorbell rang.

Standing about five feet in front of the TV, I looked toward the front door about a dozen feet to my right. My wife was upstairs and likely didn’t hear it. It was probably a neighborhood kid for one of my sons. I glanced back at the TV. I had just enough time to take the four large steps to the front door, swing it open, direct the kid to the backyard, and make it back to the TV for the final play. I made my move.

Just as I started to open the door, I heard the crowd start to come alive. The game was about to resume. But, it wasn’t a kid at the door. It was a woman.

She was in her early 30s, dressed cleanly, but in clothes that were slightly dated. She was holding a clear plastic envelope with a document inside. She held it out and began to speak. She was very nervous. Her mouth was dry and she was shaking somewhat. I looked back at the side of the TV 12 feet away. The crowd got louder. She was making a pitch for a donation and I remember thinking, “If I just say, ‘Sorry’, I can close the door while I’m taking my first step. Then, with three more steps I can be in front of the television for that final play.”

But, something was playing in the back of my mind. The gears were turning for some reason. I wanted to close the door, but I had this uneasiness about doing so and I couldn't figure out why.

I didn’t recognize her, but I did recognize the letterhead and the name of the organization because the company I was working for had recently donated some much need services the organization required. Things happened very quickly after that.

Just as the crowd on the TV reached a crescendo of excitement, I remembered the barefoot trinket seller and my head snapped back to the woman at the door. I looked down quickly and realized with relief that this woman, at least, was wearing shoes.

The second thing that happened was that all of the Forces of Darkness that had been aligned with the Florida State offense trying to score a touchdown, were suddenly sidetracked, looked up at me and said, “Heh, I thought we buried that guy years ago!”

The roar of the crowd turned into white noise as I said, “This is another test isn’t it?” She looked puzzled and said, “I’m sorry?” I responded, “It doesn’t matter,” and I opened my wallet. The crowd on TV seemed to fade into background noise.

There was about $14 in my wallet and I chucked it all into her envelope. She was grateful. I then opened the “secret compartment” in my wallet with my mad money – another $70 – and I dropped that in her bag. She was delighted.

I stuck my hands deep in my pockets wanting to speak to her about her situation, but nothing came out. I couldn't think of anything. I jiggled some coins in my pocket and had another idea. I pulled out a massive handful of coins and looked at her questioningly.

She looked at the handful of coins, then at me, and shrugged with a smile. I opened the plastic bag further with my other hand, dropped in the scoopful of coins, and proceeded to bring out more scoopfuls. She was dumbfounded.

When I had cleaned out my pockets of coins down to the lint and paperclips, I looked again at her and shrugged. She was tearful when she said, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

I said, “No need,” and closed the door. The weight had been lifted. I felt like a new man.

I walked back to the living room and stared without interest at the pandemonium on the football field. The phone rang.

My brother shouted, “Did you see that!? Can you believe it!?”

I said, “I missed it. Who won?” There was a brief pause and then he broke out laughing and hung up while beginning to tell those at his house about my ‘joke’.

The football field was still in chaos and I couldn’t concentrate long enough on the happenings to determine who had won.

I called my brother, “I’m serious. I missed it. Who won?”

It was the newspaper the following day that finally gave me my answer. My brother doesn’t believe to this day that I missed the last play – Notre Dame batting away a touchdown pass in the end zone to win the game.

Notre Dame won the game, but not the National Championship that year. It went to – drum roll please – Florida State. Go figger.

But, I’m guessing that even the folks at Notre Dame are unaware of the fact that I was the driving force that assisted them in their defeat of the 1993 National Champion Florida State Seminoles.