I say this from where I sit on the driver’s seat inside my car, to my friend reclining on the passenger side, staring at the neighborhood Albertsons as we pass it in the parking lot. I say this because it’s Saturday, Game Day; because the store might as well be a satellite bookstore for USC and UCLA, going so far as to even carry pink-and-maroon USC ball caps for baby girls; because I am wearing a vintage, vibrant green Notre Dame football jersey; because, an hour or so earlier, the driver of a passing car laughed at me and my jersey as I walked down the street.

Today, Notre Dame plays UCLA at the Rose Bowl. We are 0-5, and to give you some idea of how all this feels for a fan . . . well, just picture yourself a resident of, oh, I don’t know, Austin, TX, maybe. Now picture yourself a fan of a winless Trojans team. Wearing a Reggie Bush jersey. Would you go into the grocery store? And for a 24-pack of PBR and tailgating supplies, at that?

As a resident of Long Beach, there is a part of me that realizes just how silly I am acting when I send my friend into the supermarket with $20 and a pat on the back—all evidence of high school talent to the contrary, we as a people, as a community, don’t dwell in football country. Our teams are well-supported, yes, but our ma ‘n’ pa shops are open just the same come a home game.

As an Irish fan (and 2003 alum of the university), however, my shame is warranted—demanded, even. By starting the season 0-5 it has done what no other Irish team has done in 119 years, with most anticipating that they will eventually be 0-8 after piling up more loses to UCLA, Boston College and, of course, unbeatable USC.

I debated whether to put my jersey on in the morning. I hadn’t worn it since the first half of the first game of this season. (It’s also very itchy, and not very breathable.) For a fan of Notre Dame football, especially living in Southern California—and most especially as a fan who only ever saw the team rise to “pretty okay” during her time in South Bend—the disappointment we’ve experienced so far this season is almost enough to make packing it all in and rooting for Pete Carroll and USC (or at least UCLA) a well-reasoned decision.

Almost.

There is one thing I’ll give Pete Carroll: he is a very handsome man. While other Notre Dame fans liken him to a poodle, I picture him more the grown-up version of Revenge of the Nerds‘ evil Stan Gable—your archetypical, good-looking antagonist. I often imagine him emerging from a maroon, vertical door Lamborghini with a Playboy Bunny on each arm. Somehow, by comparison, I think this helps me actually feel better rooting for Notre Dame coach Charlie Weis and his high-waisted pants. He’s the underdog.

We arrive at the Rose Bowl two hours before kick off: myself, my friend, a subway (non-alum) fan, and a classmate of mine who’d flown in from Portland. Parked roughly a half-mile from the stadium, just a few rows past the giant “4” parking balloon, we unload our beer and proceed to drink it. Having previously attended a Notre Dame game versus USC at the Coliseum, I’m prepared for the worst from the opposing fans: belches, flipped birds and lots and lots of heckling heavily littered with cuss words.

Instead, I find myself surrounded on all sides by Irish fans, some here on their own, some here with their UCLA friends. We stand and drink beer beneath a very bright (and warm) mid-day October sun and smile. I long for the days when I would see my breath as I exhaled and shots of Jameson were a preventative measure against hypothermia. I’m sweating. Then again, it’s going to be a long game. I’m okay with not shivering.

The walk to the stadium proves uneventful, for the most part, with “Go Irish!” shouts and high-fives far outweighing dirty looks and shit-talking. And it’s around this time that it all comes back to me: the undying optimism of the Irish faithful, akin to the kind of determination usually practiced by war protesters and members of the Green party. I’d forgotten how there is no such thing as a “long game” or a “long season” for a Notre Dame fan, only the next play, or the next game. All around me, there are fans young and old exchanging greetings and exciting conversation punctuated by buts, and ifs, and did you know that we still have a shot at a bowl game?

Three-quarters of the way through the third quarter. We’re up 13-6 on UCLA—if memory serves—when the first sections begin cheering. No touchdown, no interception, there might not even be a play on the field at the time. The cheers are scattered, initially, just pockets here and there, until someone in our section breaks the news: Stanford just went up 24-23 on USC with a minute remaining. Stanford.

Now, depending on who you ask, USC is Notre Dame’s worst enemy (some will also tell you it’s Michigan). But it’s unequivocal fact that UCLA hates SC. And so it’s at this precise moment that my shame from earlier on in the day evaporates completely: here you have a team playing on its own turf; losing to a winless, former powerhouse; and this crowd of 75,000 (about a third of which are Notre Dame fans, I’d guess), upon hearing that their mutual nemesis is about to fall to an unranked team, Goes. Completely. Apeshit.

Minutes later, it’s announced that USC lost.

We go on to beat UCLA 20-6.

Notre Dame could very well go winless for the rest of the season. And we face almost certain, crippling defeat at home in South Bend in a few weeks by the Trojans. Yet, whatever the rankings, and no matter what the sports columnists, fans and ESPN guys say, tonight demonstrates something that underdogs (and Notre Dame fans, for better or worse) have always known to be true: the concept of a sure win is entirely, utterly bunk.

So we continue to hope. And pray. And wear our jerseys.

And secretly daydream about Pete Carroll.

Tags: football, notre dame, pete carroll, Sports, usc