high-bar baking

This is not the content you are here for, but it’s the content you’re getting anyway. This is my epic poem / badly-rhymy children’s bedtime story about Notre Dame’s win over Texas A&M down in Kyle Field. Please enjoy.

(The cookies are Oatmeal Creme pies, courtesy of Sarah + Preppy Kitchen’s frosting)

Once upon a night game
The Vegas line was quite tame
Few of us thought the Irish would win
Least of all sharps and their city of sin

Even the fans weren’t sure how’d we fare
Especially right after young Charles’ pec tear.
The head coach is fresh and the o-line is too
Plus our big game wins record is scarily few

Freeman’s pacing apparent up in the nosebleeds
As he stood in the tunnel and jumped round and screamed
He led the team out, running at a full pelt
As his tight LuLu pants made his legs look quite svelte

The air was pushed by whipping rally towels
And buffeted by well-trained, cultish howls
It’d get much louder ‘fore the night would end
This sure ain’t like what we’ve seen in the Bend

Five captains took mid stage for the coin flip
We could hear nothing from the ref, no quip
“Did we win and defer?” No one could say
We’d see when both teams lined up for play

Our man kicked through the back of their end zone
A pattern we’d watch repeat all night long.
Their offense stacked up for the first time;
In the stands our heartbeats blurred to flatline

They marched down the field but stopped and then kicked
Past oodles of tackles we wished we’d have sticked
I want to breathe easy, but now was the time
Our who-knows new offense stepped up to the line

Though we all braced for a tragic collapse,
The baby o-line wasn’t very harassed
The offense was neither pretty nor abysmal
And settled the first drive with our own field goal

Next came two punts, quick ups and fast downs
And a false start on them, to some confused frowns.
Plus offsides on D, one we’d never suspected
Since then it was quiet. Yes, most unexpected.

Rendell and his foot stepped up to the plate
But the Aussie tonight was okay, not great
He averaged the forties, and all landed cock-eyed
But none of the hangs were shocking, nor sky-high

Another kick stop, which wasn’t too bad
Now we had to match the three that they’d had.
A moment of panic, an onset of fear,
One catch was good, but down four wasn’t near

“Are we starting to choke, or is that just me?”
we swung toward despair before right back to glee
“Who’s our number 8?! He’s somebody new!”
As he snatched Weigman’s pass right out of the blue

The first play of their drive
Now our fans were alive!
The announcer called “Aiden” instead of “Adon”
As we screamed from the stands “Let’s go, Irish, c’mon!”

He took a hit there, wasn’t able to score
So we finally settled for one field goal more
The fans became stressed as but Irish can be
That we claimed not six points and only yet three

We traded more punts as the game tensions rose
Then, behold, yet another of Conner’s rogue throws
This one to Watts, his first of the year
Although doubtly his last, I’d bet you a beer

Aggressive ‘ere half, what will Freeman do?
No, nothing from him, just a kneel and a “whew”
Tied six to six, every inch the rock fight
Still stressful as hell, even if that felt right

Twenty minutes to breathe, let adrenaline drain
As khaki cadet band began its refrain
They weaved in and out, it was ASMR
As we schemed in the stands and looked down from afar

“Adjustments at half! Man, they’d eat us alive,
If we didn’t tweak after just the first drive,”
I recall Denbrock saying, back into a mic
As we prayed they’d come out of the half fit to strike

Leonard ran at his best, but it was in vain.
His first fourth was good, the next short by the chains.
A ridiculous measure that makes us all sick
For no one e’er shows the first half of the stick

A turnover on downs, but then one of theirs.
We felt a bit better, incompletes in the air
How will this game end; has it yet stalled?
We wondered as ND stepped up to the ball

At this point the run had been nonexistant
And I wished Mike Den would become less persistent .
We flubbed a handoff, then an OPI struck.
It looked like the Irish might just well be stuck

“We’re clinging,” I cried, “This story’s not new!”
I said to my friend who’d been at the Horseshoe
“A catch!” I proclaimed, “Do we have receivers?!”
It had been so long, I could hardly believe her

Another run handoff; I’d turned to resigned
But then Price slipped tackles, much to my surprise.
He skirted the last one, ran cleanly inside
The touchdown went up, we hid none of our pride

Our cheering was raucous, way up in the rafters
In vain the real buffs called out “Shush! The point after!”
Loud shouts or not, the kicker scored clean
As children were pushed up to counts of thirteen

Now we needed a stop, and our defense obliged.
Sadly next they handed one back on their side.
They got a big run, then the 3rd Q was ended.
Perhaps their momentum would now be suspended?

No luck for the Irish, Kyle Field showed its mettle
As War Hymn rang out, the press box wouldn’t settle.
Then came Mo Bamba, I’d never heard louder
Would our shaky lead quickly crumble to powder?

They ran and they ran, helped on by our markers
As penalties flew for our trusty D starters.
No chance at a stop, Moss grew on no stones
As he rolled without challenge into the end zone

Back to our rock fight, now tied in the fourth
Their crowd woken up, of noise there was no dearth.
Our own false start next, the first of the night
So a punt here despite catchers looking alright

A good punt this time, all of forty-nine yards
Pinning deep in their end, escape not in the cards.
Three up and three down, the ball back in our hands
To score once more tonight, if Fate says we can

Forget Freeman’s pants, Leonard’s legs are far dearer
His runs drew our goal line now nearer and nearer
First his legs, now his arm, for though ’twas a stretch
When contested, Beaux Collins did grab that side catch

Just two minutes left, the field goal was in sight
But no one was ready for Love last run-flight
“Where’s Jeter?” we’re looking around for the call
When Love slips through tackles still holding the ball

A touchdown! “Relief!” one could say —
If one had been Irish for less than one day
This game’s far from over, we know how we choke
After last year’s ten men there’s no way we can hope

Our D is a beauty, Aggs have no leeway
And four more quick calls is all they can play.
We lost it, then, reader. We drowned in our screams
As poor Golden down there still fielded a team

With timeouts there was too much time left to kneel
Our offense once more must now take the field
A quick drive for us, then backs lead us in
As Jeter kicks true, to our small Irish din

Still then I can’t hope, and won’t dare to breathe
Even with half a minute and two scores to lead
I’ve been burned before; it will happen again
(Oh how I so hate my dear Irish friends)

But then it was over, the last whistle sounded
In fast-draining Kyle, their silence resounded
Not us, though — “Go Irish!” we stomped on the bleachers
Like all game, we wouldn’t be drowned out by speakers

The stadium emptied, we sang “Alma Mater”
A big SEC win, we’d finally caught her
The night of a lifetime. We’d finally won.
Now, home, to go soothe my poor shattered eardrums