I’ve never taken a single class at University of Notre Dame, which is probably for the best—because if I did, I’d have spent more time staring at the Golden Dome than passing exams. But that hasn’t stopped me from being a fully committed, emotionally invested, borderline irrational fan.
My connection to Notre Dame started the same way most lifelong fandoms do: pure childhood confusion. I saw the helmets—shiny, gold, glowing like they were blessed directly by the football gods—and thought, “Well, that’s clearly the main character of college football.” No further research needed. That was it. I was in.
I didn’t know where South Bend was. I thought “Fighting Irish” meant everyone on the team was born ready to throw hands over breakfast. I assumed the leprechaun on the logo had tenure.
But loyalty doesn’t require logic.
Every Saturday, I transform into a full Notre Dame historian. Suddenly I’m talking about traditions, legacy, and “the standard” like I personally helped build the place brick by brick. Meanwhile, the closest I’ve been to campus is aggressively zooming in on Google Maps like I’m planning a heist.
I’ve developed strong opinions too. Opinions I have absolutely no business having.
“Play-calling needs to be more aggressive.”
Sir, you once burned cereal.
But when Notre Dame wins? Oh, I’m part of the family. I say “we” with confidence.
“We looked great out there.”
We? The only field I’ve stepped on recently is the one I had to mow because I procrastinated for three days.
And when they lose… well… suddenly I become a calm, reflective analyst.
“You know, it’s about growth. Character. Long-term development.”
This is the same person who yelled at the TV five minutes earlier like the coach could hear me through the screen and was personally ignoring my very valid suggestions.
Game days are a full production. I don’t just watch—I prepare. Snacks are strategically placed. Remote fully charged. Emotional stability? Nowhere to be found. By halftime, I’ve lived through all five stages of grief, twice.
And yet, I’ve never been to a game in person.
Not once.
But in my mind? I’ve been there hundreds of times. I’ve heard the crowd, seen the stadium, felt the energy. I know exactly where I’d sit too—somewhere between “great view” and “affordable enough to not require selling a kidney.”
I’ve also convinced myself that if I ever do go, I’ll blend right in.
Nobody’s going to question the guy who shows up acting like he’s been attending games since birth, confidently explaining traditions he learned from documentaries and YouTube clips.
“Ah yes, the atmosphere here—truly historic.”
Meanwhile, I’m still figuring out where the bathrooms are.
But that’s the beauty of being a fan. You don’t need a degree, a dorm room, or even a parking pass. You just need belief, loyalty, and the ability to emotionally overreact to a third-down play like it determines your entire week.
And honestly? It kind of does.
So no, I didn’t go to Notre Dame.
But don’t let that stop me from acting like I’ve got a minor in Irish football and a PhD in yelling at my TV.
Go Irish.
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