Brian Spurlock, USA TODAY Sports
From The Bleachers: Notre Dame vs. USC
When I was seven years old, two things happened that would impact me in ways that would echo throughout my life, and in fact, set the path that led to me sitting at this computer, typing this column.
On May 25, 1977, I rode with a friend of mine and his father from my home in Kokomo to the Eastwood Theater in Indianapolis to see a movie that was premiering. The film was called Star Wars. Like most kids around my age, that movie grabbed onto me and never let go. But, while most of them wanted to be Luke Skywalker or Han Solo, I wanted to be George Lucas. A writer was born that day
Several months later, on October 22, I sat down on the couch next to my father to watch his favorite football team. I was only paying cursory attention when I heard him say, “I’ll be damned.” It was the first time I remember hearing him curse. He looked at me and pointed at the television. “They’re wearing green jerseys. THEY’RE WEARING GREEN JERSEYS!” I did not have a clue why that was so important, but my eyes were suddenly glued to the screen.
By the end of the 49-19 Irish victory, the name Joe Montana (“Is that his real name, dad?”) was etched in my memory. Perhaps more significant, Ken MacAfee introduced me to the position of tight end, which I was destined to play for the entirety of my playing days. This path was further cemented when I discovered my favorite NFL player, tight end Dave Casper, had also gone to Notre Dame.
The next season, the match-up with the Trojans provided my first sports-related heartbreak. My 8-year-old self was shaking with excitement when Montana brought the Irish from 18 points down to take a one point lead with less than a minute remaining in the game. I watched in disbelief as Frank Jordan – I will remember his name forever – kicked a field goal for a 27-25 USC win. I cried. It was the first time sports made me cry. It would not be the last.
Over the next 40 years, the Notre Dame/USC rivalry would hold a hallowed place in my heart and consciousness, providing some of the most thrilling moments and crushing disappointments of my life as a fan. Oddly, some of the most significant milestones for the Irish have paralleled many of my writing milestones during that time.
My freshman year in college, I had finally built up the nerve to submit my work to magazines hoping to get published. After several form rejection letters, I got my first acceptance letter the last week of November, 1988. I was on a personal high that would last … approximately 48 hours. That is when Lou Holtz ruined my mood, my week, and probably my year.
Sporting a No. 1 ranking, the Irish were headed to Troy to take on the No. 2 Trojans in the Coliseum. Notre Dame was on a roll having already vanquished the then No. 1 Miami Hurricanes in the most incredible game I have ever attended (still), and it looked like we had a terrific shot at beating SC and winning our first National Championship in eleven years.
All that changed when Coach Holtz suspended two of our most dangerous offensive weapons, Ricky Watters and Tony Brooks, for being late for a team meeting. The two offensive studs were put on a plane back to South Bend, carrying our hopes and dreams with them.
Predictably, Tony Rice scampered 65 yards for the opening score and the result was never really in doubt as the Irish romped 27-10. Wait… predictably? Or not.
In 1995, I was a newlywed living in Albuquerque, New Mexico working for a technology company and working as a regular freelancer for the first time. The Irish, after beating USC for a decade straight, were underdogs vs. the #5 ranked Trojans and few fans expected a win. The team had other ideas and stifled USC, holding them to 10 points. The exclamation point was Kinnon Tatum’s shot-heard-round-the-world that forced a Trojan fumble on the goal line. Final score: Irish 38 Trojans 10. USC would win the following year but this was a glorious end to the eleven game streak.
From 2002 to 2009, I spent nearly a week per month in Los Angeles working as a screenwriter. Tragically, this meant I was in the heart of Trojan territory during their most dominant stretch of the series. The blowouts left scars and so did the film industry. In 2005, my producing partner and I pitched a story to a major studio. The VP of development loved it. The President of the studio loved it. I was mentally building my dream house. Then, the Chairman of the Board decided it was too similar to elements of two projects they already had in the pipeline. Oh, so close and yet, so far.
I knew exactly how Charlie Weis and company felt that same year when they were one Reggie Bush push or one Ambrose Wooden fingernail away from beating the No. 1 Trojans.
The years that followed the Trojan streak have largely been a back-and-forth affair between the two schools. It is called the greatest intersectional rivalry in college football for good reason. Notre Dame leads the all time series 46-36-5, and though there are blowouts, it is one of those match-ups where you have to throw rankings out the window.
This game means something even when it doesn’t mean anything (in the rankings). Writing has also been a back-and-forth affair these past nine years. I have written for newspapers, the occasional magazine or online piece, and revised two old scripts. But in the past two years, both Notre Dame football and my writing career have taken on a different look, and have a different feel.
The post-2016 overhaul has the Irish looking like a perennial contender with improved recruiting and excellent development by a strong coaching staff. Meanwhile, I am working on my first novel and writing a weekly column for Irish Maven on SI.com.
As a writer I believe in poetic endings, divine providence, and magic. So when the Irish beat the Trojans in South Bend this Saturday night, I will not look at it as an ending, but as the continuation of a story that began for me way back in 1977. If the plot turns out like I expect, be sure to buy my book when it comes out sometime between the fourth and fifth straight victories over those damn Trojans.
