When Old School Meets New School

By Mike Dewey
September 24, 2012
361

SUMMARY: It's been more than 20 years since he last attended at football game at Notre Dame, but Mike Dewey's return to his alma mater proved that his memory is still good ... and that there are wonderful memories waiting to be uncovered. SOUTH BEND -- By now, anyone who cares will already know the outcome of my alma mater's football game against the University of Michigan and, though I'm still basking in the warm glow of Notre Dame's 13-6 victory, I'm pretty sure that you'd rather read about what it was like to be back on campus for the first time in better than a decade. In a word: Overwhelming. So much has happened since last I walked down ND Avenue. The entire landscape has changed. Expanses that I remembered as being empty fields now house buildings and sculptures and walkways and benches and commons areas. Parts of the surrounding environs, which I recall -- with not a little pride -- as being just a little bar-seedy, now boast thriving businesses, pubs and restaurants and places to shop. In short, it was sort of like a double-speed time warp. In one version of reality, I was still seeing things as the were. In another, I was realizing that while my memories had stayed stuck in the past, Notre Dame has been accelerating into a future I couldn't have imagined. Which isn't to say that it's a bad thing; to the contrary, to my eye, anyway, the transitions employed seem seamless, patient, proud. On this weekend, for what it's worth, I stand impressed. What was also satisfying, on a completely different plane of existence, was walking the campus with two of my roommates from the mid-'70s, guys who've been there a lot as our school has marched along. They knew it was going to be a potential case of the adjustment blues for me, knowing how anchored I tend to be in the unyielding stance that the comforts of a well-tended yesterday are always better than the vagaries of an unpredictable tomorrow. The night before my exile's return, therefore, they did their best to prepare me for what awaited. "Just remember to take deep breaths" was one piece of advice. Another was, "It's still the same place, only different." One side practical ... the other existential. THOSE GUYS HAVEN'T changed lot since our all-night talks as first-semester freshmen and that, not surprisingly, made me smile. A lot. Our host concocted a wonderful meal and, as he chopped and diced and stirred and worked his magic at a kitchen island, he was clearly enjoying himself in the spotlight. Which was as it should have been. Roles forged decades ago tend to solidify over the years and our dynamic was no exception. I reveled in being the provocateur, once more gently challenging views held by my friends, and they caught the old-time rhythm almost instantly and the years melted and we made new memories. We sat up late and it all felt right, even the part when they hit the hay well before I did, my vampire ethos still intact. The talk ranged from baseball to politics, movie lines to the best singles of all time, ND's winning ways to vacations trips we'd taken since last we were in the same room together. It's not often that a person finds himself defending "The Rain, the Park and Other Things" as being a defining touchstone in Western civilization but that Friday evening, I think I made a pretty fair case on behalf of the Cowsills. "Arguably," I said, tying my presentation in a neat bow, "the greatest single of our lifetimes." "Any more of that dip left?" my former roommate asked our host, clearly not all that impressed with my logic. "Plenty," came the answer. And we talked plenty more as opinions flew and ideas floated and the bonds of friendship strengthened. I caught up on all their family news: how their now-grown children are doing and all that good stuff. In some cases, I hadn't seen them since they were toddlers and now, they're out of school, making lives for themselves. Since fatherhood hasn't been my destiny, I mostly listened and learned. Invariably, though, it was ND football that dominated large slices of our time and we all hoped for the best the following day. Or should I say evening. NIGHT GAMES HAPPEN very infrequently at Notre Dame. Out host said that this would be only the ninth time it had happened since the stadium lights were installed. Kickoff is normally set for mid-afternoon and people get used to a certain game-day pace. That Saturday, however, you could just feel a different vibe, on and off campus. It seemed to me that folks somehow amped things into a higher gear, knowing that kickoff would be four hours later than usual. There was something kinetic in the air, a sensation of hurtling toward something out of the ordinary, an amusement park ride with extra turns and twists. One of the only things I really wanted to experience again -- keep in mind I hadn't seen a game at ND since the early '90s -- was to walk around St. Mary's Lake, something we did all the time as students. And as soon as the showers slowed and the sun peeked out, that's precisely what we did. I wish there was a way for me to convey adequately the glimmer-glass beauty of the Golden Dome's reflection of the water's surface, but I fall short all the time. Far from the crowds clogging the bookstore and the tailgating masses with their kegs and grilled meats, we found ourselves in splendid isolation, to lift a Warren Zevon line, three guys walking a path so familiar, we could have done it blind-folded. There came a moment when it all coalesced for me and I just stopped in my tracks. "What?" our host asked. "Nothing," I said. "It's just, you know, everything." "I know," said our roommate. "We all know." And that's just it. For all its expansion and forward-thinking progress, our alma mater has a stubborn way of insisting that the time any graduate spent there was its finest hour. I suppose that's true of any school and its former students, but forgive me if I believe Notre Dame remains the most special expanse of beauty on the face of the earth. And, of course, it doesn't hurt that the football team is again ranked among the elite. Would it matter if we were winless instead of undefeated? Probably. But I'm enjoy this feeling as long as it lasts and I thank you for putting up with me as I've shared an experience that has left me with a grin as wide as John B. Sebastian, whose Lovin' Spoonful got serious consideration for recording the best single ever. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC. His work also appears on his Facebook page.

When Old School Meets New School

Walnut Creek Cheese

Homestead Furniture