The Miracle at South Bend - Part 2

Having decided to give up sports for the betterment of my marriage, I vowed to dispense with half measures and go cold turkey. No more games on TV, sports pages, or radio call-in shows. Why make an emotional investment in something I had no control over anyway?

Just forming this resolution in my mind had a salutary effect. Though I had yet to forego a single Monday Night Football telecast, I already felt more deeply connected to both God and my wife. The benefits of my decision were so tangible that I quickly began feeling selfish for keeping them to myself. Surely other Christian men shared my sports addiction, so perhaps I could start a program called “Sports Anonymous” that would minister to these miserable souls. Soon, broken men would gather all across the nation in dingy church basements, where they would share searing tales of shattered lives and new beginnings.

“Hi, I’m Joe, and I’m a Bills fan,” some disheveled slob would confess. “It all came unraveled for me when friggin’ Norwood shanked that kick in Super Bowl XXV. I lost my job, my wife—everything. But then a buddy told me about Sports Anonymous, and it saved my life.” Such stories would be met with knowing nods and warm hugs from men who had frittered their lives away on the Chicago Cubs or Cleveland Browns, and stadium crowds would begin to dwindle noticeably as the new movement took hold.

Filled with such lofty aspirations, I managed to make it for two weeks before cracking. Everything fell apart one Saturday afternoon when my alma mater, the University of Tennessee, was slated to play at mighty Notre Dame. Mimi had gone grocery shopping while I stayed behind to catch up on some school work (mistake #1). And as the minutes ticked by, I became increasingly consumed with finding out how the Vols were faring against the Fighting Irish. After waging an intense inner battle for an hour and a half, I finally couldn’t resist the temptation to turn the game on—just for a minute—to check the score. What was the harm in a quick peek?

Well, a peek revealed that, as the game neared halftime, Notre Dame was mauling UT by a score of 31-7. I wondered if this was God’s way of telling me I had made the right decision in forgoing this idiocy. But I decided it would be harmless to continue watching for a while, seeing as the game was already decided and wouldn’t be able to draw me in emotionally.

Around Knoxville, this game is now known as “The Miracle at South Bend.” Somehow, the beleaguered Vols staged a furious comeback, culminating in a thrilling 35-34 victory. And, in a remarkable piece of timing, Mimi walked in the door just as Tennessee deflected a last-second Notre Dame field goal attempt to preserve the win. Only dimly aware of her arrival, I began racing about the limited confines of our apartment making strange, guttural noises to express my great joy. Somehow, a stunned Mimi was able to refrain from calling the psychiatric unit to seek a forced admittance.

Shaken by the fact that I had almost missed the greatest comeback in school history, I felt it would be wise to reconsider my earlier resolution and began seeking more realistic ways to work on my relationship skills. But these would not work much better.