Gosh, I remember it like it was yesterday: January 8, 2017.
After Sunday dinner, my family all sat in various spots around the living room of my grandparent’s parsonage. Once oriented to greet guests and join in fellowship, chairs and couches were dragged towards the TV. My dad and uncle had matching armchairs. My mom, aunt and grandmother turned their wooden seats while they played bridge at the table. My grandfather sat with his feet kicked back on the couch, pushing the paws of the chubby American Lab-Dalmatian mix, Lance, off his arm. We kids sat on the floor, messing and wrestling with each other.
“Alright kids. The game is starting. Pick your teams,” my grandmother sternly said. She had a bowl of those disgusting candy corns, which at the time were as heavenly as Turkish Delight. “Remember, only one team,” she looked at my cousin. “None of this switching business, Ricky.”
This was an important rule: for every field goal or touchdown, you’d get one or two pieces of candy corn. If you picked the optimal team, you got both a good toothache and the right to an arrogant grin.
Before we begin, the seriousness of this game should be acknowledged: Green Bay Packers vs. New York Giants, wild card round in the cold January weather. We were a Green Bay hotspot in the middle of rural Illinois. We were fanatics; the type of family that owns a share, and buttons, and bobble heads and Christmas ornaments. My grandfather, the reverend — who had worn his favorite green button up to preach his sermon — was now settled in a #12 Rodgers jersey. My dad was in the corner talking to my uncle about their shares in the team. We kids were just thinking of the candy.
“Pick your team, Ricky,” my grandma said.
“Whichever team isn’t the Packers,” Ricky said. He was a traitor: a dirty Bears fan.
The whole room sighed. “So be it,” my grandmother turned to my younger brother. “What about you, Max?”
“The Cowboys,” he said as he pumped his fist in the air.
“They aren’t playing, you idiot,” Ricky punched his arm.
“Mady?” My grandmother looked at me.
I crawled up to sit next to my grandfather on the couch and nudged his shoulder.
“Packers,” I said defiantly, eyeing my fellow grandchildren as they rolled their eyes at me.
He gave me a hug while his jealous, chubby dog pawed at me in annoyance. “There’s my favorite grandbaby!” (grandpa said this about everyone). “She will inherit all of my shares.” (He would never give those up).
The game started slow and quiet. Five minutes in, the boys yawned with boredom, grandpa stole a handful of candy while grandma wasn’t looking, and the dads were nearly lost in lethargic, cheesy potato-induced comas.
Hope and agony filled the air as the second quarter closed.
The Giants had six points to the Packers’ seven. 1:40 left on the clock before half. Bridge stopped. The men woke up. The kids were swiftly told to “Hush it,” and my grandfather was clutching the armrests of the couch. His knuckles were white like a child’s on a roller coaster. His teeth were gritting at the TV. He was at the peak of the roller coaster, ready to drop.
0:02: Rodgers winds up.
0:01: The pigskin soars through the air.
0:00: Hail Mary and touchdown — marked by the gunshot sound of my grandfather’s heavy slippers thudding to the ground as he stood. “What a play! What a play!”
The old man clutched his chest and leaned over.
The whole room erupted with yelling and laughter. My dad and uncle launched to their feet. The bridge cards were thrown about the air. The dog howled and pawed at my grandfather. I shoved a handful of candy corn in my mouth.
All the air in my grandfather’s lungs exhaled as he shouted again, “Oh my heart!” He stood to his feet and shuffled to his room.
Confused, the nurses, my grandmother and mother, followed him.
My dad laughed in the corner, “The game must have given him a heart attack!”
My grandpa locked himself in his room for the rest of half-time. I delivered candy corn every so often in hopes of resuscitating him if necessary. Long story short, my grandfather was fine physically — just an overdramatic old man insanely invested in a football team.
So why do I hold this memory so dear?
Along with being a raging Packers fan, my grandfather is equally a raging Notre Dame fanatic.
My grandpa on his birthday. Photo taken by Madyson Casiano
Sitting on the icy bleachers during half-time, I felt a buzzing zap me in the pocket. “Right on time,” I thought.
I picked up the phone and a gruff voice immediately interrogated me, “You better be at the game, aren’t you?”
“I am, Grandpa, are you watching?”
I could almost hear his smile creeping from ear to ear as he scoffed. “Well obviously, I’m not a knucklehead like you.” I skipped one game and he still hasn’t let me live it down.
With the phone clutched to my face, standing on the rickety metal, my teeth chattered updates three seconds ahead of his TV. For the next hour we called back and forth. Shouting at touchdowns, fumbles and flagrant fouls. Every so often, he would yell as if he was having a heart attack again — I’ve gotten used to this.
I wear his jacket to most games. It’s puffy with a great, large Fighting Irish emblem on the back. The sleeves go past my arms. The symbols are torn from years of his wearing and of my mom before me. It is thinning and barely warm. I have other coats, but I wear his anyway because when I feel that all too familiar phone call buzzing in my coat pocket and pick up to hear that gruff voice jeering or cheering, I’m right back to my childhood: sitting beside my grandfather as we nearly have heart attacks.
We are now separated by a state between us, with him at the southern tip of Indiana and me struggling on our freezing bleachers up north. His television may always be three seconds behind, but there’s some things that can bring a family together despite distance and time. Thank you, Green Bay, and thank you, Notre Dame, for nearly killing my grandpa (and me) every game.
My grandpa at my graduation. Photo courtesy of Madyson Casiano
