Golden Dome: A Trip to Notre Dame
The Golden Dome and "Touchdown Jesus" loom behind Notre Dame Stadium. (Chris Chambers/Getty Images)
• SportsTravel City Guide - South Bend
The first thing you see as you exit I-90 and roll into South Bend for a Notre Dame football Saturday is the Golden Dome itself. It rises above the trees that shroud the Notre Dame campus, as if it were Joe Montana's glistening helmet, lined up over a row of kelly-green-jerseyed offensive lineman.
At that moment, you understand why the Fighting Irish wear gold helmets and why the addition of a logo would not only be redundant, it would also be sacrosanct. It's something you've always heard, but never quite grasped. Not until now. It's the first of many inevitable revelations that will hit you with the bluntness of a Knute Rockne pep talk over the course of an eight-hour visit to Notre Dame.
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You arrive after a 95-mile drive that starts in Chicago and takes you through a countryside of fall foliage, factories, and steel mills. At the end of the road sits the center of the college football universe, which seems to be located in the middle of nowhere.
That feeling of desolation soon fades, right along with so many other preconceived notions. If you're not an alum, not Catholic, and not a die-hard Irish fan, Notre Dame is a place more to be appreciated than revered. But if you're a college football fan, it's hard not to do both during a game-day visit to the campus.
After wading through a parking lot teeming with spirited tailgaters, a shuttle bus drops you off at the fourteen-story Theodore M. Hesburgh Library. It's there that the second iconic image of the day, Touchdown Jesus, materializes, and the sight of his outstretched arms reaching skyward makes you feel like you have, indeed, hit pay dirt.
Already, Notre Dame is exceeding your expectations, which are high. You've been in South Bend all of 30 minutes now and already experienced two "there it is" moments. That's more than you have the entire time you're at most other sporting events. You realize, right then and there, that the campus's off-the-beaten-path setting is not remote, it's cloistered.
Kickoff is still more than three hours away, but many of the 80,795 who will be in attendance for this day's game against UCLA are already on campus, most of them decked out in Notre Dame navy blue and gold. Some opt for kelly green.
A navy blue throwback jersey with the No. 7 and the name Theismann on the back reminds you that Notre Dame first came into your consciousness on Sunday nights at midnight back in the late '60s and early '70s. That's when tape-delayed broadcasts of the previous day's game were aired in Southern California. UCLA was always your team, so the Notre Dame games, airing when they did, represented bonus coverage, a last layer of icing on a weekend of football watching.
In a reminder of the power of television, the enduring voice of the school, to you, belongs neither to Ara Parseghian nor Lou Holtz, but rather to longtime play-by-play man Lindsey Nelson.
The quirky sportscaster, who called Notre Dame games for 13 years, had an unconventional voice, an offbeat wardrobe of plaid sport coats, and what would be considered less-than-network-anchor looks. But, proving that the sum total is sometimes greater than its individual parts, Nelson was a great broadcaster, delivering a straightforward call of Notre Dame football that gave you an appreciation for the subtleties of vanilla.
The tapes were truncated to fit into an hour time slot so, in the absence of an actual catch phrase, Nelson's most memorable line was, "We move to further action in the fourth quarter."
Those time constraints meant that, in addition to missing out on seeing the plays when running back Art Best was stopped cold, or the ones where quarterback Tom Clements' passes fell incomplete, there was no time for any of the pre-game pageantry. The broadcasts were really a glorified highlight show.
ABC's national Saturday afternoon telecasts couldn't quite capture the entire Notre Dame experience, either, although they succeeded in giving you a sense of it. Each week, announcer Chris Schenkel would read an unforgettable promo for the NCAA: "College football: What a way to spend an autumn afternoon!" When he did so, you couldn't help but picture a place that looked exactly like the Notre Dame campus, even if you'd never been there.
From Knute Rockne, All-American to Rudy, movies have always done a much better job of romanticizing Notre Dame's campus life than broadcasts of the football games.
If you were a motion picture director making a movie set on a college campus, Notre Dame is where you'd want to shoot it. With yellow brick buildings intermingled with lush, grassy quads, Notre Dame just looks the way a college campus is supposed to.
On this crisp, overcast morning, the smoky aroma of hot dogs and hamburgers cooking on open grills is more unstoppable than the Four Horsemen as it wafts its way through the campus, then drifts off toward threatening skies.
Eating options abound before the game. But there are no chains and no high-tech concession trailers set up on campus, only folksy, makeshift booths that are operated by student organizations and appear to be no more sophisticated than a neighborhood lemonade stand. Proceeds of the day's sales fund student activities.
The most famous pre-game dining option is a steak sandwich offered up by the Knights of Columbus, which has been on ongoing tradition for more that 50 years. Six bucks gets you a sandwich and the beverage of your choice. The steak is a little bland, the bun slightly stale, but sitting on the steps of the Knights of Columbus building, watching students engage in a late morning game of touch football, it's hard to imagine Bobby Flay himself whipping up anything better.
After eating, you wander through the crowd and make your way toward the centrally located Basilica of the Sacred Heart, which was consecrated in 1888. Formerly the Church of the Sacred Heart, it was elevated to the status of Basilica by Pope John Paul II in 1992.
As you enter, the Basilica's ornate interior elicits an involuntary "wow!" It's a reaction you don't recall having when you walked through the "other" Notre Dame in Paris.
Inside the spired, neo-Gothic structure, you find the Irish players, who are attending a pre-game Mass. Though the Basilica's sanctuary is cordoned off so that you cannot join the team, you can see Irish coach Charlie Weis and the lads from behind as they sit through their customary pre-game service. You feel a presence beyond those in attendance, too.
The game ticket you hold tighter than a winning lottery ticket -- which, in a way, is what it is -- features a rendering of 1956 Heisman Trophy Paul Hornung, but you're coming to understand that Notre Dame's all-time roster runs much deeper than that.
The end of the Mass is really the start of things for the thousands of fans who have formed a human tunnel between the Basilica and Notre Dame Stadium.
You stand amidst a crowd that has assembled, three deep, and watch as, one by one, the Irish players file out a single door at the back of the Basilica. The players, dressed in their Sunday best for Saturday Mass, walk down a short flight of stairs, then begin their march through the crowd of cheering fans toward the stadium, a 2:30 p.m. kickoff, and, in most instances, victory.
Seeing the Irish players emerge from the Basilica to pass through the throng of well-wishers is sort of like watching an endless stream of bridegrooms exit a church on their wedding day, bound for a reception and happily ever after. If you're lucky, it's a feeling you experience once in a lifetime. If you're a Notre Dame football player, it happens roughly every other fall Saturday.
You part company with the football team and make the short walk to the famous Grotto. There, you line up to exchange an offering for the opportunity to light a prayer candle.
Never mind Rudy, or The Gipper, a visit to the grotto leaves you feeling more like Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, when the Sean Penn character shows up for a field trip of the local hospital at which he does not belong. With no prior recollection of Spicoli, the attending teacher asks, "Are you in my class?"
"I am today," the stoner/surfer answers defiantly, and you use the exact same words and tone when someone asks if you're Catholic.
This place will do that to you. You wonder how a recruit could ever say no.
Your last stop before making your way into the stadium is the bookstore, and it's the first thing you've seen that does not belong on this Fantasyland of a campus.
It ought to be on Rodeo Drive.
The 65,000-square foot emporium is to a college football fan what Fred Segal is to Lindsay Lohan. The store is lined with apparel that, like the institution it represents, is clean, traditional and old-school. Even Charlie Weis looks good in this stuff.
An hour or so later, your stadium entrance coincides with that of the Fighting Irish Marching Band's. Walking through the turnstiles to the accompanying sounds of the Notre Dame Victory March is more chilling than the weather, which has suddenly turned temperate.
They call Notre Dame Stadium "The House that Rockne Built," and the original contractor would likely be proud the renovations that were completed in 1997, 67 years after it originally opened. While adding 21,000 seats, the remodel also created a concourse that wraps around the stadium's historic profile, which remains intact.
That means the stadium's original red-brick structure is the first thing you see upon entry. The stadium concourse is lined with oversized banners of every All-American football player in school history. From Gipp to Zbikowski, they're all linked together.
For a setting that is synonymous with the color and pageantry of college football, the bowl of Notre Dame Stadium presents a surprisingly monochromatic tableau.
The Touchdown Jesus mural offers the only intrusion on the creamy gray Midwestern skies that rise above the barren rim line of the stadium.
Notre Dame's navy blue is the color of choice in the stands, and, other than the glint of the helmet, the team's navy and gold uniforms wouldn't look much different on a black and white TV that they do in living color. You could say the same about UCLA's timeless gold and white road unis.
The bluegrass field itself is simple yet immaculate, with the shades of green alternating from light to dark every five yards.
There are no logos at midfield. The end zones feature no university wordmarks or colorful checkerboard patterns, only 10 angled white chalk stripes that conjure an image of George Gipp plunging his way in.
There is no corporate signage in the stadium bowl, and because there is no Jumbotron, there are no commercials, highlight reels or Pope races to assault the senses. It's football, and football only. For the first couple of series, you miss the instant replays, but then something unexpected happens: Without an electronic board to rely on, you adjust and seem to see the game with more clarity and recall than you would otherwise. Because you can't rely on instant replay, you don't.
The stadium presents a panorama so timeless, that you could be watching Ronald Reagan (who played Gipp), or Rudy. You could also be staring at a black and white photograph, hanging in the College Football Hall of Fame, which, officially, is across town, but in reality sits right here.
On TV, the milieu can sometimes come off as bland as a test pattern. In person, it's just right, with the 50 yards of bright yellow flowers that run behind either bench pulling your eyes toward the action at field level, the same way the yellow brick road led Dorothy to the Land of Oz.
Like most images that have become famous through television, be it the Rose Bowl or the set of Late Night with David Letterman, Notre Dame Stadium looks much smaller in person. Because the stadium seating consists almost exclusively of benches without seat backs, it feels much more intimate than its 80,795 capacity.
You take your seat as part of the 190th consecutive sellout at the stadium. (Every home game has been sold out since 1966, with the exception of a 1973 Thanksgiving Day game vs. Air Force.) Because UCLA and Notre Dame have not met in football since 1964 and seem to inhabit different worlds, seeing the Bruins take the field has an oddly incongruous feel to it, as if you're watching Fonzie make a guest appearance on The West Wing.
Directly in front of you sit a sixtyish woman, her husband and six grown children. They root for both teams, bursting into raucous applause at every big play, regardless of which team made it. The woman explains that although she and her family are from Los Angeles, and her husband went to UCLA, they are also Catholic, and because of this fact, they are conflicted. Regarding the outcome of the football game, that is. You suspect this is a common occurrence among visiting fans.
Lord knows, the Notre Dame student body and alumni make it easy for you to help them wake up the echoes. Despite their unchallenged place as the Mecca of the college football world, you sense no arrogance, no sense of entitlement.
That morning, on your shuttle bus, a man decked out in Irish garb rises up from his seat and politely offers it to a UCLA-clad fan. Upon entering the stadium, a ticket taker greets you, saying, "Welcome to Notre Dame Stadium. We're happy to have you with us today." He seems to mean it, too. And, as is their custom, the Fighting Irish band plays the visiting team's fight song -- in this case UCLA's "Sons of Westwood" -- before the game begins.
Television timeouts stretch the game into a near four-hour affair, but you don't mind. You could stay here all day and night. You've seen so much and been on campus so long, in fact, that you start to wonder if you'll be issued a degree upon your departure.
With 2:20 left, it looks like it's going to be a perfect day: Your prayers for an afternoon free of rain have already been answered, and UCLA is about to pull an upset.
But this is Notre Dame, and you're about to come to face to face with one more element of the school's lore: The Luck of the Irish.
Six plays change the game.
UCLA goes three-and-out, and then Brady Quinn completes three straight passes. The last one, to Jeff Samardzija, goes for 45 yards and a touchdown with 27 seconds left. Notre Dame 20, UCLA 17.
The crowd erupts, the band plays the Victory March, and thunder shakes down from the sky. For the first time ever, you feel heartbreak and goose bumps at the same time.
You're not surprised.
By now you know. The Notre Dame experience is like no other.
Doug Ward is a Southern California-based freelance writer.
