A lot of rot goes into an empire, Pat thought. What was exacerbated by MS was hard to reconcile, but the drinking was taking its toll. And Pat was determined to stop. This was his New Year’s resolution. Never again. God as my witness. He was done.

Day one.

Dan meandered into the TV room, where Pat was sweating it out just as Timmy Brown brought the kickoff back for the Irish. His father had a Willie Randolph Big Gulp cup of ice water and a smaller Mike Schmidt glass of ginger ale. Dan lay down in the gray gloom of the couch. Notre Dame was driving as the Heisman winner caught one for twenty-plus over the middle.

“There you go. Pride of Woodrow Wilson High School.” Pat scratched his scalp and tried to relax his jimmy legs. “Do you know, Dan, who the other Heisman Trophy winner from Woodrow was?”

“I give up.”

“Davey O’Brien. Played for TCU.”

“Oh.” As his father spoke, a picture of the leather-helmeted number 8 appeared on the TV.

“Played for the Eagles, but we won’t hold that against him.” Pat stretched out his left leg and tugged at the chair cushion. “And then he gave up football—retired and became an FBI agent. Like your uncle Jackie.”

Pat let out a sigh of regret as they both thought back to that dinner. Notre Dame QB Terry Andrysiak found you-know-who on a drag route, and number 81 sprinted to the end zone. Touchdown Irish.

“Suck on that, Sherrill.”

Dan was no fan of the Aggies, but he had more tolerance for what his father called “slick Southern sideliners” like Jackie Sherrill. Texas A&M, clad in their home maroon, answered with a field goal and then a touchdown soon after. The Cotton Bowl looked like a frigid quarry pit on TV. Dan wandered off to the kitchen.

I really should be going over the classifieds, Pat thought, redrafting my résumé.

The Irish were driving again when Andrysiak threw an interception in the Aggie end zone.

“Stupid Polack.” Pat fished for a chunk of ice to chew. He had bugs crawling down his sleeves, but he shook those out. Got to stay distracted and get over the hump here.