Dan returned with a grilled cheese just as the game swung away from the Irish, and while he didn’t recognize signs of withdrawal and detoxification, he did understand his father’s sports universe—and the wheels coming off for Notre Dame in the Cotton Bowl did not obey the laws of that universe. Or if it did, there was a deeper causal sin that had yet to be discovered—like failing to recruit quarterbacks with good Irish names such as Jim Kelly and Steve Walsh. This was a very superstitious cosmos, with many ways to be relegated to a circle of hell (dance routine following a touchdown, taking on a called third strike, not boxing out properly), but with apologies to Aquinas and Alighieri, there was a great chain of being to whom Pat Malone rooted for . . .

CATHOLIC SPORTS HIERACHY, ACCORDING TO PATRICK FRANCIS MALONE . . .

Angels. Level One.

You’re from the neighborhood.

Specifically, the Bronx. Any athlete from the Bronx was as tough as they come. The perfect example of this was Dolph Schayes. When invoked, he was immediately ascribed with the modifier: who grew up on Jerome Avenue.

Archangels. Level Two.

You’re black but have an Irish-sounding name. This includes Jackie Robinson.

Pat Malone was not ostensibly a racist man. He would have been the first to admit that black people were better athletes and was happy to leave it at that. In fact, Pat was an early adopter of expanding the definition of “black Irish.” So welcome aboard, Karl Malone, Desmond Howard, and Shaquille O’Neal. NB: This wasn’t about slave names—and if you brought that up, get ready for the litany on eight hundred years of Hibernian oppression. Rather, have you overcome a sufficient level of misery that an Irishman would be proud to endure?

And so, QED, Jackie Robinson is an honorary black Irishman.

Ophanim. Level Three.

You are Italian and Pat Malone has to hand it to you.

Growing up in the Irish parishes of the South Bronx, Italians were an acceptable ethnic other that Pat Malone appreciated for all sorts of contrarian and convoluted reasons. Pat hated the Yankees but always had honorifics for Yogi and the DiMaggio brothers. Did you see that chip by Mark Bavaro on Jim Jeffcoat? You have to hand it to him . . . Don Shula? Has that Italian kid Marino slinging it like Paul Hornung (see level six).

Later in life, Pat professed more admiration for Latin baseball players as they replaced Italians in the big leagues. So everyone from Clemente to the Alou brothers retroactively became a credit to their people.

Pat grabbed the arms of his chair to keep from tremoring. Dan noticed his father’s clamped-down posture—It’s the game, right? Not the MS?—and started rooting for an Irish comeback, if only to put his father in a more relaxed mood. Instead, A&M orchestrated a long, disheartening drive. Touchdown Aggies.