“Just one series.” Dan shoved a couple of Fritos into his grilled cheese for crunch. If I ask about what’s really wrong, he’ll get mad.

“We’re letting these rednecks dupe us . . .”

“Sorry, Dad,” Dan offered calmly, noticing his father frowning the same way Lou Holtz was on the Irish sideline.

Dominions. Level Four.

You are Irish.

Here the heredity laws were not very strict. Being Irish meant any part down to a dram. So Jack Dempsey, who was a quarter Irish, was the greatest Irish heavyweight, and by the Gaelic transitive property, the greatest heavyweight ever. The Mara family were the smartest owners in the NFL, followed by the Rooneys. Was Doug Flutie Irish? Didn’t matter. He threw the ball to Gerard Phelan, a good Irish kid out of Archbishop Carroll.

The shamrock loophole: any part Irish also meant any team with one Irish player, allowing Pat to root for Protestant teams, or, in one extreme case, BYU, when Jim McMahon was their quarterback.

Virtues. Level Five.

You went to a Catholic school, preferably in the Big East.

In the Pat Malone sports empyrean, here was the consummate collection of holy ballers (Providence, Seton Hall, St. John’s, Nova, Georgetown, BC), and the great Pat prophecy was someday Fordham would join them (a.k.a. the Second Ascension). And when Fordham was no great shakes in basketball (which was all of the time), St. John’s became the crosstown team Pat rooted for. Lou Carnesecca, well, you had to hand it to him, and the McGuire brothers too (Johnnies, Irish, and from the neighborhood trinity). Everything about Big East basketball was born of gritty Catholic determination. Case in point: John Thompson, who went to a different Archbishop Carroll and took Providence to an NIT title with Ray Flynn, the most certainly Irish mayor of Boston.

Powers. Level Six.

You went to Notre Dame.

Despite all the fancy-pants golden boys at Hayes who went to South Bend—Regis Philbin, Pat’s brother-in-law Jack Hurley—Notre Dame was officially consecrated the national Catholic team. Plus, they were the Fighting Irish.

Did you know that Art Donovan (from the neighborhood, Mount Saint Michael) went to Notre Dame for one semester before becoming a marine who fought at Iwo Jima? Fighting Irish.

Angelo Bertelli, you had to hand it to him: found out he won the Heisman by telegram while at Parris Island. Fighting Irish.

Paul Hornung: There was none greater. He could run like a deer/the wind/a world-class track star, had an arm like a howitzer/rifle/bazooka, and was a helluva kicker, literally to boot. He also served in the army. Because he was Fighting Irish.

Outcast angel

Goddamn Digger Phelps. As Satan was chief of the Powers in heaven, Goddamn Digger Phelps should have stayed at Fordham. If he hadn’t left for South Bend, Goddamn Digger Phelps would have taken the Rams into the Big East, fulfilling the prophecy of the Second Ascension.