Loyalty to one team per major sport is mainly an exercise in defeat. Even good teams, and Pat had his share—the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Football Giants—let you down 99 percent of the time. And so what you really root for, the second thing you check on the sports page in the morning, are the moments when your rival is vanquished from the field of play.

There are pure and blessed examples of this: Jesse Owens and Joe Louis defeated Nazis. Gil Hodges and Bill Mazeroski triumphed over the Yankees. Good Catholic coaches such as John McKay could beat evil secular teams like Alabama. These immaculate moments sustained the hope that the great chain of being was in order.

“Well there’s no chance now.”

The Irish had to throw the long ball, and on third and forever this mediocre kid out of Michigan heaved it down the line—Where Tim Brown is supposed to be—and was picked off again.

“Hail Mary same as a punt there,” Dan offered, trying to take any sting out of it.

Pat felt light-headed, anemic, his throat scraped and raw. “Get me another cup of ice, kiddo.”

“Sure, Dad. Want to watch the Fiesta Bowl?” Dan asked. The only consolation for bad football: more football.

“Sure.” Pat realized his son was trying to soothe him. Do this for the right reasons, he reminded himself. “Did I ever tell you about the ’41 Cotton Bowl Fordham lost to A&M? I mean, this was just after Lombardi, but still a great team, and those goddamn Aggies are offsides on the extra point—”

“And block it and Fordham loses thirteen–twelve.” Dan finished the gospel, chapter and verse.

Pat smiled at his son. “Oh, so you were there?”

The Godhead.

And next to our Lord and Savior, at the hand of God, sitting on an austere cathedra of seven blocks of granite, was St. Vincent Thomas Lombardi.

Mr. Everything Fordham, and Giants coach, and, the way Pat Malone described it, St. Mark’s in Sheepshead Bay was practically a parish in the Bronx. A former altar boy, just like Pat, Lombardi was a Knight of Columbus, and just like Pat, fourth degree. Lombardi was a winner because he was a good man, a good Catholic, and he possessed a type of integrity that Pat knew infallibly was something we were supposed to aspire to, protect, and pass on.

The rest of the day kept presenting new evidence that the universe would not bend to the laws and hierarchies of Pat Malone. The defenders of the faith were in short supply as Florida football stormed the gates. After a doleful pork chop dinner, Pat hit the worst of his withdrawal as the Hurricanes bloodied the Sooners. He watched his son root for teams that were demon fast, obscenely celebrating every tackle and first down, and undeniably dominant.