is “triple shots.” Hatch lines them up on the bar: a shot of beer, a shot of whiskey, and a shot of cough syrup, the last of which I’ve hit more than a few times since the Great Black Butt Incident.
Hatch pours a second round of triple shots, which we down in short order. The music is loud, but not loud enough to mask an unmistakable background sound.
Knock, knock, knock.
I turn my head. “You hear that?”
Hatch cocks one ear higher than the other. “Hear what?”
Knock, knock, knock.
“That!” I point to the ceiling and turn my ear to the offending noise. “Somebody’s knocking pretty fucking hard on both the front and back doors.”
Claire comes running into the room. “Cops!”
A laid-back affair turned frantic. Teenagers scurry around like carpenter ants just after you stepped on their hill.
The Empire Ridge Police Department moves us into the family room. Hatch sits in front of the fireplace by himself, sobbing and inconsolable. Off the top of his head, he invents a touching story that incorporates “breaking his dad’s heart” and “Butler University pulling his football scholarship.” Neither of these things are true, given that Hatch’s dad has never cared for him, he’s going to Indiana University with me, and I doubt Butler is clamoring for the services of a golfer with a fourteen handicap and the arm strength of Karen Carpenter.
The cop motions to Hatch. “Mr. Hatcher, please blow into this.” The cop holds in his hand a breathalyzer, a black remote control-like device tipped with a disposable plastic mouthpiece.
The cop’s eyes narrow. He grinds his teeth, looking at Hatch. “Again, please.”
Hatch blows again.
The cop stands back, eyes still narrowed. “I got a negative here.”
According to the Empire Ridge Police Department’s breathalyzer, after no less than six shots in the last ten minutes, Elias Hatcher has not consumed a drop of alcohol.
“Negative?” My best friend screams and hugs one of the cops. He leaves the house without so much as a passing glance or cursory “hang in there” to anybody in the room.
Beep.
“Son.” The policewoman pulls the breathalyzer out of my mouth. “Step over here please.”
They arrest me and Claire. We’re sitting together in the back of a police car. She appears to be sucking on something.
“Claire, what the fuck is in your mouth?”
“Pennies.”
“You know that doesn’t work, right? I suppose you gargled with hand soap before you left the house, too?”
Claire blows me a kiss. I catch a perfumed whiff. “Dish soap, actually,” she says.
“Jesus,” I say.
“You need to relax, Henry David.” She winks at me, unfazed by all of this, her green, saucer-like eyes accentuated by the strong jawline and thin neck of her mother. Every guy has his one Hottest Girl I Never Tried to Sleep With, and Claire Sullivan has been my undisputed titleholder for the three years I’ve known her. She’s that one girl all your girlfriends hate because she deems it her prerogative to flirt with you in front of them. That one girl who makes you feel small without even trying and makes you love every second of your unworthiness.
Handcuffs are where it begins and ends for us. No fingerprints. Nothing. We’re escorted into a room where they administer a more accurate breathalyzer test. I blow into a long, clear tube that ends in a square machine resembling an electronic produce scale.
The police officer looks unconvinced. “Point-zero-two.”
He might be unconvinced, but I’m downright disappointed. “Point-oh-two? The least I could’ve done is make this arrest worthwhile.”
I laugh. The cop doesn’t.
Claire takes her turn, her breath reeking of dish soap and Abraham Lincoln.
“Point-one-eight,” the cop says. Even he seems impressed, and Claire basks in the notoriety.
Chapter twenty-one
My criminal record notwithstanding, lately, Dad has been on a constant emotional high. Hell, he’s downright exultant.
Notre Dame is fucking winning football games this year.
All of them.
It started with the home opener versus Michigan. A diminutive walk-on kicker by the name of Reggie Ho kicked four field goals, including one with a minute seventeen left in the game. Dad and I were seven rows up in the south side of the end zone when Michigan’s Mike Gillette missed a forty-seven yard field goal as time expired. The final score was Notre Dame 19, Michigan 17. Notre Dame beat its next three opponents—Michigan State, Purdue, and Stanford—by a combined score of 112–24, then the Irish went on the road to beat a dangerous Pitt team 30–20.
Next up was the University of Miami or, as we refer to them in the Fitzpatrick household, “the true evil empire.” How evil? My father, the most humble man I know this side of Jesus Christ, told a Miami fan at the Friday night campus pep rally, “If the Soviet Union suited up a team and played you guys, I’d have to flip a coin to decide who to root for.” To us, Miami is Satan in shoulder pads. They are everything that’s wrong about football—names on the backs of jerseys, the trash talking, the dubious academics and recruiting, and Jimmy “Jackass” Johnson. Notre Dame transcends football. They represent everything upright and good—the gold helmets and nameless jerseys, the Virgin Mary, the 100 percent graduation rate, and Lou Holtz. Blessed, blessed Saint Lou.
Grandpa Fred was in the stands with me and Dad when Notre Dame free safety Pat Terrell deflected a two point conversion from Miami’s Steve Walsh with forty-five seconds remaining. All three of us were crying. Grandpa told me, “This is the best feeling I’ve had since VE Day.” The Canes came to South Bend with the number one ranking and a thirty-six game regular season winning streak. They left with a 31–30 loss, and two weeks later, the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame would rise to an undisputed #1 ranking in the national polls.
ND enters its season-ending battle versus the University of Southern California Trojans still number one and sporting a 10–0 record. USC is also undefeated, ranked second in the country, just behind the Irish. Laura didn’t come home for Thanksgiving, so I invited Beth over for the game. Laura and I gave one another permission to date around while she’s at school, but to say Beth has been just a casual diversion would be unfair. She’s more than that, and I know she is. But by the middle of the fourth quarter, I’m rethinking my decision to invite her over.
Beth stands up, arms in the air. “Do you two ever sit down?”
Dad flashes Beth a look as close to stern as he can humanly muster. I step in and translate, whispering so as not to disturb him. “Beth, this is the ND-USC game. In terms of Catholic holidays, we rank this a strong fourth behind Christmas, Easter, and St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Easter is only second, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Beth asks.
I do my best to translate. “Nobody really likes Easter. They just say they do to get into heaven.”
“Careful, son. You know the rules. No blasphemy on game day.”
“Sorry, Pops.” I cross myself, whispering a quick Hail Mary with my eyes closed.
Beth again throws her hands in the air. “Oh for crying out loud.”
I open my eyes. “Notre Dame is ranked number one in the country and USC is number two. This is as big as it gets!”
Beth shakes her head. “It’s just a game.”
I do my best tight-lipped impersonation of my father. “Blasphemer! Notre Dame