EVERYONE KNOW what's going on out there? Everyone hear what they're saying about us? They're saying it cannot be done. They're saying we couldn't beat Notre Dame unless the Irish played in home detention anklets. They say we couldn't beat Notre Dame unless we hooked the refs up with the girls from Hooters. They're saying we couldn't beat Notre Dame unless Kitty Carlisle was the Irish quarterback -- instead of Carlyle Holiday -- and some people think Kitty Carlisle has already gone to that great TV game show in the sky when, for the record, gentlemen, Miss Carlisle is 92 years young, thank you very much!
We haven't beaten Notre Dame since Miss Kitty Carlisle was a spry and lovely 53!
That was the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and sixty-three, gentlemen.
The Beatles hadn't even done Ed Sullivan yet. Ronald Reagan was still selling 24-mule-team Borax! We are on the losing side of a 38-year-old trend, gentlemen, and they say we cannot beat Notre Dame because we cannot change history.
And on top of that, we're smaller, we're shorter, we're slower, and the sportswriter in The Sun -- Mike Preston -- you know what he said? He said we should be playing in the 165-pound sprint league!
And you know what else? There are guys on the Notre Dame team who think they're going to come in here and blow us away in order to regain their national stature and prestige after losing pathetically to Boston College last weekend.
So that's the word on the street, gentlemen.
The fightin' Irish are going to come in here and do the gandy dancer on our heads.
My God! We shouldn't even play this game! Hell, let's get back in our weekend whites and retreat to Annapolis right now. Whaddaya say? Who'll beat me to the coach? I hear they're showing When Harry Met Sally on the bus. Let's head down I-97 right now and stop for ice cream in Severna Park. Come on!
What's the matter?
You wanna stay for the game? You wanna watch Notre Dame run through our defense like a high-fiber cereal through an old folks' home?
Well, now. ... No one appears to be making a rush to the bus.
I think I know why.
It's because you want to stay and fight the good fight.
(Pardon me while I have a cheap Shakespearean soliloquy.)
You come not into this vale to cultivate a career as a professional football player. You are men in service to your nation and not just yourselves.
We are but warriors for the working day. We go into this battle as a chosen, special few -- with not a Division I-recruited player among us, not a great star or Parade magazine high school All-American.
But God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, we are not here for the money. It yearns us not if we've won only one game so far this season. Such outward things dwell not in our desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, we are the most offending guys alive.
No, gentlemen, wish not one more player with great hands, not a quarterback other than he who has carried us thus. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour as one slot back more, methinks, would share from me.
O! do not wish one more. Rather proclaim it, gentlemen, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart; his weekend pass shall be stamped, and bus fare to Annapolis put into his purse. We would not lose to Notre Dame in that man's company that fears his fellowship to lose with us.
Do you know what day this is called?
This is Nov. 9, the Feast of St. Vito.
I know zilch about this ancient ghost, but I know one thing, gentlemen: You don't say no, to a man named Vito!
So I promise thee all:
He that outlives this day, and goes back to Annapolis a winner, will always stand a tip-toe when someone says the name of Vito.
He that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil cue up the videotape and say, "Tomorrow is St. Vito's Day." Then will he roll up his pants leg and show his scars. And say, "These wounds I had on St. Vito's Day in Baltimore."
Old guys forget stuff, but they'll remember with advantages what feats we did that day. Then shall our names be familiar in mouths as household words -- Candeto the QB, Moody and Todd, Wesley and Zetts, Brazier and Jackson, be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son. And no St. Vito Day will ever go by again, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he who sheds his blood and gets generally crunched with me today shall be my brother. Be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition, and men who just take up space on couches across America will think themselves accursed they were not here, and regard their manhood cheap whiles any speaks that fought with Navy upon St. Vito's Day!!!!