Down and Around the Bend

Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

That was the thought going through my head.

Just 26 minutes and 26 seconds into the game.

USC 17, Notre Dame 0.

Not exactly how I had drawn up the conclusion to our dream weekend in South Bend.

But I was in no position to complain.

The 33 hours my 12-year-old son and I had spent at Notre Dame were among the best 33 hours of my life.

I was not going to let a loss on the football field ruin this Saturday.

As it had ruined so many of my Saturdays before.

After all, this trip wasn’t really about the football team.

It was about our team.

My son and I.

And even with the game going sour, everything before the kickoff was better than I ever could’ve hoped for.

The mission of surprising my son with his first trip to South Bend had gone off without a hitch.

I told him that we were headed to Chicago to meet a friend.

But somewhere between highways 80-90-94-284-290-294.

We got lost.

From his previous experience driving in a car with me, nothing seemed out the ordinary there.

I dropped a couple of timely expletives to keep him on edge.

Nothing new there either.

And when we got to the giant “WELCOME TO INDIANA” sign.

I lied again.

“I think we need to turn around,” I said.

By that point I was out of fingers or toes to cross.

Thankfully that’s when he pulled out his Nintendo DS.

Which kept him occupied for at least another 47 miles.

Give or take.

But when we saw the sign:

SOUTH BEND:  24 MILES

It was time for the truth to set me free.

So I asked him to read my blog.

The last blog.

Out loud.

It was the one about our secret trip to South Bend.

He made it through the first four or five sentences.

Wondering what the hell I was talking about.

Then he got to the part about us going to our beloved Notre Dame for the weekend.

He stopped reading.

Twisted his head to the left.

And looked at me.

I smirked.

He smiled.

Ear to ear.

I hadn’t seen a smile that big since Heath Ledger played The Joker.

But there was no joking here.

This was real.

Even though he couldn’t believe it.

And I couldn’t believe how well my plan had worked.

He had no idea.

None.

I’m not sure he even believed it when we got to the Notre Dame campus 20 minutes later.

But any doubt was erased with a jam packed Friday night schedule.

It started with the 6:00pm Pep Rally.

Then a trip to the basketball arena.

Followed by a stop at the women’s soccer field.

The nightcap was a win for the men’s hockey team.

My son was hooked.

And ready to transfer from 7th grade to Notre Dame.

But I explained there is actually a lot more to college than just going to a bunch of games.

I’m not sure he heard a word I was saying.

We didn’t leave campus until a little before Midnight on Friday night.

And we were back on Saturday a little before Noon.

Enough time to get a shower and a venti sugar-free vanilla americano with half water and half steamed soy.

Even that was perfect.

The football game didn’t start until 7:30 at night.

The first night game in South Bend in 21 years.

That gave us plenty of time to do.... everything.

Tailgate parties.

Souvenir shopping.

The Golden Dome.

More souvenir shopping.

More tailgate parties.

The Grotto.

We did it all.

I didn’t look at my watch once.

Time had literally stopped.

And neither one of us was complaining.

Finally around 6:30, we entered the stadium.

That gave my son almost an hour before kickoff to take pictures.

More pictures.

And take he did.

In the 1,980 minutes we spent in South Bend, he took 273 shots.

We counted.

We also counted our blessings.

He must’ve thanked me 106 times for bringing him to the game.

But the pleasure was all mine.

I’m guessing college football fans in Florida or Texas or Michigan or Wisconsin or wherever, all claim to be the best.

But for us, there was nothing like seeing a game in South Bend. 

In section 35, where were sitting.... standing, there was no shortage of football experts.

I told the guy next to me that this was my third trip to South Bend.

The last time was 2001 when we beat USC.

“October 20th, 2001” he responded.

“Ha ha ha,” is what I said.

“How creepy” is what I thought.

I told him my first trip was in 1990 when the Rocket (Raghib Ismail) returned the kick against Miami.

Also October 20th.

Now that’s creepy.

But don’t let the OCD fool you, these people love their Irish.

Even when we started losing on Saturday night.

Sure they got frustrated.

Even mad.

And there was so much second guessing, I thought I was at a session of Congress.

But they never stopped caring.

At one point Notre Dame used a quarterback rotation.

Moving one guy in and one guy out on consecutive plays.

When it didn’t work, it wasn’t very popular.

Especially with a guy right behind us.

“What is he doing?,” speaking of coach Brian Kelly.  

“Doesn’t he know that no one has ever won a national championship rotating quarterbacks!”

Ok, now you’ve gone too far.

About 2.4 seconds later, my son and and I turned around.

At the same time.

And said.

“Florida -- Chris Leak and Tim Tebow.”

At the same time.

That may be my proudest moment as a dad.

And there are a lot to choose from.

After falling behind Notre Dame battled back.

In fact, the Irish were one yard away from tying the game in the third quarter when they fumbled the ball.

The Trojans picked up the loose pig and took it all the way back. 

It turned out to be the final score of the night.

USC 31, Notre Dame 17.

A disappointing loss, to say the least.

But for the first time.

Ever.

We lost the game.

And I really didn't care.

Top Secret

Hey, can you keep a secret?

If you were like a close friend of mine, you’d respond with:

“Sure I can keep a secret.”

“You want to hear one?”

We’ve done that Laurel and Hardy thing 50 or 60 times.

And every time I laugh.

Out loud.

But this time I’ve got a secret that I really don’t want to get out.

So what better way to make sure that doesn’t happen than to post it on the internet.

Thankfully my 12-year-old son doesn’t read my blog.

Or at least he won’t admit it.

But in a few hours he and I are headed East.

Actually South.

As in South Bend.

Indiana.

The home of our beloved Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

This Saturday the Irish are hosting USC.

The University of Spoiled Children.

It’s the 83rd meeting in this historic rivalry.

And a pretty meaningful game in my life.

As a diehard Notre Dame fan, I hate USC.

Growing up in LA, I really hate USC.

EVERYTHING about that school.

Except O.J. Simpson.

What a great guy.

I wonder where he is these days.

As for that SC-Notre Dame rivalry, I've been fortunate to see a bunch of those games in person.

Four or five in LA.

And two back in Indiana.

The last time was 2001.

That was the year my father and I decided to make his first trip back to South Bend.

I remember him telling me a few months earlier, “one of these years we should go.”

“One of these years?” I said.

“Let’s go this year.”

Good thing we did.

He died eight months later.

Like most Jewish kids from California, Notre Dame football is a ritual in my house.

Every Saturday in the fall my son and I sit in front of the TV.

For four plus hours.

We root for the Irish.

I teach him curse words.

Father/Son bonding at its best.

Up until a couple of days ago, we had plans of watching the SC game in our basement.

Where we watch every Notre Dame game.

But thanks to my twitter account getting hacked this week, that all changed.

As you may have read in my last blog, I spent most of my Tuesday unspamming myself from twitter-gate.

That’s the bad news.

The good news is I spent most of my Tuesday on twitter.

If not, I might have missed this tweet:

Blue and Gold News (@BGInews) 10/18/11 3:30 PM RT @NDTIX Limited USC releases on sale tom. @ 8:30am ET. Only available in person @ the Purcell Box Office or by phone.  #fb

Now just because Notre Dame was releasing “limited” tickets for the game.

That didn’t mean I was going to get any.

But I still had to try.

Right?

So at 8:30am ET, exactly, I called the box office.

Within seconds the automated voice came on.

You have reached... blah blah blah.

Your call will be answered... blah blah blah.

... order that it was received.

Blah blah blah.

Then the computer lady told me I was 22nd in line.

22nd.

Is that good?

Is that bad?

Ok, let’s say all 21 before me buy two seats.

That’s like 53.

Is that above the limit of “limited”?

Oh well, I’ll just hang on.

You never know.

For the next 11 minutes, all I heard was the automated voice doing her thing.

Then it stopped.

Suddenly.

Along with my heart.

And for the next 92 seconds.

Give or take.

I heard nothing.

I kept waiting for the line to be disconnected.

But after a few minutes, a human came on.

A real human.

“Can I help you?”, I think she said.

YES YOU CAN HELP ME.

I WANT TICKETS.

TWO TICKETS.

FOR THE NOTRE DAME-USC FOOTBALL GAME.

TWO TICKETS.

ME AND MY SON.

MY SON AND I.

WHATEVER.

Hopefully I dropped a please or thank you in there somewhere.

But once I was done blabbering, she said “how about two in the Notre Dame Students Section?”

Most people would’ve said YES before she was done.

Not Larry David.

And not me.

Instead I said, “is that all that you have?”

Fortunately she didn’t hang up.

But she did say, “Yes, those are the only two tickets together I have left in the stadium.”

“The last two?”

“YES, THE LAST TWO!”

“Ok, I’ll take them.”

It turns out they sold all of those “limited” seats in just 27 minutes.

And I got two of them.

WE got two of them.

Except my son doesn’t know it.

He’s going to find out Friday afternoon.

When he sees the “Welcome to South Bend” sign.

For the first time.

Shhhhhhhhh.

One Bad Phishing Trip

Twishing – the act of sending a message to a Twitter user in an attempt to obtain his or her name and password. The message may instruct the recipient to visit a Web site where he or she is asked to log in. The Web site, however, is bogus and set up only to steal the user’s information. Twishing is a combination of the words Twitter and phishing.

Boy do I feel stupid.

The direct message came in to my twitter account on Monday afternoon.

From a “friend”.

It read...

"Hey what's up with this bad blog thats going around about you?"

Followed by a link to that bad blog.

What!

Someone said something bad about me?

How dare they!

Who are they?

What did they say?

What did I say?

Was it that last blog I wrote?

That line about....

What’s wrong with a little honesty?

I must know.

And I must now know!!!!

So I did what every self-conscious.

Insecure.

I-just-want-to-be-loved-is-that-so-wrong blogger would do.

I clicked on the link.

That’s the stupid part.

It was a left hook to the gut.

I just didn’t feel it.

Yet.

The link sent me to a twitter homepage.

Or at least a page that looked like a twitter homepage.

Now for the REALLY stupid part.

It asked for my login name.

And password.

Check.

And check mate.

The entire time I’m sure there was a little voice in my head screaming NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

But all I could hear was... “BAD BLOG ABOUT ME?” 

Within seconds of clicking on that link.

...

...

...

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

No bad blog.

No explanation.

No nothing.

It was at that exact point that this genius realized there was a phishing hook firmly planted in my beak.

D’oh!

Something had gone terribly wrong.

Like my lack of a brain.

I didn’t pass go.

I didn’t collect $200.

But what I did get.

Was a virus.

A virus that spent the night sending hundreds of direct messages to each of my beloved twitter followers.

The message read like this:

"Hey what's up with this bad blog thats going around about you?"

Look familiar?

Newman!

Unfortunately I had no idea this had happened until I got up the next morning.

6:22 to be exact.

I rubbed my eyes.

As I always do.

Then rubbed them again when I saw my inbox.

By the time I made it from the iPhone to the iMac.

I knew I was iScrewed.

• ??
• Got this from you.  What do you mean?
• Is that link good?
• I believe you’ve been hacked.
• Change your password.

Enter panic mode.

I immediately changed my twitter password.

As instructed.

I deleted the two tweets.

That were not from me.

Then I clicked on my messages folder.

Where I saw all of the emails my account had sent out.

Hundreds of them.

Which felt like millions.

And they all said the same thing:

"Hey what's up with this bad blog thats going around about you?"

Followed by a link to click on.

I started emailing people to tell them what had gone on.

And to NOT click on the link.

And that I was sorry.

VERY sorry.

At that point my phone rang.

From a friend.

No quotes.

A friend who received the direct message.

He informed me that I had been hacked.

Thanks for that.

I felt so bad.

At the time I really didn’t know how much damage had been done.

But the fact that my momentary lapse of reason brought this on really pissed me off.

It would be easy to blame it on the hacker.

Or the twitter.

Or the whatever.

But the bottom line is I was the one who put my fingers through the flame.

Even though I should’ve seen the fire from a mile away.

But somehow my friend talked me off the ledge.

He explained that I was the victim here.

Not the guilty one.

This was like my house being robbed.

My cyber-house.

Oddly enough, that was the same exact point my brother made on the phone with me an hour later.

There must be a handbook on how to talk to people who have been hacked.

But it helped.

And after I changed my password the messages stopped going out.

Which helped too.

A day later, the damage seems to be minimal.

Thankfully.

Fingers crossed. 

Fortunately most of my friends were smarter than me.

And they didn’t click on the link.

And maybe best of all.

There was no bad blog about me.

Until now.