Monday night, I will watch Notre Dame take on Ohio State for the national title in college football. I will have plenty of company. 

Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, sons and daughters, moms and dads, friends and foes will gather to cheer for the Fighting Irish. Family members are flying in from Seattle. They’re driving over from Deer Park and Spokane and who knows where else for this epic contest. 

Why? 

Because, thanks to my father, when we grew up the only team that mattered in our house was Notre Dame. The "Notre Dame Victory March" fight song played over and over as we sang the words, "What though the odds be great or small, Old Notre Dame will win over all, While her loyal sons and daughters, March on to victory."

Come football season, on Saturdays, relatives clad in green and gold, wearing Notre Dame shirts and hats, would arrive at our Seattle home and converge in the basement, where we watched the game. 

But we didn’t just watch. 

We roared with each Irish touchdown. 

We sank with every opponent score. 

We screamed at the announcers. 

We screamed at each other. 

We beat on the furnace vents. 

We high-fived and hugged.  

We cried and cursed. 

We rejoiced in victory. 

We anguished in defeat. 

God, it was fun. 

At the center of it all, the ringleader, the master of ceremonies, was my father. He wanted people there. The more, the merrier. He wasn’t just passionate about Notre Dame. He loved Notre Dame. Win or lose, it was in his blood. I can’t explain why. I don’t know. But I do know he made us all feel like we were part of something very important on those college football Saturdays. Each person there, for my father, was a gift.

Since my father’s death nearly a decade ago, those family gatherings pretty much ended. Sometimes, a few relatives would gather, but it wasn’t the same. The spirit had left the room. My interest in Notre Dame football pretty much faded away. I no longer really cared if they won or lost. Didn’t seem to matter anymore. Most weekends, I had no idea how they did. I haven't actually watched a game in years.

But last year, I began to think, as a tribute to our father, we should get family and friends together at least once each season to cheer like we did in the old days. But even as the Irish rolled through their schedule this season, steamrolling everyone after a stunning defeat to Northern Illinois, a family reunion of sorts seemed unlikely. Most of us were too far apart.

Then, my brother called. 

He said he and his son were flying in Sunday so we could watch the game together at his other son’s home in Rathdrum. That led to more invitations and calls. It sounds like we’ll have a full house at my nephew's, rooting fanatically for the Fighting Irish on Monday. 

Screaming. Yelling, Hugging. I can't wait. It promises to be one to remember. Yes, I’ll be praying the good Lord blesses Notre Dame. 

And I'm sure at some point my brother and I, and everyone in the room, will raise a glass and shout the two words that were beautiful music to my father so many years ago. 

Go Irish! 

• • •

Bill Buley is the assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].