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Soundings: Stories with Sister Jean

2012-01-30T14:00:00-05:00

The last time I saw Jean Lenz it was pretty much like the first time — and all the times in between. I smiled throughout the conversation, listening to her talk.

It was last summer, as I recall, on the sidewalk between Flanner and Grace. We were heading in opposite directions, but we stopped and took the time to talk. As always, she had a few stories to tell. Jean always made me smile with her stories. Mostly it was the way she told them.

Always fresh, amused and unaffected, she brought a certain incredulous but affectionate cheer to the tales of undergrad escapades, the things the young men and women tried to get away with, like the time a mob of streakers showed up at the door of Farley. Jean always had this fun, “Can you believe it?” attitude toward life’s odd little corners.

But her stories could also be thick with empathy and love when she talked of growing pains, a death in the family or a parent’s divorce. You could tell she felt the student’s pain, too. The compassion she showed to a Chinese graduate student paralyzed when struck by a car one drizzly night on Notre Dame Avenue was an exacting measure of her big heart.

Jean had a million stories from her days as rector here and her years in the Office of Student Affairs. She was a big, glowing candle in the middle of Notre Dame’s journey into co-education, a solid, embracing refuge and home. She was beloved by generations of women. She epitomized Notre Dame.

In many ways, Jean was the place where many students got their Notre Dame education, where the institution delivered on its promises or not. She was right in the fray with them — very serious business. And yet one of Jean’s charms was that she didn’t seem to take herself too seriously. She really enjoyed what she did; she really enjoyed — really loved — the students.

I wasn’t surprised to hear she had died this past weekend. I had been stunned late last fall when I heard her condition was terminal. I was also surprised by her age; she was 81. Jean was ageless, always youthful. I think it was the students who kept her young, and the joy she took in following their journeys through a lifetime.

I knew Jean mostly in passing. I would interview her for magazine articles, have conversations in hallways and on sidewalks. She regaled me with stories, her tales speaking eloquently of Notre Dame.

Jean was also a member of this magazine’s editorial advisory board, representing the students and student affairs office. I loved having her at the meetings — meetings that could get serious, even a little tense at times.

Jean always offered a wise touch and a light demeanor, reminding us it is people who really matter, how the people are affected by a decision, and showed how not to make ourselves more important than we were. She seemed to have such a good sense for what really mattered in life.

In fact, I always thought of Jean Lenz as one of those who led the way. She was one of the people at this place who lived in a way that showed the rest of us how it should be done. And yet Jean was also such a model of goodness that the rest of us could hardly live up to the example she set.

Kerry Temple is editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email him at ktemple@nd.edu.

Unbalanced: Bad Santas

2011-12-22T07:00:00-05:00

Overdosing on too many gooey Hallmark Christmas movies? If you believe this seasonal sugar rush needs a dash of Bad Santas to bring you down, our culture’s Grinches are happy to provide.

iBad Santa:

Amazon did a remarkably stupid thing with their new Kindle Fire. They sent the orders in a box clearly marked on the outside: Kindle Fire. One mother bought the tablet for her daughter, who scooped up the brown package from the front porch and knew immediately what her Christmas “surprise” was going to be.

The Anti-Santa:

Best Buy is running commercials that make fun of Santa and his gift choices. The oh-so-scornful shopper sneers as she points out she’s already filled the stockings with what people really wanted and not that stupid gift Santa is delivering.

Junkyard dog Santa:

Scams and thievery abound in this cheerful season of giving. Tipping the scales of meanness, however, might be the pet breeder outed by the Today show. A buyer pays big bucks for her dog of choice and receives a very sick puppy. The breeder then criticizes the new owner for not taking proper care of the poor pooch, when, sadly, it dies.

Deadly Santa:

In our area, one commercial featuring a Santa impersonator we like to call “the shouting guy” proudly offers a selection of guns, rifles and other lethal weapons. And they’re not just gifts for the guys, either, the huckster notes. Even the lady of the house might like that bow and arrow.

Too-fat Santa:

Paula Deen’s food always looks yummy, if you get past the cholesterol factor. Except you can‘t. A stick of butter stars in almost every recipe. One of her holiday gift ideas captures the pure essence of Ms. Deen: Compound Butter. Y’see, you take two sticks of butter and blend in herbs and spices and put it in a sealed container and gift it to someone. Happy heart attack to you.

Snoopy Santa:

And, as usual, Gmail and Google and Facebook and all those other friendly Internet sites are giving you cookies for Christmas.

Now let’s all check out the holiday airline fares and enjoy our holiday staycation. Cause Santa, it appears you’re grounded.

Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

Unbalanced: How not to give directions

2011-11-30T06:00:00-05:00

The guy was quite clear: It is next to the organic food store, he told me. Except it wasn’t. I walked through the small strip mall, looking for his shop. Not there.

Finally I called him back, told him where I was. Oh, says he, you went too far. It’s the previous driveway.

Yes, the two shops were back-to-back. But that’s not right next to. That’s an entirely different area.

If I sound a tad grumpy, it’s because I depend on people giving me decent directions. Otherwise, I’m just a poor, lost soul.

So here, for those trying to get their friends, relatives or customers from there to your place, is my what-not-to-say list of directions:

— Never, ever say “You can’t miss it.”

I can, I have, I will.

— Don’t say “before,” like “it’s before the statue of the purple cow.”

Before is never good. If I get to the purple cow I’ve obviously gone too far.

— Don’t reel off a list of street names without any identifying factors.

Have you seen street signs? They’re dinky. While your clueless driver is trying to read them, people are honking like mad, wondering why the stupid person in front of them is driving 5 mph.

— Don’ t say “about,” as in “it’s about 10 miles after the turn.”

One of my friend’s “about” was eight miles off. Hey, if you drive it every day, use that trip odometer thingie in your car and get the facts.

— Don’t give thousands of details.

Another friend reeled off the names of all the restaurants, stores and gas stations I would pass before getting to her street. All 46 of them. I really didn’t need to know all of them. A couple major ones would have been fine.

— Don’t assume your beleaguered driver is familiar with every school, church, bar and landmark in the city.

In South Bend, the big thing is to use churches as pointers, as in, “it’s across the street from St. Pius Church.” Hell if I know where St. Pius is.

— Finally, don’t ever ask me for directions.

At Notre Dame, when someone once asked me how to get to the bookstore, I pointed in a southerly direction and said, “See that student in the blue jacket? Ask him.”

Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

Unbalanced: Breaking up is hard to do

2011-09-14T06:00:00-04:00

This break-up is making me tear my hair out. I’ve had easier times dumping boyfriends.

In the past, it was easy for me to change stylists. My first favorite moved to Florida. The next one quit to stay home with her baby. Another moved to a salon too far for me to get to on my lunch hour. She understood, but I didn’t. How could she leave me this way?

This time, however, there’s no easy excuse for me to change. Unless, that is, you count the fact that I just can’t do anything with my hair!!!!!

Sorry. I feel better now.

Anyway, when I leave the salon, I know the compliments will flow from my husband, friends and co-workers. Because my hair does look great. Fabulous style, no frizz, all shiny and bright. And that great look lasts a couple days, until I have to style it myself. Then it’s Donald Trump time. And I don’t even have a comb-over.

Clearly I need someone who can fix a do that I can do. So it’s time to wave farewell to my beautician. I just can’t figure out how to do it.

So I googled it: How to break up with you stylist. Can you tell I’m getting desperate?

Some say just cancel your next appointment and move on. Sounds rude to me.

Others say to call or visit and tell them directly why you’re leaving. But what if she cries? What if she yells? What if she sounds so hurt I back off and tell her I really didn’t mean it? Sounds difficult.

Still others say to make something up, like you got a gift card at a new place and want to try it. Sounds like a lie to me.

Option four is direct but a little removed. Send a nice card, explaining as much or little as you want about why you are changing stylists. Sounds like my kind of break-up.

Solving the break-up question didn’t answer the real issue, however: Why is this so hair-raisingly difficult?

The problem, I think, is that when it comes to stylists, a matter of commerce quickly becomes a matter of a quasi-friendship. No, we don’t go to each other’s cook-outs — I don’t even know where she lives. But during for that once-every-five-weeks hour, we have fun talks. We share family information, laughing about what a kid did, commiserating over a difficult in-law. We discuss planned trips and disastrous parties.

Yes, she’s working and I’m relaxing. She’s taking care of me, I’m paying her.

Still, in the end, dumping her feels like cutting off a distant but likable relative. A little mean-spirited. I won’t get to hear how her sister’s new business is doing or how her son is surviving the school year or what she got her husband for his birthday.

I am going to do it. The commerce trumps the relationship. Too many bad hair days means this marriage can’t be saved. But I still feel like a jerk.

Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

Unbalanced: Plastic garden

2011-08-19T07:35:00-04:00

The gardener down the street has switched plants this year. Instead of wooden flowers stuck in the stone-covered border along the front of the house, she’s now displaying plastic ones.

It would be a nice summer presentation if they were real. Those yellow petals with red centers are eye-catching. And they sure make a better arrangement than the burry bramble bushes along my front porch. Still, those flowers look odd because they are too perfect, too symmetrical, too sterile. No movement.

The plastic flowers fit with her yard, however, which always looks neater than anyone else’s along the street. In late fall, not a leaf can be seen. Almost daily, she’ll go out and pick up those audacious leaves that might have avoided the rake. She’ll sweep the driveway. She’ll even sweep the pavement in front of her house. She makes the rest of us homeowners feel like slackers.

A frail woman who looks to be in her 90s, she works hard at keeping unruly nature at bay. She’s probably happy with her oh-so-neat yard and new yellow plastic flowers. I understand my neighbor’s desire for an attractive display. That’s why I crawl out of bed at 7 a.m. on a Saturday, avoiding the heat of high noon while I fight the weeds which threaten to take over my real flower garden.

I’m well aware that this sweaty, buggy task is essentially a loser’s game which even plastic flowers can’t defeat. But I figure it’s best to go down fighting, to welcome the battle with this green chaos of imperfection. In fact, a recent survey said gardening is one of those things that makes people happy.

I’m not sure how happy I am with the bug bites and scratches and muscle aches, but the yearly appearance of my flowering perennials — except for a few stupid hydrangea bushes, which have given up the ghost — does make me smile. Those living, breathing plants tell me spring has arrived, the earth is fertile and I can claim a small part of its natural beauty.

Plastic flowers don’t do that.

Apparently, though, my neighbor prefers their regimented stance over uncontrolled flora. But a few months ago, her gaunt husband, who usually joined her in the clean sweep, died. Nature must have its way.

Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

Easy reading

2011-08-19T07:00:00-04:00

Maraya Steadman, author of The Playroom columns, is taking a well-earned late summer break from writing. We miss her already, but she promises she’ll be back soon with more to say about the singular art of parenting.

In the meantime, we still have plenty of columns to capture your attention.

See the latest from:

Michael Garvey on A worthwhile reprimand

ND student Tara Hunt on the Notre Dame love story

Carol Schaal on The missing funeral

Jason Kelly on Excuses, excuses

Charles K. Wilber on Averting the next too-big-to-fail bank crisis

Michael Molinelli’s fabulously funny Molarity cartoons

And, from last year, to help with your Maraya Steadman withdrawal symptoms, The mommy project

Unbalanced: The missing funeral

2011-08-03T06:00:00-04:00

I thought the line of slow-moving cars was a result of the ubiquitous campus summer road construction. Not until I was part of it did I realize a hearse was leading the way.

At least I was the last car in line, so I hadn’t been so gauche as to interrupt the procession of mourners. And rather than fume at the 15-mile-an-hour pace, I passed the time by thinking of my Uncle Al, who had died six days previously.

My unintentional participation in a stranger’s funeral procession was as close as I was going to get to a funeral cortege for my uncle. He’d always made it clear to his family that after his death he wanted no visitation, no funeral, no graveside service, no nothing. They honored his wishes.

As his siblings, including my mother, would say, “That’s Al.”

Once, in his younger days, he had remarked after a funeral for a relative: “This is stupid. If people wanted to see him, they should have visited before he died.”

My mother told me that she and her other brother had tried to explain to him what funerals really meant and who they were for. To remember and honor the deceased. To comfort those left behind. To say good-bye. Et cetera.

It didn’t matter what they said. Al was having none of it. He obviously never changed his mind.

So on the day I inadvertently joined a funeral procession, I sent a mental message to Uncle Al. “We needed a funeral,” I told him. “We needed to hug your wife and your kids. We needed to blink away tears. We needed to wish you Godspeed. We needed to tell some funny and sad and surprising stories at the lunch that would follow the graveside services.”

I really wanted to hear those stories. To hear about the boy who spent his school days staring out the window at the birds and squirrels. The young man who served in the Army during World War II. The uncle who always wore the same brown civil defense uniform to every family gathering he attended. The man who had an almost pathological hatred of hospitals. The boy whose sweetly odd decisions always prompted his brothers and sisters to shrug their shoulders and say: “That’s Al.”

As the hearse turned into Cedar Grove Cemetery and I sped on my way, I sent him one last message on behalf of all his relatives: “It’s not for you, Uncle Al. It’s for us.”

So Uncle Al, I hope you forgive this verboten memorial, since it really isn’t for you. It’s for all those you left behind, who are sad at your passing and in need of comfort. It’s for me.

Rest in peace.

Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

NDAve: Woo Named Reliever-in-Chief

2011-06-28T11:00:00-04:00

Editor’s note: This is a corrected version of the original story.

Not long after the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake unleashed tsunamis that brought the catastrophe’s death toll to nearly a quarter million people in 14 countries, Carolyn Woo headed for Asia. Newly appointed as one of the first lay members of Catholic Relief Services’ board of trustees, Woo felt duty bound to see firsthand the disaster response to which hundreds of CRS employees, volunteers and partners would be dedicated in the years ahead.

“When she made the commitment, she promised that if she was going to make decisions about how funds and resources were distributed throughout the developing world, she would be immersed in it,” says Woo’s friend Professor Thomas Harvey, the Luke McGuinness Director of Nonprofit Professional Development at Notre Dame’s Mendoza College of Business.

Over the six years of her term on the CRS board, Mendoza’s Martin J. Gillen dean would travel to Africa several times, once taking along one of her two sons. She toured refugee camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan with particular interest in the work being done to educate women.

Back on campus, she would filter her observations into her talks for at least a month afterward, Harvey says. “With her schedule, to make that kind of commitment to be a good board member really tells you something about her value base.”

Last week CRS announced that Woo would replace retiring CEO and president Ken Hackett, who was stepping down after 18 distinguished years as leader of the Baltimore-based humanitarian agency.

Harvey says Woo likely won the job based on her success leading Mendoza, her expertise in strategic planning, and the management discipline she’ll bring in from the outside. CRS, Harvey points out, operates in more than 100 countries at an annual budget approaching $1 billion. Woo, an architect of the U.N. Global Compact that calls on businesses to operate along common ethical guidelines for social and environmental responsibility, will now work closely with the likes of the U.S. State Department, often administering federal foreign aid dollars while delicately maintaining CRS’ — and her own — faith vision.

Political challenges come with the turf. The agency does not preach Catholicism and serves the impoverished regardless of creed, but it still encounters wariness and outright hostility from religious groups in host countries. “She’s not afraid of any of it,” Harvey says.

In fact, Woo has spent her life navigating cultural frontiers by the light of her Catholic faith. In Notre Dame Magazine’s spring 2011 issue, she wrote about the connections between her life story and her vision for business ethics in the globalization era. Born in Hong Kong, Woo was schooled by Maryknoll nuns, world-traveling women who care about the education of other women in times and places where few others do. The missionary spirit is part of who she is, Harvey says, and CRS will benefit from it. “In a sense, she has been gifted by missionaries and now she’s given an opportunity — not in a proselytizing sense — to be a missionary to the poorest in the world and to bring the sense of hope that Christianity has to offer.”

Woo has fiercely championed a values-first approach during her 14 years at Mendoza while pushing its undergraduate programs to a No. 1 ranking in at least one major survey. The college’s “Ask More of Business” philosophy infuses its students with the notion that personal integrity is the rock upon which effective organizations serving the greater good are built. One instance is Foresight in Business and Society, a required course in which undergraduates pursue in-depth knowledge of a single human problem of their choice.

Wherever Woo’s successor leads the college, Harvey says she’s put a brand on Mendoza that would be impossible to remove — a deeply institutionalized culture of “valued excellence” in which graduates are expected to apply their convictions in successful careers.

They had better be ready in Baltimore. Says Harvey, “Everybody in this building knows you’re a part of something bigger and you better do it right. She’s a ramrod.”

John Nagy is an associate editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email him at nagy.11@nd.edu.

ND Free Pass: A Notre Dame cheer

2011-05-23T06:02:00-04:00

Seven months, 20 Notre Dame athletic events and 17 blogs later, I’ve limped to the finish line in my race to view all the Notre Dame varsity sports in a school year. We spectators don’t deserve ribbons or medals or monogrammed letter sweaters, but I’m still bummed that I never did catch a free T-shirt.

As cheap thrills go, the experience was priceless. Who knew that women’s and men’s lacrosse varied so much? That some people take picnics to watch cross-country? That it always rains during the blue-gold football game? Or that referees in fencing could be almost balletic in their use of hand signals?

Thanks to this sideline exploration, I also learned that a flashy video scoreboard can add immeasurably to the excitement of watching volleyball and basketball; the not-so-flashy video board at Rolfs meant I could keep track of swimming and diving records about to be broken; an indoor track and field meet presents more spectator options than you can possibly sample — a pole vault here, a weight throw there, and please don’t walk through the long-jump pit — while rowing offers blink-and-you-might-miss-them watershed moments; and that golf, no matter how you slice it, is not the spectator sport for me.

The southeast corner of campus became my go-to spot for a stuffed duffel bag of ND sporting events. The impressive individual venues for soccer, lacrosse, baseball, softball and tennis were testament to the fact that Notre Dame and its benefactors take athletics seriously indeed, even if some carry the lackluster name of “nonrevenue sports.”

And it was fun to stumble into a promotion, like the Famous Dave’s free meal before a lacrosse game or the free shot-on-the-spot personal photo and photo-frame at volleyball or team poster give-aways at any number of events. I missed some other freebies, like foam hats, soccer glasses, rally towels, trading cards and, sadly, a cowbell giveaway at hockey. Oh, don’t even ask me about those stupid T-shirts.

It is clear to me now that Notre Dame does think spectators are valuable. The $5 general admission/$3 children or seniors ticket-cost for soccer, volleyball, lacrosse, baseball and softball makes those games a decent entertainment option for families — and something called the Clancy’s Kids Club, at $25 a year, gives kids free admission to those games and other goodies. Yeah, those kids get a T-shirt.

Once I began this spectator venture and wanted to know more about the teams and players, I was blown away by the coverage of all the ND sports at und.com. Live chats, videos, sports blogs, wrap-up stories and a connection to Irish alert text message updates were all there. As were annoying pop-up ads. Guess you gotta pay to play. Many Irish teams also can be found on Twitter and Facebook.

While this brave new world is a virtual cornucopia of delights, it still doesn’t compare to the highs of actually being there, yelling your fool head off when the opposing team starts closing in and you know, you just know, that you can will that ball to drop or that puck to slide through or that runner to beat the throw.

I am well aware that my benchwarmer project was nowhere near as impressive as the student-athletes I watched, or the tireless student managers who seemed to be everywhere keeping track of everything. But I now know more about another aspect of the Notre Dame family. Yes, ND fans can be rude and crude and demanding and unforgiving. More important, they also can be supportive and friendly and funny and giving. So when the “Notre Dame Victory March” commands us to “cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame,” it’s clear the support staff deserves a hand.

Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

ND Free Pass: Baseball

2011-05-11T06:00:00-04:00

For several innings, it appeared that bat boy Zach might be the Irish MVP during the May 1 Notre Dame baseball game vs. Seton Hall. First, the crowd serenaded him for his 12th birthday, much to his head-ducking embarrassment. Then, with Seton Hall ahead 3-0, Zack left the dugout and easily caught a foul ball as it rolled off the overhead safety nets.

The spectators laughed and wildly applauded. And Zach’s fine play apparently galvanized the Irish players, who responded in the seventh and eighth innings with two home runs, finally earning a 5-4 victory.

Light-hearted fun seems to be the operative phrase for games at the Frank Eck Stadium. If a conference on the pitcher’s mound lasts too long, the tick-tock music of Jeopardy plays over the loud speaker. Giveaways, trivia games and even signed baseballs for those good citizen spectators who return foul balls are standard goodies. Upbeat music between half-innings keeps things lively, as does announcer Bob Nagle.

While I arrived in time to witness some traditional pregame ceremonies, including a salute to the military with the first pitch thrown by Sgt. Adam Sanford and a fine a cappella national anthem sung by ND sophomore Connie Jones, I wasn’t early enough to get one of the chair-back seats placed a few rows up in a couple of the center sections. It didn’t really matter. While perhaps not as comfortable, just about any seat on the bleachers offers a fine view.

That close-enough-to-overrule-the-umpire vantage point is one of the things that makes attending Notre Dame baseball games such a steal. Even as a spectator, you really do feel as though you are in the heart of the action. I don’t know if the $3 bottled water is such a bargain, and the concessions are limited to the hot dog/bratwurst/nachos camp, but the $5 general, $3 youth/senior prices for the general public make the games a worthwhile investment.

One other bonus is parking. If the spaces near the baseball stadium are filled, the east end of the Joyce parking lot offers a nearby alternative.

The electronic scoreboard, which keeps fans informed of relevant game information as well as scores from other Big East games, is a definite plus. Spectators also are kept apprised by announcer Nagle of the scores of other ND events running at the same time as the baseball game. Fans at Eck had earlier heard a loud roar from the nearby Melissa Cook softball stadium, and the mystery was solved when Nagle announced that the ND softball team had won a 14-0 victory over St. John’s in a five-inning no-hitter.

The baseball game, we learned at its end, had lasted two hours and 18 minutes. An almost ideal length. Sunny skies, a great catch by the bat boy and a come-from-behind victory. To me, that was about as perfect as things could get.

Check out ND Free Pass for a spectator’s sampling of the less-heralded side of Notre Dame competitions: the rowing and the running, the putting and the spiking. Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

ND Free Pass: Softball

2011-05-08T06:00:00-04:00

As you walk along the winding sidewalk toward the beautiful Melissa Cook Stadium on the southeast corner of campus, it’s easy to spot the long-time fans of the Notre Dame softball team. They’re the ones carrying blankets.

Those savvy spectators know that even the smallest bit of wind will sweep through the stands, making any of the March-through-May home games feel like winter is fast approaching. I learned that lesson the hard way when I went to watch the ND women play Butler on April 7. I’m no weather wimp, but I lasted only an inning and a half before the cold drove me away.

A few weeks later, on May 4, I headed back to watch the first game of the ND vs. Pittsburgh doubleheader. Silly as it seemed, since it was 52 and sunny, I wore a hat and gloves and triple layers. Should have taken a blanket.

Still, it was a pleasure to watch the 21st ranked ND team break the seven-game winning streak of the Panthers, especially since I scored a lower-level chair-back seat behind home plate. Those seats are close enough to the field that I could hear every grunt made by the ND pitcher.

I’m sure the umpire also could hear the remarks being made by spectators in the box seats, especially when he gave the Panthers a run by calling the grunting ND pitcher for an illegal pitch. “Are you showing off just ’cause you’re on TV?” one irate fan yelled. Yes, the games were on ESPNU —which irritated another fan, who complained about the (infrequent) breaks for commercials.

Not all the fans were so grumpy. And two were no doubt cheered when they won some nice promotional giveaways, including a McDonald’s gift card and, for a lucky guy named Michael, a Famous Dave’s feast for four when an Irish player hit a home run in the fourth inning. At each game throughout the season, spectators who answer a trivia question and drop the designated form in a fishbowl at a table set up near the stadium’s concession stand are eligible to win the feast if their form is drawn and their answer is correct. The people in charge of the contest that day didn’t make it too difficult. The question: Who is the Notre Dame football coach?

No one had to walk away completely empty-handed, however, as posters and home-game- schedule refrigerator magnets were freely available, a pleasing souvenir for those who paid the $5 general or $3 youth/senior price for the games, although a buy-one-get-one-free special even cut that cost.

At the successful 8-1 ND conclusion of the game, when I took what another passenger called “beyond a doubt the world’s slowest elevator” to the ground floor, I looked through a brochure I’d earlier grabbed on the Melissa Cook Memorial Foundation.

Melissa, a 1994 ND graduate and former scholarship softball player, was one of four people killed in March 2002 when a huge section of scaffolding on a major Chicago construction project crashed to the street below. After a lawsuit settlement was reached, her mother and stepfather, Linda and Paul Demo, contributed money to Notre Dame for the softball stadium and also started the foundation, which provides “need-based scholarships to students who best embody the spirit and characteristics of Melissa Cook.”

As I left the stadium, walking by a colorful display of spring tulips, I thought about the heart-tugging generosity of Melissa’s family, and the day didn’t seem so cold anymore.

ND Free Pass: Tennis

2011-05-04T06:00:00-04:00

Notre Dame tennis teams frequently lost games to the South Bend weather. But once the indoor Eck Tennis Pavilion was built, right next to the outdoor Courtney Tennis Center, neither rain nor snow could stop a match.

Advantage, Notre Dame tennis.

My first spectator visit to ND tennis was in February, when the women were playing Michigan. Those TV shots of people turning their heads back and forth to follow a tennis match can be amusing. But at an indoor Notre Dame tennis match, you won’t get a neck work-out — all the indoor seating spans the end of the courts instead of the long side.

Whether fans lean against waist-high bars on the main level or perch on the bleachers upstairs, this vantage point gives spectators a great view of three of the six courts, with only a few steps across the middle section of the building needed to see the courts on the opposite side.

The Eck Tennis Pavilion was built in 1987, though, which might explain the lack of an elevator. So forget a seat on the bleachers or grabbing a snack at the upstairs vending machines, the only available concessions, if you can’t manage stairs.

Unfortunately, on Feb. 10, the women’s tennis team could not manage Michigan. Not for the lack of encouragement, however. The sprinkling of fans offered constant motivational cheers, from call-outs to specific players: “Good job, Shannon,” “You show ‘em, Frills,” to the generic “Way to go!”

Not all the shouts were positive. Although I didn’t hear the original remark, I did hear a coach politely tell a spectator standing on the main level: “Refrain from making nasty comments. They’ll penalize Notre Dame.”

And I would penalize ND for spectator confusion. Before the games began, an announcer reeled through who was on what court. But the courts are not numbered, I wasn’t familiar with the players, and I had no idea who I was watching. Hooray … somebody!

Several weeks later and several degrees warmer, the stakes were higher as both the men’s and women’s tennis teams had earned spots in the 2011 Big East tournaments. This was good, since the teams were co-hosting the events in South Bend. You would hate not to be invited to your own party.

So on April 29 I got a chance to view preliminary rounds on the 14 courts of the outdoor Courtney center. My reaction, like the results of the ND tennis teams, was mixed.

For Courtney South, fans sit on metal bleachers facing the long side of the first court; the remaining six courts continue down in a line. This offers a great view of play on the first court, a not-so-great view of play on the other six courts. In fact, a few spectators stood by the fences, their backs to the traffic on Courtney Lane, to catch the action on the far courts.

Courtney North is the place to be. An additional set of bleachers offers unobstructed views of the seven north courts. You can take either steps or a ramp to any set of bleachers.

Once again, I wasn’t sure who was who was where. The fans were helpful here, however, calling out the names of players to cheer an ace or a successful drop shot.

During the tournament, I noticed that the Eck pavilion had a new sign on its door — no public restrooms. Guess the two Joy Johns near Courtney center were the spectators’ thrones of no choice.

Still, whether the games are indoors or out, the spectator experience is free. Walk up, grab a seat and enjoy the show. Commerce wasn’t nonexistent, however. At the tournament, you could buy Big East tennis T-shirts or, for $2, a program.

What also was free was the excitement of watching the men struggle valiantly against Louisville in the finals and the joy of seeing the women capture the Big East tournament. Tennis is the perfect sport for ND fans to send a volley cheer on high.

ND Free Pass: Lacrosse

2011-05-02T06:00:00-04:00

The usher at the April 23 Notre Dame women’s lacrosse game halted my entry into Arlotta Stadium. “There’s free barbecue in that tent,” he said, pointing off to the side. “You should try it.” As anyone who attends ND sporting events knows, it’s not wise to argue with an usher.

Upon my return, after I’d enjoyed the Famous Dave’s catered meal, the same usher offered yet another directive: “Enjoy the game!”

It’s hard not to. Lacrosse, a fast-moving competition that’s been called a combination of basketball, soccer and hockey, is fun to watch, as you marvel at the players’ ability to run around like crazy, to catch a small rubber ball in a pocket at the end of a long stick, and, for the offense, to somehow get through blockers and shoot the ball into the goal. Scores tend to fluctuate, upping the tension for spectators.

At both the April 2 men’s game against Villanova and the April 23 women’s game against Georgetown, the fans’ excitement level remained high, as a win was never a sure thing. “What’s happening?” an elderly man said to me during the first quarter of the men’s game, as the then second-ranked ND team fell behind their eighth-ranked opponent.

I had the same question during the women’s game, as I watched the ND team’s seven-goal lead begin to evaporate, thanks to five unanswered Georgetown scores.

At both games, fans were not remiss in letting the referees hear their opinions of calls. But they also called their own penalties. Once, when a ’Nova player on the sidelines let his colorful disgust be heard, a spectator quickly called him on it: “Ahh, sensitive ears,” the fan said. “Watch it!!” Those sensitive ears included a several middle-school students, who show up for the games carrying their own lacrosse sticks.

After making fans sweat the outcome, both games I saw ended with a win for ND. But seeing the men’s and the women’s games left me with questions. Why do the men wear protective headgear and the women only goggles? Why do the women keep dropping the ball out of the pockets of their sticks? Why do the men play 15-minute quarters, the women 30-minute halves? And did I miscount, or did the women have more players on the field? And that field … did the goal get moved back when the women played?

Thanks to nearby fans and some Google research, I learned that the men and women do play by different rules. The basics are the same — you score points in lacrosse by flinging the ball into the opposing team’s goal — but only the men are allowed to body check, which explains their more encompassing headgear and rougher play. And the women drop the ball more often than the men because the pocket at the end of their crosse is shallower. It’s like baseball and softball. Sort of the same, sort of not.

Whichever version you might prefer, the Notre Dame lacrosse program clearly is fan-friendly. At men’s and at women’s game, you get a program, a colorful home schedule magnet and a poster. For special events, like the Lax for the Cure game at the women’s home closer on April 23, dedicated to raising money to fight breast cancer, trading cards and pink pompoms were available, as was the barbecue. Children age 13 and under were admitted free, and an Easter egg hunt and autograph session took place after the game.

During breaks at the games, to keep the crowds revved up, although that wasn’t always necessary, rockin’ party music is played. If you’re lucky, as I was at the men’s game, you might see a couple of joyfully unabashed kids dancing to “The Cha Cha Slide.” They moved to the left, they moved to the right, and, at the end, everybody clapped their hands.

Check out ND Free Pass for a sampling the less-heralded side of Notre Dame competitions: the rowing and the running, the putting and the spiking. Carol Schaal is managing editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email her at schaal.2@nd.edu.

ND Free Pass: Blue-Gold Spring Football

2011-04-21T12:00:00-04:00

The Notre Dame Blue-Gold Spring football game offers a wonderful spectatorpalooza.

Free parking near the stadium. Tickets cheap enough that spectators probably can afford a snack at the concession stands. The best seats you can grab. The marching band playing ND football game favorites. The leprechaun and cheerleaders whipping up the crowd.

The 27,863 fans at the April 16th game got all that. And their overall jovial mood — until the rains came with a vengeance — was spurred along by tongue-in-cheek comments from announcer Mike Collins.

OK, so it’s not a real game. It’s a scrimmage, an exclamation point to Notre Dame spring football practice. But for fans, it offers a great opportunity for preseason speculation. Four quarterbacks were on display, providing fodder for plenty of discussions.

And it’s kind of goofy. “This is the 837th best day of my life,” one spectator yelled.

Adding to the relaxed feel were such oddities as a do-over, what golfers call a mulligan, on a kick when the ball to center went astray. Or, in the second half, letting the clock continually run — to make the shortest football game on ND record. Or players switching sides or dressing in anything from blue to white to green to red. Or fair catches only on punts.

The “game” was even on TV, a cable channel called Versus, with coach Brian Kelly wearing a microphone. Friends who watched told me he kept it clean; no penalties for untoward language.

Yes, some things were missing, such as the colorful and traditional pregame activities, a half-time show by the band and any sense of a true competition.

What this 82nd annual blue-gold festival also lacked was any semblance of fair weather.

The rain started shortly before the game did. What was bearable during the first half, a steady, persistent annoyance, became a downpour at halftime, a deluge greeted by a stadium-wide groan of anguish. Winds and cooling temperatures didn’t help.

“We must be crazy,” a wet, shivering fan said to me when I ducked into the ladies room during the fast-moving third quarter. I could only nod in agreement.

But if Notre Dame’s signature sport, football, is your thing, the non-game spring game should be on your spectator list. If you’re a ND fan, and unless the weather deems otherwise, you can’t lose.

ND Free Pass: Golf

2011-04-18T06:00:00-04:00

If I’ve learned one thing in my spectator sampling of the less-heralded side of Notre Dame competitions, it’s not always to trust advance information posted online. Take golf, if you would, please — and please without telling me the details of your shot on the 14th hole.

To catch the Notre Dame golfers in action at home, my choices for the 2010-11 academic year were severely limited. The women were home only for an October 2010 invitational, which I had missed. For the men, I had two opportunities: a September 2010 Fighting Irish Gridiron Golf Classic, which I’d also missed, or the April 12 Battle at the Warren. So, the Battle at the Warren it was.

According to the online golf schedule, the tournament would be “All Day.” A search for an actual starting time was no help. Although posting that information should be par for the course, I instead had to call the athletic department. The tournament, I learned, would start at 1:30 p.m.

Calling a 1:30 p.m. start an all-day affair sounds like a tired student’s idea of timekeeping, but no matter. It fit with my idea of the way to spend a sunny, 60-degree afternoon in South Bend. And so, handy chair in hand, I set up shop near some blooming daffodils and, for the next 90 minutes, watched golfers from Detroit Mercy, Oakland, Bradley, Jackson State and Notre Dame tee off.

A helpful announcer reeled off the names and colleges of each golfer and, off the mic, sometimes congratulated one on a nice shot. It was all very convivial and even health-conscious, with bottled water and bananas available for the hard-swinging entrants.

Once everyone was on his merry way, sans caddies or carts, it became clear to me that no spectators were walking around the greens, staking out a good viewing spot to catch later action of the 18-hole tournament. Of course, maybe that was because spectators seemed to be as rare as a double eagle.

Again, no matter. Even though I was too fearful of walking in the wrong spot to wander the course alone, I had a plan. The clubhouse, also home of the Warren Grille, a pro shop and restrooms, has a nice outdoor deck, and I figured I could catch some action from that spot.

While the restaurant was closed, the doors to the clubhouse were open. But when I walked onto the deck, I could see only an older golfer, putting on one of the nearby holes. Not, I was sure, one of the tournament golfers.

So much for that approach. On to Plan B, which meant a drive around the course perimeter. Maybe I could see some play at a few holes from the outskirts.

Off Douglas road, south of the course, I did see a poor golfer hacking his way around a sand trap, but parking anywhere close was a hazard. So I drove north on Juniper, west of the links. My attempt to find a viewing spot in a nearby residential neighborhood ended with me on a dead-end road near some weedy out-of-bounds area of the course. And so back on Juniper, where all I saw was what looked to be a student climbing the fence onto the course. Ah, finally, some action.

I went back to work.

The tournament ended with a Notre Dame win, I later learned, because the online site is helpful in that regard. And if you do want to see some collegiate golf, it appears that the ND women’s team will host the 2011 NCAA Women’s Central Regional at the highly ranked Warren course.

That regional tournament will take place May 5-7. But don’t take my word for it.

ND Free Pass: Bengal Bouts

2011-03-05T06:00:00-05:00

You could have knocked me over with a gentle tap when I realized during the third match at the Notre Dame Bengal Bouts that I was enjoying the bouts.

Despite my dislike of pugilism — how is hurting someone a sport? — I decided it was a crime to miss one of the premier campus sporting events. The Bengal Bouts, now in their 81st year, raise money for Holy Cross missions in Bangladesh.

My $10 front-row seat at the March 1 semifinals, held in the Joyce Center fieldhouse, got me a padded folding chair and a close view of the ND student boxers doing their best to score points by landing punches. It also got me an updated program, so I knew who was punching whom, a chance to buy such Bengal Bouts items as a T-shirt, hat, shorts, pendants and even a money clip, and, if hunger hit, a nearby concessions stand stocked with hot dogs, nachos and other foods I don’t eat.

The atmosphere was positively electric. The event was unexpectedly entertaining. The announcer wore a tuxedo and did a fine job of dramatically proclaiming the contestants’ names. Before each match, the two boxers walked to the ring swathed in hooded silk robes, escorted by young female students dressed formally in black-and-white. Ah, the fine style of a boxing tournament.

Even the boxers’ chosen nicknames were fun: Colin “The Lion” King; Thomas “The Mean Justifies the” Enzweiler; Brian “The BK Special” Koepsel.

But who needs six weeks of training to compete? The student fans, while not in the ring, fought verbal battles, working to outshout, outscream and outcheer the fans of their favorite’s opponent. Some offered unofficial coaching during the matches: “Just go crazy,” one yelled helpfully. “Keep going — you’re ahead on points,” another shouted when his favorite appeared to be giving up.

A fair number of townies who apparently enjoy the sweet science were on hand, too, offering more subdued but no-less-enthusiastic support, including a standing ovation after one particularly punch-heavy round.

Part of what made the event palatable for me was the obvious attention to safety. The bloodied brawls of professional boxing matches are not part of Bengal Bouts. The boxers here sport safety headgear, but, even more important, the revolving sets of referees pay close attention to the condition of the competitors and the strength of the punches. When one boxer is clearly being pummeled, the ref will call a halt to the bout and declare a victor.

I did not go the distance. Two hours and 11 bouts filled my boxing spectator needs for the decade. But I’m glad I went.

Lazy I: Signs in the sand

2011-02-25T10:00:00-05:00

I’ll speak for myself: I’ve done a poor job paying attention to North Africa and the Middle East during my lifetime. I suspect this is true of most Americans, but I shouldn’t presume.

I know I wasn’t expecting the news from Tunisia last month. Now I can’t look away. I’m listening to radio reports, reading blogs and news coverage online, and wondering about trouble in such places as Tunis, Cairo, Manama, Tehran. Now it’s Tripoli and Benghazi, cities whose names I’ve known since boyhood. Back then, stretched out on the living room floor, I passed hours assembling map puzzles and rereading National Geographic’s terrific Our World atlas for kids.

I knew every capital of the world and the names of most currencies. I pledged myself to a lifelong mission to visit every country, colony and territory. My mother bought me a tablet of drawing paper and a box of Crayola’s finest 64 — I used every leaf and crayon fragment replicating the flags of the world freehand, going through spools of tape while plastering them to the walls of my bedroom.

But the Middle East and North Africa that had looked so benign in the pictures soon held little appeal. Fair or not, news from the region wasn’t encouraging. I was 6 when the Ayatollah chased the Shah from Tehran. The hostage crisis that followed was my first tip that the world might not be an entirely hospitable place. When fanatics murdered Egypt’s Sadat, I was 8 and old enough to watch TV and meditate on hope and despair at the same time. When truck bombs destroyed the Marine Corps barracks in Beirut in 1983, killing 241 American servicemen, my mother recalled her visit years before and reassured me that the once glamorous international crossroads might someday become that again.

By this time, my prejudices were forming. I faithfully read the weekly newsmagazines, trying to make sense of the Israel-Palestine conflict, the Iran-Iraq War, the rantings and lethal gambits of a man named Qaddafi (or Gaddafi or Khadafy, depending on what you were reading). I couldn’t.

So I tried to ignore the Middle East. Again, fair or not. When the Egyptian man who’d called for Sadat’s assassination turned up again as the mastermind behind the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, I was a lovesick undergraduate. Remember the Cole? My oldest child was barely a month old. I prayed for the families of the dead and injured sailors, shook my head and moved on. Then September 11 and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq made it impossible to ignore that vast and complex region, its history, its religions, its repressions anymore.

That doesn’t mean I understand it.

It seems outsiders never have. Reading The Creators, Daniel Boorstin’s sweeping popular history of human imagination and handiwork, I learned yesterday that “pyramid” comes from a Greek word meaning something like “wheat cake.” “Perhaps,” Boorstin speculates, “the Greeks thought that from a distance the pyramids looked like cakes resting on the desert.

I turned from Boorstin to my rounds of news sites: Libyan rebels marching on their thug leader of some 42 years — we’ll go with “Qaddafi” — in Tripoli; loyalists slaughtering protesters. The thug leader’s son says all is calm; the thug spins tales of al Qaeda lacing milk with hallucinogens. In Egypt, the military arrests two former ministers of the deposed government. In Bahrain, Morocco and Yemen, royals and presidents gauge how to retain power. Meanwhile, the president of Iran behaves as if he’s just been dealt a pair of aces.

What does it all mean? What happens when tyrants quit the field? How do Tunisians define “democracy”? Egyptians? Libyans? Where is Islamic fundamentalism in this? Some demagogues furnish quick answers that drip with apocalypse. Others more soberly debate in terms defined by historic European models of revolution and regime change. Is this like 1989? Or more like 1848?

At lunch I return to Boorstin, who is explaining that the Egyptian word for pyramid may have meant “place of ascension.” At dawn, he writes, the sun’s rays first touched the pyramids at their tops “long before . . . the humbler dwellings below.” Sun-god kings, buried within, could protect their people in death as they had in life. “And what better image than a true pyramid, spreading symmetrically from a heavenward point, like the rays of the sun shining down on the earth?”

In these days, there is no king in Egypt. When the sun rises on the pyramids, across the Sahara and throughout the Middle East, it may mean something no one is yet ready to put into words.

See a sampling of commentary by Notre Dame Professor Emad Shahin, an authority on Islamic law and political reform in the Middle East.

John Nagy is an associate editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email him at nagy.11@nd.edu.

Soundings: Threads of life

2011-02-13T06:00:00-05:00

This thread goes back to 1985. Autumn. I am walking through the Notre Dame library. I spy a copy of The Saturday Review, and the attractive woman on the cover snags my attention. I pick it up to see who she is. My search takes me inside.

En route, I find an essay about J.D. Salinger. I find myself captivated by it. I note the author’s name. Mark Phillips. “A writer living in Cuba, New York.”

I track him down, and in the summer of 1986 Notre Dame Magazine publishes a piece by Mark Phillips in response to my request that he write about why Catcher in the Rye remains so popular decades after appearing on the American literary scene, still being avidly read by American teenagers.

Phillips, as I recall, later apologizes for pushing so close to deadline. He got waylaid, he says, because he had donated a kidney to his sister. We talk about that, and he agrees to write about that experience for us, too.

Over the next decade Mark Phillips writes for us regularly — some of the best, most intense, most human essays we have published.

Then our paths diverge, until, oh, 2005.

That year Mark emails to say his daughter Hope is thinking of attending, of all places, Notre Dame. I meet with Hope and her mother, Margaret, when they come to campus. Hope is as shy and quiet as I was as an undergrad far from home. She works at the magazine for four years and graduates in 2009.

Meanwhile, her dad, Mark, is back on our pages and writing better than ever. He and I have been in the same room but once in our lives, but I consider him one of my very good friends and also one of the truest and truly good people I know.

It’s one of the best benefits of working at this magazine — developing very good friends, despite the distances, whom you come to know through their writing, by talking out story ideas and life and writing with them.

The reason I’m covering this ground now is that Hope, who’s made her way into book publishing in New York City, and I were on a panel together a couple of nights ago. We talked to about 30 Notre Dame undergrads about “careers in publishing.” Hope was great.

After we said goodbye, I thought of all this — the way life twines around, how people come into and out of your life. I thought about my own kids, and the hooded sweatshirts and jackets they’ve worn — gifts from the Phillips family. I don’t know why.

Last night, a night after speaking with Hope, I talked to a writing class at Saint Mary’s College. The teacher who had me speak to her class was Susan Mullen Guibert ’87.

Susan was a student of mine one summer in a graduate-level writing course. About five years later our paths crossed again. We both were going through rough times in our lives. She made me laugh; her friendship and her light touch in getting through crazy life were gifts of grace through one of my worst passages.

As it often happens, we drifted apart as we both moved on with our lives — until one day I learned she was working at Notre Dame, having become a colleague of mine. Now here I was, talking to her class (with Susan, so typically Susan, in a cast and on crutches with torn ligaments from a hip-hop class). And with us still laughing at the twists that once hurt so bad.

So this morning, after these visits from the past, there is a story in the South Bend Tribune by Mary Kate Malone ’08. She’s a reporter there now, covering the police beat, and the piece is about the night she was being shadowed by a high school student who wanted to learn about careers in journalism.

They were called to what they found to be the scene of a hit-and-run fatality — the victim in a body bag, feet exposed, with Mary Kate trying to nudge the student away.

I thought of Mary Kate as an undergrad, an intern at this magazine, young, sweet, a little bashful, not — I would have thought then — a prime candidate for police-beat reporting . . . now being shadowed by a high school student and doing fine, tough work she can be proud of.

And so I think how interesting life is, how fun it is to travel, how clever the way of the world, the people coming and going, touching our lives as we all glide amazingly downstream.

Kerry Temple is editor of Notre Dame Magazine. Email him at ktemple@nd.edu.

ND Free Pass: Women’s basketball

2011-02-09T06:00:00-05:00

Yes, I was among the 1,000 or so hardy — or maybe foolhardy — fans who managed to attend the Feb. 1 Notre Dame vs. Syracuse women’s basketball game. The blizzard of 2011 was gearing up, and the icy wind and stinging snow pellets made even a short walk from the parking lot to the Joyce Center’s Purcell Pavilion a winter’s agony.

Once inside, the die-hard loyalty was clear.

“I dug out to dig Skylar,” read one fan’s sign.

That would be hometown hero Skylar Diggins, the 2009 Indiana Miss Basketball, now a sophomore guard at ND.

On another sign, the Becca meter, two fans kept track of the number of points scored by senior forward Becca Bruszewski, who at the start of the game was five points away from joining the 1,000-points club.

Now I don’t care if you think women’s basketball is a poor excuse for the real thing or that the women’s game is too slow or the athleticism is lacking. I’m sure some sociologist could explain why women’s games don’t attract the attention that men’s games do, although don’t tell the UConn fans that.

But the ND women’s basketball games, which on occasion do sell out, are more than worth the price — $8 adults; $5 youth and seniors — and just as exciting and fun as the male version. They come complete with dramatic musical introductions of the players, lots of flashy videotron footage, hokey children’s contests (chicken toss anyone?) and such flying giveways as T-shirts and mini basketballs.

And to make the game part of some good works, the program participates in the Women’s Basketball Coaches Association Pink Zone breast cancer initiative. On blizzard night, several people had pledged money so they could walk on the Pink Zone treadmill. Other initiatives include fans pledging to donate a certain amount for each 3-point shot the Lady Irish make.

The team also comes with tournament-ready hopes. It’s been 10 years since ND captured the NCAA championship, but the possibility of another run under the leadership of coach Muffet McGraw always exists.

But maybe being underdogs when it comes to a fan base is what makes the ND women’s basketball spectator experience feel somewhat special, the sense of being part of a circle that not everyone has been smart or lucky enough to enter.

I don’t know. But I do know that when, with 7:55 left to play and the Irish sporting a 20-point lead, an announcement appeared on the videotron warning spectators that the weather conditions continue to be bad, I counted fewer than a dozen people heading to the exits.

The other foolhardy spectators stuck it out to the winning end, to the band playing the alma mater and to Becca Bruszewski, who indeed had passed the 1,000-mark that night, thanking fans for coming and advising them to drive safe.

Maybe the fans just didn’t want to face what awaited them outside. Or maybe they felt the best fan-feeling you can feel — that you really are part of the team.

ND Free Pass: Fencing

2011-02-07T06:00:00-05:00

When Notre Dame’s Joyce Center fieldhouse is the site for home fencing meets, the ND website says the venue has “an intimate atmosphere.” Playing-area strips are laid down for the matches, and bleachers and chairs are scattered around.

Intimate must mean there’s little room for spectators.

That’s probably okay, because fencing doesn’t seem to attract a lot of fans. After attending parts of the 2011 Notre Dame Duals, women on Jan. 29 and men on Jan. 30, I have an idea why.

Consider the compulsory figures required in skating competitions until July 1990 — the technical maneuvers that gave figure skating its name. Skaters carved such patterns as a figure 8 on the ice, and the resulting loops were judged by some arcane parameters.

Not a big hit on TV. As the Associated Press said after the International Skating Union voted to ban the school figures as part of competitions: “Many competitors feel that compulsories . . . are tedious, and boring to perform and watch.”

That does not mean they didn’t require dexterity and control, mental toughness and solid skills. But the figure 8s were no match for the allure of the double axels and triple lutzes and layback spins of free skating programs.

And so, fencing.

You will see a live-action game of strategic finesse, what has been called “physical chess,” as competitors chase and withdraw, lunge and run, stab and feint, and display intricate footwork and calculated swordplay, all confined to a 14-by1.5-meter strip.

I did try to appreciate it. Really. But I wanted Zorro slashes and Errol Flynn derring-do and Three Musketeer swashbuckling — and I got figure 8s.

Some of the problem may have been the “intimate” venue itself. The few sets of bleachers I saw were covered with coats, backpacks and other items belonging to the fencers, and most of the chairs were used by fencers waiting their turn to joust on one of the 12 strips. When I finally found a seat, my view of the closest match was blocked by people standing in front of the strip.

Food stations were everywhere — on tables set around the side of the arena, on some of the benches and chairs. During a break, I asked one of the officials at an oversized podium overlooking the venue if the food was free for all. That, I thought, might be a way of attracting fans.

He stabbed me with a look of scorn. “That food is for the referees and fencers,” he said icily. Excuse me for asking.

On both days the Irish fencers easily cut down the collegial competition — Air Force, Cleveland State, Detroit, Florida, Lawrence, Northwestern, Swarthmore and Wayne State. And both the men’s and women’s ND teams retained their top rankings in the sport.

Those Irish fencers: I salute them. But clearly, when it comes to watching fencing, I just don’t get the point.