Free Irish Coffee by Ralph McInerny Page A

depends.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn whether you do.”
    They started with a scotch and water and had a bottle of cabernet with their meal. And talked. And talked. They were taking the other’s measure, and it was like a parlor game. Baseball? They both knew baseball like the back of their hand. Football, of course, and basketball. And so on through the roll of sports and each might have been talking to himself rather than the other. Fred could have been a clone of Tom.
    â€œHe’s your brother? I should have known.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou have the same command of your subject.”
    They were among the last diners to rise and go. Outside it was a lovely fall evening and high above them stars were visible in a clear sky. And it was so quiet.
    â€œYou all right?” she asked when they got to his car.
    â€œI’m the designated hitter.”
    â€œThen I hope you strike out.”
    The words hung there in the silent air, meaning more than she intended. It was the first thing either had said that suggested that he was male and she female. Scoring and striking out took on new meanings.
    The moment passed, they got in, and he drove with great care back to South Bend.
    â€œMy treat next time,” he said when he dropped her off.
    â€œWasn’t this time a treat?”
    â€œIn every sense.”
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    That had been several years ago, during the Bob Davie years. Naomi had angled to get her assignments changed, but it was difficult to get Notre Dame games, since so many others wanted them. But she got more than her share and each time she was in town she and Fred got together. The intervals gave Naomi time to think what it was leading to, if anything. But first Fred had to be introduced to Tom. This was arranged and the three of them got together for a postgame dinner to discuss the incredible loss the Irish had just suffered because they had let the clock run out when they were on the opponent’s six-yard line. A field goal would have given them victory. They had a time-out left. But the clock was allowed to run and a confused squad left the field in defeat.
    What Naomi had expected to happen did not happen. Tom had not liked Fred. Of course, Tom was drinking, the family weakness, and became surly as the dinner progressed. If the nation is divided into those who love Notre Dame and those who hate her, it became clear that Tom fell among the latter. His criticisms of the school, particularly of the treatment of its teams by the national media, began as humorous asides, and might have been directed against Naomi and her colleagues on national television, but as the meal progressed, the humor receded and bitterness was unmasked. And Fred’s defense turned from being lighthearted deflection of criticism he spent much of his professional life hearing to being serious, an artillery barrage of statistics, with a recurrent mention of the percentage of athletes who actually graduated, a most impressive statistic indeed. But not to Tom.
    â€œSo you have a cadre of soft professors who take it easy on the jocks.”
    â€œWe do not. Nor are there any bogus majors in basket weaving or physical education. Check it out.”
    The success of the teams? As even the rah-rah tradition acknowledged, it was largely a matter of luck. Nor were the schedules played as demanding as other schools faced. And of course, like the Yankees—Tom hated the Yankees—Notre Dame could buy any coach they wanted and lure to the campus any athlete.
    Again and again, realizing what a mistake she had made, Naomi tried to get the conversation on other matters, but it was far too late for that.
    â€œOh, Tom, for heaven’s sake.”
    â€œOh, Tom, for heaven’s sake,” he echoed, mimicking her tone. She could have hit him. He was her favorite brother, the one she was almost desperate should like Fred, and he was behaving like this!
    Eventually, as happened when he drank, Tom passed