A Notre Dame Football Blog
Brian Kelly opened his eyes and knew immediately that he had made at least one horrible mistake. For starters, the bed wasn't his. He lay there, contemplating his suddenly curious surroundings. The ceiling that wasn't his. The digital alarm that wasn't his. The presence next to him that, sticking with the theme, that likely wasn't his wife. It took Kelly forty-five minutes to move himself off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. It wasn't his carpet. He moved slowly, silently, calling upon ...
Notre Dame head coach Brian Kelly sat at his desk, staring blankly ahead. His offensive coordinator, Chuck Martin, too, was distracted in thought. They each understood that the other was fixated on the same thing: Tommy Rees's neck. http://youtu.be/RFnVdN2GEC8 In his bed, Tommy Rees wore the broken expression of an athlete dying young, his body wracked with pain and Vicodin. Next to him, in the easy chair, Andrew Hendrix sat silently, his eyes closed. "Hendy." Tommy said. "Yeah?" ...
http://youtu.be/rhdQzq9cNvA Notre Dame head football coach Brian Kelly stopped at the Gug and went to his office, took a shower, and sat on his couch, smoking a cigar and sipping his whiskey in the dark, looking out at the breaking dawn of a South Bend Sunday morning. He had no idea how long it was before he recognized the knock. "Enter!" he huffed. "Coach." Kelly could only discern the frames of Prince Shembo and Jaylon Smith from their contrast with the light behind ...
Notre Dame head football coach Brian Kelly appreciated the quiet of the courtyard at The Carriage House and the privacy the staff was affording him. The loss to Oklahoma had been especially hard to take. As Kelly contemplated his drink, he admired its legs and rued the legs he lacked on Saturday. Lane Kiffin's firing, too weighed on him. "In a fucking parking lot," he sniffed to no one else. Though he had a freshly-inked contract extension, he knew the power of an angry fanbase and disappointed ...
To cap off the troubles he'd had sleeping, Brian Kelly caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his towel higher on his frame than he'd remembered. "Jesus fucking Christ," he thought to himself as he wiped the humidity from the mirror so he could continue his now intense self-scrutiny. "Moobs, Brian. You've got man boobs. Jesus, how much have you put on?" There was no questioning the season's effects to date. Nothing fit the way it was supposed to. Letting the towel drop to the floor, Kelly ...
Despite the loss and the post-game obligations and the bus ride and even the turkey sandwich that had exceeded its sell-by date by a few days, Notre Dame's football coach, Brian Kelly, found it easy to fall asleep. As his body's systems entered their sleep-state and he drifted off, he retained for the first time in many months, the odd sensation of recognizing that he had started dreaming. Paqui, his wife, next to him, would have panicked at the anguished, despairing look on her slumbering ...
"FigTHING Irish?" Bobby Diaco held the concessions cup in his hand and rotated it around, the horribly misspelled word coming into view again and again. "Ain't nothin' but a fig thing, Baaaaaaby!" Tony Alford grabbed the cup from Diaco's hand and jammed it into the ice machine. Atop the Guglielmo Athletic Complex, on the small lawn Brian Kelly had installed for the very purpose, the Notre Dame head coach and his assistants grilled steaks and reclined into the over-stuffed blue and gold cushions ...
Notre Dame football head coach Brian Kelly sat in the middle of a middle pew, literally twiddling his thumbs, his eyes wandering the nave, transept, and the gilded lancet arches. Every few seconds he would glance down at his watch. Outside, in the tumbling darkness, voices, freshman voices, like animal calls, broke the heavy silence inside Sacred Heart with their call and response of freedom from parents and sobriety. He heard the door, heavy, heaving, and rose, moving to the sound. Inside, ...
Previously, on "The Irish"... Brian Kelly sat there, looking at his watch, his phone, and then the dashboard clock, in that order, for fifteen minutes. Outside his S.U.V., a hot wind and ragged rain fell in sheets, pushed by the ominous, black clouds moving in from the East. "Jesus Christ, Jack," Kelly said to himself, "we all have things to do." Just as he thought about dialing his boss's cell, a quick, looming shape approached from behind and rapped a knuckle on the glass. "Oh! Jack!" ...
Today, we here at HLS launch a new series, “The Irish,” our homage to the boys in blue and gold and to HBO’s seminal gangland drama, “The Sopranos.” The language and characterizations found in our effort fit the television show, so this is perhaps not something you want to share with your kids. That being said, we felt that to censor ourselves would do an injustice to the material. Plus, you have Father Sorin’s regular posts on Friday morning to cleanse the soul. We hope you ...