One of the worst things about Notre Dame having an afternoon game, Modern Philosophers, was that Maine’s lone Leprechaun was usually sober enough to cause a ruckus at The House on the Hill before kickoff.
Seamus had spent the last two hours belting out the Notre Dame Fight Song at the top of his lungs. He sang it so off key that dogs throughout the neighborhood were howling in agony.
I was about ready to join the dogs.
“When are ya coming out to join the fun, laddie?” the evil little redhead in the sharp green suit asked excitedly when he showed up in my study.
I thought I was safe there, that Seamus wouldn’t be able to navigate the stairs now that he’d been tossing back pints for two hours.
Apparently, the luck of the Irish was not with me.
“I’m trying to write a post about this afternoon’s game,” I explained. “You know, the one that the blog’s sports reporter was supposed to write?”
“Me apologies, laddie. In me excitement to prepare yer guests for the game, it may have slipped me mind to write up me prediction post. I swear on St. Paddy’s grave I didn’t do this on purpose.”
I shrugged it off, just like I ignored the fact that he had referred to the drunk crowd gathered in my living room as my guests. Seamus had invited them all, just like he had asked the Flying Monkeys to deliver the three kegs that were now out on my porch.
“Do you at least have a prediction?” I asked with a sigh.
The Leprechaun smiled. “Of course I do,” he assured me. “Me prediction was pretty spot on about last week’s match, weren’t it?”
I had to admit that he had done an excellent job, even though he had showed up at The House on the Hill drunk, and had tried to clobber Gary with his shillelagh, thinking my loyal Gargoyle to be a giant bat.
Believe it or not, Seamus had predicted that Malik Zaire would step up as the new leader of the Fighting Irish’s high power offense.
“You were on a roll, my friend,” I concurred. “So what do you have for this week?”
“The lads from South Bend are heading don’t to Virginia, are they not?” he asked as he swung his shillelagh like a lightsaber.
I nodded that he was correct.
“Virginia is where ya family moved once ya went off the college, so I know ya ain’t a fan of the place,” he continued. “As a result, me thinking is that the Irish are gonna rise up in yer honor, and march through the South like General Grant’s Yankees.”
“That would be nice of them,” I chuckled as I watched him battle the imaginary forces of the Dark Side with his shillelagh like a drunk Yoda. “Do you have a score that I can pass on to my readers?”
“Fighting Irish 49 and the Virgins 10,” he announced. “Tell them they can bet their pots o’ gold on that one!”
Go get your gold, Modern Philosophers. The Leprechaun has spoken!