Here’s what it was: Lionel Messi — global icon, soccer’s GOAT, the world’s most famous athlete — walking from the parking lot into a Lowe’s. That’s right, the hardware store. It sounds like one of those wacky AI hallucinations, but this is an actual, honest-to-God, real-life sponsorship.

I find this pairing to be highly inconceivable. Insulting, really.

Because let’s be honest: Lionel Messi does not shop at Lowe’s. Never has, never will. And yet, that’s what this ludicrous sponsorship is asking us to believe. I refuse.

Some celebrity athlete sponsorships make sense. Lebron and Gatorade, Shaq and Icy Hot, Charles Barkley and Subway. Others are a bit of a stretch, like Stephen Curry and CarMax, or Caitlin Clark and StateFarm. But I’ll give those the benefit of the doubt — everyone needs to rent a car from time to time, and everyone needs insurance.

But this whole business with Messi and Lowe’s, well, it’s like a sponsorship between Prince William and Waffle House, or Jeff Bezos and Burlington Coat Factory. It beggars belief.

Pop quiz: It’s Saturday morning. Where’s Messi?

Packing Chase Stadium as he dons the flamingo pink of Inter Miami? Or how about training with the reigning world champion Argentine national team for the 2026 World Cup?

Nope. He’s re-caulking the bathtub, and after that he’s firing up the weed whacker and edging the lawn. C’mon.

Here’s the deal, Lowe’s. The next time I run into Lionel Messi renting a power-washer in Aisle 4, I’ll eat crow. But until then, I refuse to buy into your chicanery for even one second. I refuse to waste any more time thinking or writing about this.

There’s something admirable about your audacity, but I’m not buying it — I’m going to Home Depot.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Global Public Affairs. He is the author of the Substack “Ask Your Father,” where he writes about parenting and family life.

But despite those warm, fuzzy memories, McDonald’s and I had been estranged for a good long while. I avoided McDonald’s, and fast food in general, for years, mostly out of a desire to eat and be healthy. But now that I have my own school-age kids, I find myself back at the golden arches, and ba-da-ba-ba-baaaa, I’m lovin’ it.

Perhaps a vignette will help illustrate why. Recently, on our way to a birthday party at the bowling alley, my boys got ravenous. We had time to burn. I spotted a neon “M” and we pulled over. I ordered a $1 coffee and two Happy Meals: a four-piece nugget and hamburger with fries.

My six-year-old performed his usual quality check, removing the top bun of the burger to confirm they made it just how he likes it. They did. He then proceeded to munch slowly, contentedly on his perfect burger, legs happily kicking to and fro under the table, savoring each bite like it was wagyu beef.

After the meal, my older son accidentally threw out his Happy Meal toy along with his trash. Mildly distraught, I encouraged him to explain the situation to the lady at the register, who listened attentively and replenished his plastic. On the way out, my boys plucked two yellow balloons-on-sticks from a balloon tree. Total cost: $12. Total time: 20 minutes.

Happy Meal? That’s a Happy Steal. Plus, they actually ate everything. Kids don’t do kale.

As for my health concerns, Happy Meals now come with apple slices and milk or water — as a whole, certainly no worse than the nuggets, hot dogs or mac n’cheese combos you fire up at home.

Look around a McDonald’s and you see lots of different kinds of people: retirees chatting over coffee; harried moms trying to get their kids a quick, cheap meal; mechanics from the shop across the parking lot; homeless people trying to take a load off; kids in grass-stained and dirt-smeared sports uniforms. It’s a real slice of life. I think that’s a good thing.

I’ve come to appreciate McDonald’s for the simple pleasures of sitting together with my kids at a table and treating them a bit without breaking the bank. It’s probably one of the few places that most families can still afford to do that. And I defy you to find me a better soft serve, or a better breakfast sandwich than the Egg McMuffin.

I won’t be going full Morgan Spurlock and eating at McDonald’s every day. But for those times when I want to give my kids an impromptu surprise treat on the way home from the carpool lanes, it’s nice to know the golden arches are there.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Global Public Affairs and writes about parenting and family life.

Consider the paper plate.

When it comes to running a busy household, I’ve learned there are times when you simply have to play it a little fast and loose with your principles. There are at least three situations in which it is fully defensible to use paper plates (and plastic cups and utensils). Yes, I’m sure even Greta Thunberg would be on board with these.

You’re ahead of schedule

It’s a borderline miracle. The kids don’t need baths tonight, their homework is done, there’s no soccer practice, your mom dropped off dinner, you’ve already picked up and vacuumed — heck, you even Swiffered the floors. It’s an altogether foreign feeling, so it takes a minute to recognize and name it, but yes, you’re actually ahead of schedule. This never happens.

Now is not the time to go wobbly; lock in your gains by breaking out the Dixie. Go watch “Happy Gilmore 2” on a Wednesday night. (It’s terrible.)

You’re behind schedule

You survey the house. It looks like someone’s been playing Jumanji. If you step on the gas hard, this instant, you’ll be cleaning up until 10:30 p.m. just to make the place habitable. You can make that 9:30 with paper plates. How about a little grace?

You are hosting a children’s birthday party

Ten first-graders are coming to your house. The situation is dire. This calls for the platinum package: paper plates, yes, but also a disposable tablecloth, paper bowls, plastic utensils, plastic cups and throw in some styrofoam for good measure.

At the end of the party, fold up all the debris — plates, bowls, utensils, pizza crusts, soda spills, half-eaten cupcakes, boogers — in your disposable tablecloth. Take your trash hammock outside and dump the whole thing in your garbage bin. You just went from Hurricane Katrina to Better Homes and Gardens in 60 seconds. It’s exhilarating — in the world of domestic drudgery, this is the equivalent of base-jumping.

To reiterate: I love the environment, I love paper plates, and I don’t consider myself a hypocrite. As F. Scott Fitzgerald observed, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.”

His words, not mine.

So by all means, marvel at that stunner of a sunset, visit your regional and national parks, and definitely recycle. But parents: Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, and just dial up the Dixie.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Global Public Affairs and writes about parenting and family life.

That’s right, this season, and every season, I’m really cheering for me. Because more than any other sport, college football is a proxy for our self-worth. If you fail to grasp that, you’ll never understand why every autumn college football fans across the country sacrifice their hard-earned Saturday afternoons to a game played by kids who can’t buy a raspberry White Claw at 7-11.

I admit, it’s not an easy concept to wrap your head around — maybe an example will help.

Consider Jeremiyah Love, Notre Dame’s first-team All-America running back. He’s 6 feet and 214 pounds of marble. He hurdles dudes. I go about 5’8, 150, and I’m still sore from mowing the lawn last week. On the surface, not a lot of similarities.

But when Love bursts through the line of scrimmage, bowls over would-be tacklers, and dives for the pile-on from 8 feet out, he’s not Jeremiyah Love anymore. For a brief, transcendent moment, he’s me, and I’m him. Because we are both Notre Dame.

Or take head coach Marcus Freeman. He’s half-Asian and Catholic — me too. He has a large family — me too. If he wins big, I win big. Because I am Marcus Freeman. I want Jeremiyah Love, Marcus Freeman and Notre Dame to succeed for me.

Is all this starting to click now?

Cranking the zaniness factor way up is the fact that college football is largely fueled by a bunch of aged-and-crazed alumni reliving their glory days from the living room couch amid the crushing reality of bills, mortgages and decidedly un-fun real-world obligations. It’s not a sport; it’s an escape. We need this.

We’re looking over our shoulders, insecure about our careers, life choices, even our hobbies. We are grasping for meaning and validation in a dizzying world spun ever faster by AI, soaring prices and unprecedented technological disruption. Did we choose the right path in life? What does it all mean? And what’s for dinner tonight? Better not be chicken again.

When all of those annoying questions can be silenced by a Bud Light and a fourth-quarter comeback against Syracuse, you bet your bacon there’s going to be a captive audience. It’s a beautiful thing, college football.

When it comes to rivalry games, chuck all reason out the window. I mean all of it. This is about machismo and vague notions of pride, legacy and glory; it’s 200% animal spirits. Consider the sorry Ohio State Buckeyes, still reeling from last year’s national championship. That’s right, I said reeling — because they lost to Michigan. Terrible season. Ohio State head coach Ryan Day said that other than the death of his father, losing to Michigan is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to him. Ryan Day is an idiot.

And that brings us to the great paradox of college football: There is so, so, so little and yet so, so, so much at stake. None of these games matter in the least. But deluding yourself into thinking they do is half the fun of college football. The other half, of course, is sending your friends text messages that their school sucks.

With our identity and very self-worth tied directly to the performance of our teams, for college football fans, and especially alumni, every gameday is a potential midlife crisis. Isn’t it wonderful?

It all kicks off this week. Go Irish. Go me.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Global Public Affairs and writes about parenting and family life.

I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to waking up on Saturday morning, unleashing a good, long lazy lion yawn, and greeting a day shimmering with possibili — What’s that, dear? Soccer game at 8? Weekly grocery run to follow? Well, at least we’ll still have the aftern — 1:00 birthday party at the laser tag? I thought that was next week? Oh, it is also next week. OK, but when I get back from all this running around, I’m going to need at least 20 minutes to decompre – Kids have haircuts at 4:00?

The tricky weekend. It gets me every time. I think I’ll have some downtime — it is the weekend, after all — only to end up zipping around like a hummingbird on Red Bull for 48 hours. This yawning chasm between my expectations and reality has, on occasion, so I’ve been told, made me an extremely bitter, resentful and altogether unbearably grumpy man. But the tricky weekend isn’t going anywhere, and if you don’t make some adjustments, it’ll eat you for lunch, too.

The first adjustment concerns the making of plans. When you have little kids, you don’t seize the day; you get seized by the day, and it shakes the daylights out of you. Here’s what you’d like to do on Saturday: pick up flat whites and stroll through the farmer’s market, meet your friends for brunch, zip over to play pickleball with Jen and Greg.

Here’s what’s actually going to happen: When Tommy and Ruthie wake up at 5 a.m., their tummies are going to hurt. Ruthie is going to have an accident on the way to the bathroom, and Tommy is going to throw up in your work backpack. You will go to CVS to purchase Pedialyte, and your big win of the weekend will be remembering to get dish pods while you’re there.

Plans carry hopes, and hopes get dashed. But when you set your expectations to zero, a funny thing starts to happen: You learn to take family life as it comes and live it more fully. As Oliver Burkeman observes, “We lose our grip on our plans for the day, and find ourselves tumbling into life.” As an added bonus, now any sliver of opportunity that comes your way — 20 minutes to read, 30 minutes to weed — will feel like a snow day.

Having zero expectations can also help you gain a newfound appreciation for the simple stuff. I’ve got four kids under age 8, including twin babies. What’s a good day for me? Bowl of oatmeal, couple glasses of water, watching a bird fly, some quiet moments in the bathroom. That’s a heck of a day.

The second adjustment concerns the taking of breaks. You need to be opportunistic and creative about this. Remember when, pre-kids, you were doing chores and that was your busy time? Well, that’s your break time now. And if it’s uninterrupted dishwashing, you’re officially on vacation.

Most of your breaks won’t be long, and they won’t be what you want them to be — you’re not playing 18 holes with the fellas — but beggars can’t be choosers. Drink an iced tea outside in the sun. Walk around the block. Close your eyes and take some deep breaths. As the kids get older, your breaks get longer. These micro-breaks won’t fully rejuvenate you — let’s be honest, at this point nothing will — but I’ve found they can get you over the hump. So if you have small children and find yourself clacking away at your laptop on Friday afternoon and pining for the weekend, let me stop you right there. It’s the tricky weekend, and you’re not going to get to do the things you want to do. But with the right adjustments, you might find yourself enjoying it all the same.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the U.S. Department of State’s Bureau of Global Public Affairs and writes about parenting and family life.

It’s sticky and icky. It’s slimy and smelly. It’s ooey and gooey. It’s foamy and frothy. It’s phlegmy and cobwebby. It’s all natural, packed with protein and nutrients, and sells for a dollar a pop. Eaten by men, women and children of all ages, it’s the mac ‘n cheese of Japan. It should be the next international health craze, but it probably won’t be.

It’s natto, and it’s absolutely delicious. Well, for some people.

Let’s start with the basics. Natto is a traditional Japanese food made with soybeans fermented with Bacillus subtilis, a bacterium found in soil and the gastrointestinal tracts of hooved herbivores and marine sponges. Hungry?

My Japanese mother raised me on the gooey stuff, and I can’t get enough. But it’s complicated.

My Polish-American father, who holds a Ph.D. in East Asian History, speaks fluent Japanese and can probably give you an on-the-spot genealogy of the Tokugawa shogunate, can’t stand the stuff. When we break out the natto, he relocates to another room (it has a… distinct aroma, which my wife has not inaccurately compared to baby poop). Can’t say I blame him.

For the first three years of our marriage, my wife, who loves Japanese food, was not a fan. She would try it once or twice a year, but mostly kept it at arm’s length, like that neighbor you wave to half-heartedly while mowing your lawn. Then one day it all clicked. She’s in for life.

My brother-in-law took to it immediately. It was like handing him an Italian sub — no questions asked, eyebrows raised or nostrils pinched. Not the case with my wife’s parents, who just looked at it like a weird bug. They’ll never try it.

One of my sons loves it, the other won’t touch it.

What makes natto special? It improves digestion, contributes to stronger bones, and promotes heart health. It may also strengthen your immune system, reduce the risk of certain cancers, help you lose weight, and improve brain health. It’s better than Ozempic.

I’m telling you, if you can get over the smell and texture you’re gonna love this stuff.

More good news: If you can make toast, you can make natto. Simply defrost overnight in the fridge, or heat it up for 30 seconds in the microwave. Add the included spicy mustard and soy sauce packets and stir to a frothy foam. Pile on to a fluffy bed of rice. That’s it. If you like fixings, my personal favorite is to throw some thinly sliced chives and shredded nori on top.

As with anything, there’s a radical fringe — for reasons even this natto-lover will never understand, some enthusiasts have decided that it isn’t slimy enough, so they stir in a raw egg. I would not recommend. This is the nuclear option, like spiking your Mountain Dew with maple syrup.

So if you’ve ever wondered why Japanese men and women enjoy the world’s longest life expectancy, head to the frozen aisle of your local Asian mart and try some soybeans fermented by Bacillus subtilis. You’ll thank me later. Or maybe you won’t.

And because she never writes down a recipe, every meal is a truly once-in-a-lifetime event. The downside is you can never recreate it. My wife and I have tried, alright — it just never turns out the way hers does.

Intentionally or not, my mom’s approach to cooking has taught me a valuable lesson: the importance of figuring it out. Navigating life, after all, requires improvisation, flexibility, creativity, adaptability and imagination — IKEA aside, instruction manuals are the exception (and as many a frustrated IKEA assembler can attest, you often have to improvise with your Jokkmokk, too).

I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that my mom’s culinary approach reflects her life experience. “Figuring it out” is something she would know a lot about, having moved to the United States in her 30s to raise a family in a foreign language and culture, often navigating unfamiliar and bewildering cultural contexts, mixing it up with carpool and baseball and soccer moms with whom she didn’t have much of anything in common.

Some of my fondest memories as a kid come from the kitchen table: my mom roasting mochi with kinako over an open flame, the rice surface bubbling and charring perfectly; preparing a Japanese hot pot called sukiyaki; and making salmon-maki, natto-maki (natto is a gooey fermented soybean contraption), and egg and cucumber-maki for lunch. PBJs, too.

Some things have changed: Now I’m grown and have four kids of my own. Others haven’t: My mom continues to cook for me, and now her daughter-in-law and grandkids too, dropping off meals at a clip of roughly twice per week. In fact, she’s bringing us something tonight. Thanks, Mom. And Happy Mother’s Day.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the Fulbright Program at the U.S. Department of State and writes about parenting and family life.

It was the same story every time. Like a middle-aged Charlie Brown, I would always get the cart with the busted wheel, or the basket with the rotting lettuce plastered on the bottom.

At some point, usually about 20 minutes in, I’d be standing in the middle of the aisle — clock ticking, smooth jazz or early 90s pop playing, anxiety rising — consult my grocery list, and confirm that I’d only managed to locate a loaf of bread. Like a child lost at a theme park, a sense of panic and overwhelm would wash over me, and I’d think seriously about bagging it. Pizza night, kids.

Overstressed, over time, over budget. I was over it. Then along came ALDI.

With its bare-bones, no-frills approach, ALDI has mastered minimalism; it makes air look superfluous. The result is beautiful simplicity.

At most grocery stores, you have to choose from 20 different kinds of maple syrup, peanut butter and olive oil. It’s agony. At ALDI, there’s one or two of each; grab what you need and keep it moving.

The manageable size of ALDI stores, their predictable layouts, their lightning-quick check-outs — you won’t find a NASCAR pit crew that moves faster — all of it means you can get in and out in 30-45 minutes and get on with your life, freeing up time for other domestic drudgeries.

Let’s talk about value.

At ALDI I can get chocolate from Belgium, croissants from France, and stroopwaffel from the Netherlands; the vast majority of items are safe for kids with food allergies, like my oldest son; and the produce is at least on par with its pricier competitors. Throw in what probably amounts to a 30% discount on your grocery bill — I’ve found it’s nearly impossible to break $200 at ALDI — and it’s downright criminal to shop anywhere else. That’s not hyperbole. I believe you should do time.

This being an article about grocery stores, we need to take quick stock (pun intended) of ALDI’s competition:

Costco — I don’t want to anger the Kirkland Krazies, so I’ll tread carefully. Look, I don’t need to get my groceries from a farmer’s market in Tuscany; I just prefer not to get them from an airplane hangar.

Whole Foods — Someone really oughta call this place Whole Paycheck. Also, the uniform requirement — Hoka or ON sneakers, Lululemon tank, pants or leggings, or a snazzy blazer — is a bit much. Everyone looks like they came straight from barre or the boardroom. I’m just coming from my house.

Safeway — It’s the safe way to spend Whole Foods money for produce that tastes like water.

Trader Joe’s — Fantastic snacks and frozen foods; it’s just tough to buy for a large family. Also, I’m not in marketing, but not having a coffee bar called “Joe’s Joe” just feels like a missed opportunity.

H Mart — I love H Mart. Just don’t go there for white people food (bagels, bread, crackers, cheeses), because they don’t have any.

As you can see, it’s ALDI by a mile.

ALDI is also a refuge. I have a second-grader, kindergartner and four-month-old twin babies at home. If you see me at ALDI, you probably think I’m at the grocery store. Nah. I’m at the beach. And they say having kids is limiting, but I’d say I go to the beach one, two, sometimes three times a week.

Thanks to ALDI, I shop with swagger. I’ve found my mojo. It’s kind of like “How Stella Got Her Groove Back,” except it’s “How Zach Got His Food Back.” Which probably won’t generate a lot of scripts.

Perhaps Michelangelo said it best: “Beauty is the purgation of superfluities.” Guy would have loved ALDI. Don’t change a thing, ALDI. You’re a masterpiece.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the Fulbright Program at the U.S. Department of State and writes about parenting and family life.

Well, fear not, my fellow harried holiday friend, because if despite your best intentions you’ve yet to deck the halls or hang a wreath or string up some lights, I’ve got a welcome contraction for you: Don’t. Notice how your shoulders just un-tensed?

Instead, do what I did: Get an inflatable. Surely, you’ve noticed them. How could you not? They’re festive trash bags blown up into seasonally appropriate hot air balloons by a cheap fan motor, and they’re bobbing merrily on front lawns across American suburbia.

Now, when it comes to holiday decor I’m more of a traditionalist — the holly and the ivy, candles in the window, a classy creche — but ever since I purchased our first family inflatable for Halloween, I’ve come to genuinely enjoy these boisterous balloons of buoyant banality.

Is there a better decoration than an inflatable? That’s debatable.

On the plus side, there is zero assembly required. No more dragging the reindeer down from the attic, cursing as hooves knock you on the noggin, a new piece missing each year. No need to untangle that knot of lights only to discover that they’ve gone out during their basement hibernation, sending you out the door on another CVS run — cue the cursing again.

Enough’s enough. Get your inflatable. Plug it in. You’re done. If time is your enemy, inflatables are your friend.

On the downside, some may contend that the vast majority of inflatables, like hippos decked out in Santa hats, a rainbow unicorn with a frog on its back, or a giant gingerbread man soaking in a massive mug of hot cocoa, have only a tangentially tangential relationship to Christmas and the meaning of Jesus, the Son of God, the Word Incarnate, entering into human history as one of us to secure our eternal salvation. Bah. Humbug.

Look, I get it. I’m Catholic and believe that Jesus is the reason for the season. But He’s also the reason for unicorns, dragons and Christmas dinosaurs, so why not convey that through the cheap majesty of inflatable polyester?

So if your neighbors start to complain because you’ve plopped on your front lawn a rotund 10-foot Frosty the Snowman inflatable that plays the holiday special on a continuous loop on its jolly belly, well, in all likelihood they’re a bunch of grinches, and they need this dose of holiday magic more than they know. Trust me, you’re doing them a favor.

Christmas is almost here, but it’s not too late to decorate. This holiday season, inflate your heart. Inflate joy. Inflate wonder. Inflate awe. Inflate an inflatable. Merry Christmas.

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the Fulbright Program at the U.S. Department of State.

Now that we’ve secured our place in the upcoming College Football Playoff, I’d like to take a moment to clear the air about our beloved football team, because there’s an awful lot of misconceptions floating around out there. Like the Yankees, Cowboys and Duke basketball, it seems we’re just one of those teams: You either love us (which I totally get) or you hate us (which I don’t).

The Bleacher Report takes a stab at it:

“Most haters of Notre Dame football derive their malice from the ‘Holier than thou’ attitude that seems to follow its legion of proud fans. The notion that good grades and endless tradition equals success against every opponent makes the rest of the country snarl.”

Banana oil! This couldn’t be further from the truth. We don’t really, truly, actually expect success — we hope for it, but that’s a different thing altogether. In fact, to the Alabamas, Ohio States, and Georgias of the college football world, I’ll say it now: We’ll never beat you in a big game. Not in a million years. We might come close, maybe even really really close. But when the game is on the line, we’ll botch a field goal or blow a coverage or slip on a shamrock. Every modern Domer knows this — we’ve seen it far too many times.

We may never beat you, but that’s mostly because we’re better than you.

See, at Notre Dame we always do things the right way, and when we do them the wrong way, we do them less wrong than you did. Your recruiting violations involve laundered money, strip clubs, escorts, luxury SUVs and a booster named Scabby who slithers around sticky towny bars. Scabby is not a good person. Our violations are phone calls made by clean-shaven men in crisp sports polos and khakis that take place outside of the official recruiting calendar, and you bet your bacon that before hanging up we inquire about granny and whether she needs anything from Kroger’s. It’s just the right — the less wrong thing to do. It’s called character.

You may have also noticed that each year we lose to a team we have absolutely no business losing to. In the last three years, we’ve lost to Marshall, a 3-9 Stanford squad, and Northern Illinois at home. These are commonly understood as calamities, embarrassments, monumental upsets — pick your descriptor. But under the Golden Dome, we call it something else: charity. Because even on the gridiron we Domers strive to put our Catholic faith into practice: The first (that’s us) shall be last (just for a sec) and the last (the other guys) shall be first (don’t get too cozy).

What about payments to players under name, image and likeness (NIL)? Now there’s a topic murkier than a papal conclave. I can’t claim to know where we get the money or how much we give out, but I’m sure it’s perfectly calibrated, exactly the right amount, fair to all sides, whatever it is. No, I don’t know that for sure, but I still know it — it’s called faith.

When it comes to recruiting, the larger question is this: Why do we willfully kneecap ourselves by adhering to such rigid standards of probity and academic excellence? Put another way, why are there no dum-dums under the Dome? That’s an easy one. It’s our penance — I never said we’re saints, although we’re pretty dang close.

Fun fact: There are actual gold flakes on our shiny helmets — 23.9 karats. Count ‘em. The furthest thing from blood karats, their origin source is the majestic 200-foot Golden Dome, topped with a 20-foot golden statue of Our Lady, that shines resplendently over campus. What’s on your helmets? Behr?

Hmm, this isn’t going quite as I’d envisioned. I just know someone’s going to twist my words. I guess what it all boils down to is that to get Notre Dame, you really had to go there. Which you probably didn’t (it’s like, really hard to get in).

Integrity. Charity. Faith. Humility. Gold. Our choirs are singin’, our helmets are blingin’. What’s not to love?

So like I said, there’s a lot of baloney out there about Notre Dame. Don’t believe a scrap of it for a millisecond. No, we won’t win the College Football Playoff this year. But we’re still better than you. Say it with me now: Go Irish!

Zach Przystup (zprzystup@gmail.com) works for the Fulbright Program at the U.S. Department of State.