I was once betrayed by a pair of Notre Dame gym shorts.
And while I still root for the Irish, my feelings have waned since that childhood backstabbing.
It happened when I was seven or eight. I had been swimming at the public pool, and when it was time to head for home, I put on my shirt, tied up my runners and went into the lobby to wait for my friends.
As I waited, leaning on the wall near the exit, I couldn’t help notice the lifeguards and pool patrons laughing and pointing. I couldn’t figure out what was so funny as I looked around the room. Then, I looked down. Like the proverbial forgotten pants nightmare, I was without apparel. Yes, naked as the day I was born.
I raced into the dressing room, found my faithless Notre Dame shorts, and did what any humiliated youth would do. I threw them in the trash – and ran home in wet swim trunks and squishy sneakers.