FROM THE ARCHIVES: Tom Humphriesfound it hard to untangle the Gridiron tactics while distracted by buxom boatswains being hurled high into the Croke Park air

THE IRISH TIMES, the plainspeaking paper de nos jours, took its ease on Saturday afternoon, consuming a beef dinner and then perching high in the Croke Park concrete to see if bovine-related disease would hit like the rush from a street-dealt narcotic while American students did violence to each other far below.

The wonderful Croke Park beef was advertised as Texas style which we took to be a polite way of tying in the theme for the day, American football, with a reassurance that we didn't have to be worrying about what precise county the beef came from. It's Texas style. Nothing mad about it. These cows never auditioned for Riverdance, never tried the hokey cokey.

Still, on an afternoon when we didn’t know what we were watching it seemed apposite to begin by not knowing what we were eating.

Nearly 40,000 others, drawn by the notion of seeing some thunder shaken down and the prospect of more men setting about each other roughly that you'd see in an average All-Ireland football final, stuck to the healthy options of hot dogs, pop corn and beer. In a panic The Irish Timesspent most of the game consuming beer in the hope that the alcohol would kill off any loon cells lurking in the beef.

Meanwhile down on the field the buffalo did roam. Notre Dame had come to Ireland, to share their football heritage with the denizens of the ould sod. Right and fitting too.

Back in the 1920s the famed backfield of the Fightin’ Irish were christened the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Where else but Ireland could have provided Notre Dame with the lingering apocalyptic spirits of famine, war, pestilence and death PLUS the trappings of a quarter-built modern stadium.

Notre Dame’s victims for the day were the boys and girls of Navy. Somebody should examine what the US Navy are feeding their crews. The Midshipmen of Navy for instance are supported by a jolly crew of Midshippersons. Mad as midlands cattle some would say. Certain Midshippersons among that group are allowed to toss certain other Midshippersons (specifically those bearing both ovaries and pom poms) high into the air for the entertainment of the crowd. A very good job they do of it too and many of us found it hard to untangle the gridiron tactics while distracted by buxom boatswains being hurled high into the air every couple of minutes.

In the end the Midshippersons made more complete passes with their skirted comrades than their hapless quarterback made with the ball. One had to wonder why there is much bloodshed when Americans invade places. Could the Navy not win over the native populations by tossing each other in the air, doing lots of press-ups and buying heaps of expensive woollen products? There is a better way. For 90 per cent hotel occupancy by people who tip well, we would gladly surrender sovereignty.

There was much to be learned but there were disappointments too. Touchdown celebrations were lacklustre. Well-padded men in helmets headbutting each other like astronauts shaping for a row. The Green Bay Packers like to celebrate touchdowns by jumping into the crowd behind the end zone and we had hoped for the spectacle of running backs vaulting on to the Hill, getting caught in the barbed wire like extras in The Great Escape.

Europe has evidently become the cutting edge leader in the matter of well-choreographed sporting celebrations (although Chelsea’s poncey posing this season has crossed the line between art and kitsch, possibly in an attempt to satirise the form). Gridiron players must try harder. Exempted from our criticisms are spectators. Navy players exchanged conventional high fives after touchdowns but many of their uniformed fans made the effort to run to the sideline and perform press-ups for a minute or so. The GAA should make a press-ups area available at all future big matches for those of us inclined to follow the Navy model.

By way of cross-cultural exchanges we Irish emerged with a profit. We offered them the now redundant soccer chant “You’ll Never Beat the Irish” which they found quaint and easy to remember and they introduced the vending of cold beer behind the stands which we found to be a splendid innovation.

In a generous gesture embracing the cultures of two emigrant communities who have done so much to shape the United States, the visitors invited the Irish natives to join them in repeated performances of the Mexican Wave. It is the mark of an affluent nation that so manv people are prepared to make an honest effort in a Mexican Wave while clutching pints of beer in their hands.

I joined the queue of beet-faced Irish begging bar staff to provide lids and straws for their beer. There were linguistic difficulties of course and a simple phrase book should be made available to spectators in the future.

(Awl-right! Way to Go! Get up, ya boy ya!; You suck ref!: Ya hoor ya!; Jee-zuss H Christ, coach!: Ah Jay-zus, Sean!).

The football match itself was fine even if it was robbed of the quality of suspense by Notre Dame’s comprehensive superiority.

Myself, I had come to see the quarterback for the Fightin’ Irish. Ron Powlus is a young fella feeling the curse of early sporting celebrity. The Jason Sherlock of his own people. There were 40,000 people in the stand the day he played his first senior high school game for Berwick High in Pennyslvania. He went on to be state and national player of the year. The sure-fire tip for the big time. The day he first played for Notre Dame the NBC commentator announced that “we’re unveiling a very special painting today, like a Mona Lisa”.

Ever since, Powlus’ form has been sufficiently speckled to resemble Jackson Pollock more than Da Vinci. Worse, he has discovered that he has bones which will betray him and break. He has suffered two broken collarbones (well the same one broken twice) and a broken arm plus knee problems.

This season, his last probably, has been another speckled season for Powlus. Saturday’s big win will have given him a reprieve. He seems like such a nice guy, such a victim of talent and expectation that his story is addictive.

We’ve been catching snippets about him on this side of the Atlantic for some time now. This year he reaches the crossroads. Look for another year of college eligibility in a team that plays a pattern which doesn’t suit him? Or turn pro? From all the fire and thunder on Saturday it is Powlus we will follow as the human interest story for the next couple of years or so.

By the time Notre Dame hit these shores again Powlus will be another line in their storied past.

Of all the things we learned on Saturday about the marriage of commerce and sport, the blood and bones tale of Ron Powlus could be the most interesting. That and why the Navy have a goat as their mascot.