Let the Game Be Loud: Thoughts from the Shamrock Series at Lambeau Field

In 2020, the Shamrock Series was supposed to take place between the Wisconsin Badgers and the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame at Lambeau Field. Rescheduled for 2026, I was finally able to travel to Green Bay for the gridiron contest. There is no shortage of sights and stories, tastes and treasures that I will savor for many years from this Labor Day weekend—or that I could write about for this blog. There is, however, one significant sense that I cannot let pass: sound. And it might be my strongest, most urgent request for not just college football, but sports on every level, including high school. Please, please: let the game be loud.

So grateful to have attended this game with my friend and fellow Farleyite, Eileen '95.
Great fans make games that much better!

The day started with the sound of more than 1,000 members of the Notre Dame family gathered inside The Nativity of Our Lord Parish in Green Bay. Although we arrived a half hour early for Mass (an atypical Catholic move!), we migrated to the overflow room for seats and a simulcast of the liturgy. Father Bob Dowd, C.S.C., president of the University, welcomed everyone by assuring us that the Alumni Association had looked for the biggest Catholic church in Green Bay. “I guess we should have held Mass at Lambeau.” Gratefully, joyfully and collectively, we clapped as one. What an awesome way to start game day.

SFND leadership and the overflow room.

From church, we—a pilgrim people—headed to holy ground: Lambeau Field. Along the way, we toured Titletown, visited with classmates, fellow alumni and friends at a number of tailgates, and found our way to one we weren't even invited to. With the wrong address in hand, we were welcomed by a woman with a friendly face and the strongest Wisconsin accent I have ever heard. The four of us stood on the patio, and she warmly greeted us by asking who we were there to meet. I gave her the name of my friend Don. She said, “Hmm… I don't know him.” I responded, “He's class of ’78.” She said, “We are class of ’86.” She asked us where we were from and then offered us beer, water or soda. Truly, that's the sound of hospitality. The Midwest does it so well.

There's not a bad seat in the house. All bleachers in there. Tight quarters!

Given that the Shamrock Series is a home game, we expected the Band of the Fighting Irish to be in full force. The trumpets came to play the Alma Mater at the conclusion of Mass, and when I saw the empty seats near the end zone, I knew we were in for a musical treat. They don't just play music at a football game, the band is part of the institution. It predates Notre Dame football by decades and is one of the oldest collegiate bands in continuous existence.I love the cadence of the drum line, the call of the horns, the staccato of the flutes against the action on the field. The roar or the crowd, the cheers and jeers, the whistle of the official, the cadence of the quarterback: those sounds are part of the texture of college football. That's the soundtrack I want to hear.

What I heard and didn't hear on Sunday was different. With no down time in sound, I didn't talk as much to the people around me. At times, I couldn't even hear my friend Eileen, who sat in the seat next to me. At one point, I wondered if there had been a delay of game because the crowd was so busy singing “Country Roads.” And this isn't just a Lambeau thing. I've noticed it at high school basketball games. It's been part of the NBA experience for years. At the Notre Dame-Purdue game last year, I realized that instead of hearing the band, I was hearing “Crazy Train.” I can't help but think of what Simon and Garfunkel sang about more than 50 years ago: the sound of silence. Except that's not quite what I'm asking for. I'm not asking for silence. I'm asking for something better: the sound of the game.

Don't get me wrong. Sound is incredibly important in sports. Let me be clear here: I think there is an important distinction between the different kinds of sound we hear at a sporting event. There is the band playing—music that belongs to the place and the tradition. There are fans chanting—sound that arises organically from the community. There is the roar of the crowd—the emotional response to what is actually happening on the field. There is the game itself—the whistles, the pads colliding, quarterbacks calling signals, coaches yelling and players communicating. But, my gripe is with the constant manufactured stimulation. It is the stadium operator pressing play on another song because there are 27 seconds until the next snap. It is the assumption that every lull needs to be filled, every moment needs a soundtrack, every pause needs to be entertained.

wearing the Shamrock Series game day jersey. Thanks to Eileen's husband, Joe!

I left wondering if I was just getting old. Seems like the something a young person might not complain about. Still, I wondered is it possible for the pendulum to swing the other way? Since we are saturated in noise, where else might be go...but to the other direction. My colleague and friend Owen offered a response to my question (he's the best!). He said "check out the remarks from the head coach at Memphis." Chris Huff is doing something different: no music at practice. He certainly bent my ear. 

Coach Huff's reasoning is simple. Practice is about focusing on the next play and he doesn't want his players worrying about who is on the aux or what song is playing. "Why the Noise? The Real Story Behind Memphis' Silent Practice" states, "In a game where one missed assignment can swing the scoreboard, silence becomes a tool. It sharpens senses and forces communication. It amplifies voices that matter, coaches, teammates, and the player’s own inner dialogue. Let’s be honest, practice is not about entertainment. It is about execution."

That got me thinking: If the players need silence to pay attention to the game, maybe the fans do, too.

We'll undefeated!

What happens to our experience of sport when we are never allowed to experience silence? What happens when we don't get to hear the crowd because the speakers are louder? What happens when the stadium doesn't trust the game—or the people in the stadium—to generate enough energy on its own?

Perhaps this is really an issue of attention. And attention matters in sports. It matters in spirituality, too. To be attentive is to be present. To be present is to notice. And sometimes the most important things we notice are the things we can hear only when everything else stops.

I don't want football to be quiet. Quite the opposite.

I want to hear the band. I want to hear 80,000 people roar after a touchdown. I want to hear the student section erupt. I want to hear the collective gasp when a pass is intercepted. I want to hear the quarterback's cadence, the referee's whistle and the sound of shoulder pads colliding. I want to hear people around me laughing, groaning, cheering and arguing about the call. And I want to hear the band. Not AC/DC, Guns n Roses, or even Duran Duran (I mean, I do...but not at the expense of the ND band). Heck I even want to hear the guy two rows in back of me saying "I need the Irish to score again to cover the spread."  I want the game to make its own soundtrack.

Please, please turn down the stadium and let the game be loud.

NB: There is one moment in the game...unless you are the grinch, you have to admit...it's fun. At the conclusion of the third quarter, the announcer gave context for two of CFB's traditions at the conclusion of the third quarter. At ND, it's the 1812 Overture—which in my day, honored Lou Holtz (with the L until we switched to BD for Bob Davie). The other is the "unadulterated chaos" of "Jump Around" by House of Pain. It's hard not to long. It's hard not to move. Just see Ted Lasso, Season 4, Episode 6 if you don't believe me.