Jack Swarbrick, Esq.
University Vice
President and Director of Athletics
University of Notre
Dame
C113 Joyce Center
Notre Dame, IN 46556
Dear Mr. Swarbrick,
Top o’ the morning to
you, laddy! It is my infinite pleasure to make your written acquaintance, sir,
and may the (unremarkable) wind be at your back as you read this letter. You
may not remember this, but we have met before. In fact, we’ve met every fall
Saturday these 28 years past as our spirits rose together to cheer on the
Fightin’ Irish of the gridiron! So I guess, no, we haven’t actually met. Sorry.
I am writing you today
at the behest of my legal counsel, but please, unfurrow your brow! This is a
letter of joy and friendship, you see, as the subject is my inevitable death. Regrettably,
top men tell me that, as a human, I have but 40-60 more years of life coursing
through my veins. As such, I have spent the last few months drafting my
end-of-life wishes for my wife to execute, none of which are as vital to me as
the fate of my mortal remains.
You see, sir, I am an
Ultimate player. It is a rapidly growing sport, even played by a club at Notre
Dame. As athletic director I am sure you are already familiar, but if not then
simply imagine Frisbee Football. A sport disc is passed around like a bottle of
Mad Dog 20/20 at an Irish tailgater until the team has scored in the end zone.
In my illustrious career I have played at the highest levels of
Southwest-Central Ohio, but sadly I have never played on the biggest stage of
all: Notre Dame Stadium.
That’s why in my will I
have specified that my cremated ashes be poured into the mold of a regulation
175-gram Ultra-Star sport disc. This disc will be emblazoned with my death date
and my infamous quote, “To be thought of and made infamous later in life.”
Then, instead of a funeral, two teams will take the stadium field at sunset to
play a final game of Ultimate with my plasticized body. The first will consist
of my favorite teammates of bygone days. The second team will be a bunch of
vaguely evil Russian guys. At the end of the game, my friends will light the
disc on fire and launch it across the darkening field. Then, just like at the
end of Ocean’s 11, they will watch it
burn at midfield before walking away one by one. Finally, your groundskeeper
will spray the fire with an extinguisher and use a shovel to stamp out any burning
grass.
That’s it! This meager
request is all I ask of you. A letter from your office granting Notre Dame’s
blessing of this dream will be the cherry on top of a living will my lawyer describes as "the most Hobbesian document I've ever read." Will you consider it? Please,
I beg of you, sir. Sometimes I think this death wish of mine is the only thing
worth living for anymore. . .
Cheerily yours,
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