Read Online The Green Revolution by Ralph McInerny - Free Book Online Page B

clichés have their role to play in polite conversation. He wondered if Wintheiser could translate his remark into Hittite.
    What Wintheiser thought would be helpful was to make fun of the critics, lampoon them, hold them up to ridicule.
    â€œYou know any kids on these alternative campus papers?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do.”
    â€œGood. Let’s unleash them on these yo-yos. Cartoons, funny names, the whole thing. Picket their classes. Kids will know what to do.”
    â€œI’ll get right on it.”
    Wintheiser rose. Standing, he need only lift his arms and he could touch the ceiling.
    â€œHere’s my cell phone number,” Wintheiser said, putting a card on the desk. “Keep me posted.”
    Alone, without the thought that he and Wintheiser were acting as a team, he wondered how he could implement Wintheiser’s idea. Advocata Nostra was out, and the other conservative paper. The Observer ? Forget it. Then he had it. Common Sense . They were furious with the efforts of Weeping Willow to turn back the clock as far as Catholicism went. Did they give a damn about football? Then he remembered the several cutting remarks about Roger Knight that had appeared in Common Sense  … and Roger’s name had appeared on the list of professors supporting Lipschutz. How to approach them? Ah. Gordie Finlayson was the faculty advisor of Common Sense . His poems often appeared in its pages. Finlayson nursed a deep hatred for all chaired professors. Maybe that had been the reason for those slams at Knight.
    He would talk to Finlayson. Let the campaign begin.

11
    It should have been easier to track down football players to interview, but Bartholomew Hanlon found them an elusive bunch. Their size alone should have made them easy to spot, but then many of them allegedly went around campus in electric carts, so their height was hidden. Did they eat in dining halls with mere mortals?
    â€œWhy do you ask?” The young man’s shaved head gave him an infantile look, as if he were still awaiting his first growth.
    â€œI’m a reporter.”
    The bald one backed away. “We’re not supposed to talk with reporters.”
    â€œYou’re on the team?”
    Bartholomew’s incredulous tone didn’t help. “I’m the kicker.”
    â€œOf course. I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”
    Bartholomew had fallen into conversation with John Wesley just outside the South Dining Hall. Now he led him to a bench, where Wesley reluctantly sat down. Bartholomew got out a notebook.
    â€œNothing about football.”
    â€œAbsolutely not.”
    Bartholomew realized that he was being less than truthful. In fact, he was lying. He had got hold of a team roster and then checked out the names in the campus phone book. Few players seemed to live on campus. Wesley, however accidentally encountered, was thus a real prize.
    â€œHow did you become a kicker?”
    Wesley started to rise. “I mean it. Coach doesn’t want us giving interviews.”
    â€œI don’t blame him.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Wesley sat again and looked at him narrowly. “No games. We can’t talk about them.”
    â€œNo football, period. What hall do you live in?”
    That got the ball rolling. Wesley was from Nebraska, someplace west of Omaha that Bartholomew had never heard of. “Why did you come to Notre Dame?”
    â€œThey came to me.” Wesley raised a hand as if to stop himself.
    â€œWhat attracted you to a Catholic school?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, after all, this is the premier Catholic university.”
    A look of pain spread over Wesley’s face. “You sound like my mother.”
    â€œI have a cold.” Wesley’s eyes widened, and then he roared with laughter. Bartholomew had made a friend. “What about your mother?”
    â€œShe’s worried I’ll become a