Notre Dame ran the ball like it owed back rent, late fees, and an apology to physics. USC tried tackling ideas instead of people, which is noble in a seminar and catastrophic in the red zone. The Irish didn’t just move the chains; they crocheted a sweater out of them and wore it to prom.

Jeremiyah Love kept appearing in places no mortal itinerary lists, like a time traveler with excellent vision and worse manners. He ran through gaps, around edges, and briefly across an alternate dimension where linebackers are houseplants. Somewhere a stopwatch filed a restraining order because it felt stalked.

USC’s defense executed an avant-garde performance art piece titled “What If We Didn’t.” Their pursuit angles looked like wishful thinking diagrammed by a poet on roller skates. If they wrapped up any ball carrier, it was strictly by accident and out of respect for hospitality.

And yet, as Notre Dame busted big plays the way toddlers bust piñatas, the rivalry’s future stared at the ceiling like a Victorian ghost. Realignment has turned calendars into ransom notes; tradition now communicates via burner phones and emojis of shrugging leprechauns.

The Irish crowd converted yardage into choreography, spelling L-O-V-E with first downs while syncing their claps to existential dread. One fan priced a vintage Notre Dame wool pennant mid-celebration, because capitalism takes no plays off, even during a jailbreak run.

On paper, the stats were straightforward—on paper, everything is. On grass, however, numbers grew legs and chose sides. Possession tilted toward Notre Dame the way gravity tilts toward cliffs, and efficiency became a four-letter word in cardinal and gold.

USC’s offense looked like a boutique pop-up that sells points in curated batches: adorable, overpriced, and closed on third-and-long. The quarterback rotated through progressions and life choices while blitzers filed by like TSA agents who hate liquids, gels, and optimism.

Television executives, wearing blazers lined with contract clauses, announced they love the rivalry and plan to visit it at a nice farm upstate. Expect the next installment to be played on a Thursday morning in Reykjavík, sponsored by a bank that advertises with arithmetic and dread.

Notre Dame coaches spoke in the ancestor tongue of coaches everywhere: “Complimentary football,” which, like complimentary bread, disappears once the check arrives. USC promised to tackle better after they locate the tackles. They are still on hold with customer support.

In the stands, fandom expressed itself with equal parts devotion and arts-and-crafts. A Trojans diehard reapplied USC cardinal-and-gold face paint kit like war makeup for a battle that had already been politely lost. An Irish alum blessed a foam finger and two beverages, in that order.

The field itself, tired of being a doormat, attempted to slide-tackle a pulling guard. The scoreboard tried to play coy but kept flashing the truth like a teenager with a new driver’s license. Even the goalposts leaned toward South Bend just to feel involved.

When the last whistle sighed, the only thing certain was uncertainty and a lot of trampled grass. The rivalry might get a pause, a reshuffle, or a witness relocation haircut, but the tape won’t forget. And if you listen closely, the box score is still whispering the punchline: Love always finds a gap.