So, I was thinking about the whole “quarterback for Notre Dame” thing the other day. Just popped into my head while I was trying to fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen, funny enough. You see those guys on TV, under the lights, the gold helmets flashing. Seems like a glamorous gig, right? But man, the pressure must be insane. Every throw, every decision, millions watching.
It got me reflecting on pressure, not on a football field, but in my own little world. Reminded me of when I decided to learn how to bake sourdough bread during that big lockdown period. Sounds silly comparing it to being a QB for the Fighting Irish, I know. But stick with me.
My Sourdough Saga
Everyone was doing it, right? Baking bread. I saw pictures online, looked easy enough. Flour, water, salt. How hard could it be? Famous last words.
First, I needed a starter. That bubbly goo that makes the bread rise. I followed some instructions I found online.
- Day 1: Mix flour and water. Wait.
- Day 2: Feed it more flour and water. Wait some more.
- Day 3: Still waiting. Smelled kinda funky.
- Day 4: Discard some, feed again. Getting impatient now.
- Day 5-7: More feeding, more waiting. Was this thing even alive?
It was like practice drills, day in and day out. Except I wasn’t throwing spirals, I was feeding this weird jar of goo. My wife kept looking at it sideways. “Are you sure that’s going to turn into bread?” she’d ask.
Doubt started creeping in. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe I should just stick to fixing leaky faucets. It felt like being down by two touchdowns in the fourth quarter.
Then, finally, around Day 8 or 9, the thing started bubbling properly! It smelled yeasty, alive! Felt like a small victory, like completing a third-down pass.
The First Bake
Okay, starter ready. Time for the main event. Mixing the dough. This sticky, unwieldy mess. Folding it, shaping it. More waiting. Then the actual baking. I followed the recipe to the letter. Timed everything.
Pulled the first loaf out of the oven. Looked… okay? Kinda flat. Cut into it. Dense. Like, really dense. Could’ve used it as a doorstop.
It was a total failure. An interception returned for a touchdown, basically. I was ready to throw in the towel (or the dough). But then I thought, “Okay, what went wrong?” Just like a QB reviewing game film, right? Maybe the starter wasn’t strong enough? Did I overproof it? Underproof it? The oven temp?
So, I tried again. And again. Each time, tweaking something small. More folds, less water, different baking time. It took weeks. Lots of failed loaves. My family politely chewed through some questionable bread.
Finally, one bake… it worked. The crust was golden, crackly. The inside had those nice holes they call the ‘crumb’. It actually tasted like real sourdough!
It wasn’t about becoming a master baker. It was about sticking with something difficult, figuring it out step-by-step, dealing with the flops, and pushing through. I guess that pressure, whether it’s throwing a game-winning pass for Notre Dame or just trying not to make another brick of bread, teaches you stuff. You learn to handle the process, trust the work you put in, even when it feels like it’s not working. Yeah, way less glamorous than being under center in South Bend, but hey, at least I got some decent toast out of it.
