When Wil Haygood, writer of The Butler, came to campus.
I learned the true value of Notre Dame football during the Davie, Willingham and Weis eras.
Deciding who gets in and who doesn’t attracts a passionate band of critics, gripers and second-guessers. Bishop and his staff know quite well their decisions break hearts, collapse dreams and vault young people into life-altering directions.
While many elements are indeed grim, this story rests on help and hope and the human spirit.
There was a time in America’s history when the continent was a vast sea of possibility. It was the raw material for visionaries and schemers, the enterprising and broad-shouldered.
Some stories need to be lived in order to be told truthfully, truly and fully.
It would take a book to explain what it’s like to be black at Notre Dame. And one with many voices. Now we have that book.
I think you’ll find the list of fans in these stories to be an all-star lineup.
James W. Frick ’51, ’72Ph.D., 1924-2014
Life is more interesting when viewed over time — as a book rather than a few beginning chapters.
“The paper I have enclosed was composed at Notre Dame by Michael Ury when he was on retreat in 1986. Michael died this past year of cancer. Naturally his family was devastated. His mother is in a nursing home that I visit. She asked me if I could see that this was published. I thought of no better place than ND. Our Lady would want to bring comfort to a loving mother.”
For years I carried around in my wallet a little scrap of paper that read Peace like a River, Leif Enger. I didn’t recognize the handwriting but knew it was a book recommendation from someone. I’m really glad I held on to it.
This issue started with an idea that’s been around awhile — the concept of the “Notre Dame man.” Three decades ago the editors here talked about doing a story that answered the question, “What do we mean by the ‘Notre Dame man?’”
At one time the phrase meant something significant. It was an ideal. I still get a handful of letters each year from alums who have written about a father who has died; they talk about their father’s strong but quiet life and all the good he did. “He was a true Notre Dame man,” they conclude. In the past year or two I have written obituaries of colleagues here, and each time I have thought those three words the best summation of their lives.…
While the campus expansion in recent times may have caused a mild case of disorientation in those returning for an occasional football game or reunion, the next wave of construction projects may prove even more dizzying to those who stay away too long.
A talk radio commentator was ranting the other day about the global warming “hoax.” He said this winter was evidence that the planet isn’t getting any hotter and that climate change talk is mere propaganda.
Basketball is a messy game. It is even messier for 9-year-olds who can’t help but double-dribble, who swarm to the ball like moths to a porch-light and who take too many steps when none is allowed.
The 2014 poster: “Looking Out Father Hesburgh’s Window”
I grew up under the cloud of Cold War hostility. The Olympics became a staging ground for international rivalries, with U.S. athletes doing their patriotic best to beat Soviet bloc countries and show which political and economic system was superior. Athletes, whether they liked it or not, bore the weight of global power posturing.
A cold and frustrated freshman discovers the endless wonders of brunch and community at North Dining Hall.
Long before it became hip to buy local, to choose organic, to go with natural ingredients and a diet of fresh fruits and vegetables, Notre Dame students were treated to home-grown, home-cooked meals three times a day — because they lived, in fact, down on the farm.
Food for thought.
I think it time to turn Thanksgiving into a real act of thanks giving.
Back when I was an English major and when I thought I might teach, I played a little game. I tried to come up with a list of 10 books I would use to teach students what I wanted them to know about life.
Life often calls us to speak up, to stand up, to show some gumption, to overcome those little fears that would have us shrink from danger, discomfort or conflict. To go against the crowd, the current, the way it’s always been. To not ride along. To not perpetuate the gossip, to not just look the other way. To stand firm on one’s own conscience. To say no to peer pressure, to groupthink, to those in power. To the trappings of riches, the righteous desire to retaliate.
Baseball is still, to me, a game of fathers and sons, of boyhood dreams and human heroes. Those are the stories I read; those are the players I choose for my fantasy team.
I really should have known better. It was foolish of me. But the day’s yard work was done and I wanted to protect the kids and I vowed to shower right away. I’d had some good luck in recent years with a skin wash to stop it. I’d be fine.
There is not a time I cut the grass that I do not think of my dad. It was a chore we shared. Looking back, it was also a measure of things and ways and rites of passage. And now when I mow the lawn each week, my idle mind follows those old passageways that always carry me to a smile.
There were six in the car. They were headed to the Wichita River Festival. Five members of women’s crew and their coach. Near Emporia, Kansas. Friday, May 17, 1974. They were to row the following day.
For decades Dick Conklin ’59M.A., who directed Notre Dame’s news and information operation and was later the associate vice president for University Relations, dispensed memos with “Of Putative Interest” printed across the top. (He relished fancy words.)
So, too, will I suppose this note to be of interest to you. It should be, if you are reading this magazine.…