Their season was done. The five second-graders came to the bench, replaced by five teammates who would play the game’s final period. As the head coach gave final instructions to those entering the game, I thanked the others for a good year, gave them high-fives.
Some years ago, before I was editor of this magazine, I wrote a shortish piece that the editor, Walt Collins ’51, rejected. I reworked it several times, and each version got a thumbs down from the bearded journalist I greatly admired.
Last fall an alumnus called and asked us to make sure he would continue to receive the magazine. We assured him alumni receive the magazine free for life. Well, he said, a few years ago he had told us to stop sending it — that he and Notre Dame were parting company.…
The kitchen is dark when I enter it on these cold winter mornings. So I flip on the light and head first to the cupboard where the bowls and plates are stacked. I pull out three Corelle plates and three Corelle bowls. Then one day, looking at the table waiting — paper napkins, forks and spoons and juice and bowls lined up at the ready — I realized I had become my father.
A male point of view on co-education is similarly inadequate. We all experienced it differently, though most were hardly impacted. There were sightings in the dining halls and an occasional woman in class, but few opportunities for real interaction.
You are eating lunch at Legends on the Notre Dame campus. Televisions are mounted all over the place, and every screen — doesn’t matter what channel — is showing Manti Te’o. The whole episode is almost too incredulous, too bizarre. Parts could almost make you smile, except you feel so bad for Te’o right now. So you scratch your head and wonder who you can believe. And isn’t that the essential thread of this whole saga — what’s true, who’s telling the truth, what is the truth?
Notre Dame lost a football game last night. It was a big game. And Notre Dame got bludgeoned. But today, sipping coffee on this morning after, I’m looking back on what we all had all season long as the party partied on from one week to the next, a new gift opened each Saturday, a different surprise popping out of the box — road wins, overtime victories, close calls, rivals vanquished.
Last summer we put together an issue to celebrate 125 years of Notre Dame football. It was mostly written in past tense. The subhead of the main feature asked: “Have the tidal shifts in college football finally doomed the independent Irish?”
We then put football in our rearview mirror and headed for our autumn issue. It had lots to do with Ireland but hardly mentioned the football game in Dublin. And a September win over Purdue had me saying to my father-in-law as we left Notre Dame Stadium: “That doesn’t look to me like a team that could beat Michigan or Michigan State.”…
One of the aims of this magazine is to strengthen the bonds between our readers and the University.
We do this in print four times a year. We publish stories on these pages, readers react, many send us letters, some even write stories to share. The conversation moves on a quarterly cycle. It’s limited to a prescribed page count.…
My first awareness of anti-Notre Dame sentiments came in 1966. It was especially puzzling because it came from classmates at my Catholic high school whose religious affiliation did not override their loyalty toward Southeastern Conference football.
The Tarkington School Christmas show was my first time to walk through school hallways since the shooting in Newtown, Connecticut. There were ghosts there, too. I doubt I was the only parent who wasn’t haunted by what had happened at just such a school, in hallways just like these, in classrooms so universally familiar — with rows of desks and posters and student artwork and all the seasonal decorations that make a school feel cheerier than home.
A month or so ago, as the Fighting Irish closed out their surprising but convincing road win over Oklahoma, and jubilant Domers danced, I cringed in dread. “Oh no,” I thought.
It’s the blood that bothers me. It didn’t always.
I’d like to know which places meant something to you — and why. I’d like to know which place was your favorite, or the best, or the place you miss. I’d like to hear some stories (tastefully told please), stories to be shared across the generations, stories that speak of life at Notre Dame.
I was a grownup — a forebear with descendants of my own — before I knew I wasn’t very Irish (if Irish at all).
There’s still a lot of games to be played this fall, but Notre Dame’s 125th football season is off to a thrilling start.
As sometimes happens in life, I was looking the other way when Jim Naughton died. The loss is just now sinking in. His life offers good thoughts on a Labor Day. Here’s why.
That football cover is a poster now.
We liked the retro style. It had the right feel to convey the historic sense of Notre Dame’s football tradition, but with a sort of bright, new shine.
“I was thumbing through this recent issue,” Gordon DiRenzo, Class of 1956, says, “until I got to page . . . let’s see, is it 21? No, it’s page 20. . . . Hey, where’d you get that photo? The photo of Leahy.”
Monday morning, early on. I am lying in bed, wondering when I got so old that mowing the lawn and splashing in a pool with the kids for an hour would leave me so tired and sore. The red numbers on the bedside clock tell me I should get up. But I like it here.
You remember when you first heard about Fighting Irish football. It was the first time you’d ever heard of Notre Dame. The game served as an introduction to the institution, the sport the school’s emissary.
Anecdotal evidence reveals clothing services multiple purposes.
We can take things pretty seriously here at Notre Dame Magazine, and we take our role on behalf of the University very seriously. Then one day this past fall, having wearied — at least temporarily — of the earnest and well-intentioned seriousness, we thought: Enough already. Let’s loosen up and have some fun.
The last time I saw Jean Lenz it was pretty much like the first time — and all the times in between. I smiled throughout the conversation, listening to her talk.
I spoke the other night to a group of ND students about writing. The Career Center had gotten us together to talk about careers in publishing.
Death came to our house in February 1960. It was a Saturday morning. I was 7, playing alone in my front yard. My sister, four years older than I, came outside and said, “Grandmother died.” Our eyes met, then she turned and went back into the house.
I believe in the healing of story. I think it’s good for people to talk it out. There is something clarifying, curative, restorative in the telling; some would call it “therapeutic.”
Some wounds are obvious. Others are hidden to the eye. But invisible scars — the ones lurking in the human psyche — can be just as crippling, similarly painful, and possibly much tougher to repair.
This is certain: An “extraordinary” gust of wind — recorded as 53 miles per hour at 4:54 p.m. October 27, 2010 — knocked over the Marklift MT40G hydraulic scissor lift and dropped 20-year-old Declan Sullivan to his death while the junior from Long Grove, Illinois, was filming football practice.
I have always been comfortable living with questions. The world is an infinitely fascinating place, beguiling mysteries remain unsolved and my reply is a pilgrim’s curiosity and cheerful puzzlement. Besides, I always figured that to ask, to question was to enter into a dialogue with God.