Rudy

by Rudy Ruettiger

  The next morning, I called Freddy. He had been such a big influence on me. Without his help, without his academic coaching, I never would have had the grades to get that letter. I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to read it, in person. I asked if he’d meet me at St. Joe’s and told him I had something I wanted him to see. He agreed.

  I met him there on campus the next day, and of course he was real anxious to know what was going on, but I made him wait just a little bit longer. “Come with me,” I said, and I started down the path behind St. Joe’s, off to the left, along the perimeter of St. Joseph’s Lake. Thick trees immediately behind St. Joe’s obscure the view of the lake at ground level, but as we approached the clearing in front of Moreau Seminary, the lake came into full view. There weren’t any benches in that spot, but that spot felt right to me. So we sat in the grass there, looking across that water with a crystal-clear view of the Golden Dome and its perfect reflection in the lake’s smooth surface. It was in that spot that I finally reached into my pocket and pulled out my acceptance letter.

  Freddy read it, and smiled, and nodded. “I knew you could do it,” he said.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Congrats, man!”

  That’s about as mushy as we got. But that spot by the lake, and that moment with Freddy, etched themselves into my memory forever. He would be moving on soon; he was headed to Florida to go to law school, following his dream the same way I had followed mine toward Notre Dame. I loved the fact that we were both accomplishing exactly what we had set out to do. It just felt good to be around someone else who understood that feeling, who wanted that feeling, and who was willing to help someone else accomplish their goal rather than tear them down or try to keep them in their place.

  I felt as if I were surrounded by those kind of people, now, almost all the time. And man, it sure felt good.

  Back in Joliet, of course, the feeling was a little different. There were still a lot of doubters. I tried not to let it bother me. I had proven them wrong once, and I was about to prove them wrong again. I told everyone that I got into Notre Dame. In some ways, I think I lifted a lot of spirits among my old high school friends, and even some of those co-workers from back at the power plant. It’s hard not to feel good on some level when you see someone succeed. But there’s also a lot of jealousy, self-doubt, and all kinds of other stuff that come into play. I realized that I didn’t like being around those sorts of attitudes anymore, so I tried to avoid them whenever I could. Of course, during a lot of these conversations—maybe too many—I immediately brought up the fact that I was planning to go out for the Notre Dame football team. Boy, did that give the old Joliet doubters a whole new set of ammunition! “Keep dreamin’, Rudy.”

  Tell you what; if you interpret that phrase in a way that’s not sarcastic, it’s a pretty good mantra! I will keep dreamin’. Thanks!

  Word got around town pretty quickly, and unfortunately that only amplified the chatter at work for my dad. “You think your kid’s gonna play for Notre Dame, Ruettiger? Yeah, right.”

  I shut up about my football dream after that. I realized it was better to just keep it to myself, except around very select individuals. Even so, I took those words and used them to help fire me up: Yeah, right. Just watch me.

  8

  Walking On

  I lived in a closet my first few days at Notre Dame.

  I was so determined to get back on campus and to be there for the start of summer football training that I moved back in early July. The campus wasn’t open to incoming students yet, and I didn’t have a dormitory to go to. Now that I was out of Holy Cross, the special deal they gave me to stay at St. Joe’s wasn’t available to me anymore. I certainly didn’t have the money to pay for full room and board at Notre Dame, and I didn’t have the money to rent an apartment in South Bend either. It’s funny, though, that once again, when I was taking that leap of faith, moving forward toward my dream, a path just seemed to appear before me.

  Who would ever think that being chatty with a janitor would lead to finding a housing solution? Yet that’s exactly what happened. I met a janitor named Rudy—another Rudy! I couldn’t believe it!—a remarkably friendly older black gentleman, through my work with the summer hockey camp, and he was more than happy to let me crash on a cot in a maintenance closet that July. It was just a place to lay my head at night, and that was all I needed.

  Of course, I didn’t realize that I couldn’t walk onto the football team at the start of the summer season. I showed up at the field one morning and found out pretty quickly that only Notre Dame students who were already a part of the team the previous year, or who had been recruited for the new season, were allowed on the field. I would have to wait until August, when the walk-on tryouts were announced, before I’d have a shot.

  I couldn’t even watch the practices. They blocked out all the fences so no one from a competing team could spy and see what they were doing, and that meant no one—absolutely no one—who wasn’t a part of the team could step foot onto those fields.

  Once again, I’d have to be patient. At least it was only for a few weeks.

  Oddly enough, I wasn’t nervous about starting the school year. I wasn’t worried about the academic side of succeeding at Notre Dame whatsoever. Once I got over the hurdle of being accepted, it just felt natural. Like one more step on the path. I had confidence in my ability to take notes and study and pass tests. That allowed all of my focus to go into thinking about football and gearing myself up to go out there and finally get on that field. To be a part of the Fighting Irish. To be a part of the greatest football tradition there was. I knew I wouldn’t be a starter. Didn’t matter. I was excited just to be a part of that team, whatever part I could play.

  Amazingly, while I focused on that dream, the housing situation took care of itself.

  For insurance and safety purposes, the ACC always had to have a security guard/maintenance guy in the building. Even at night, when it was all closed up. The school’s solution for that was to hire a student to live in the ACC. As luck would have it, the student who held the job that summer had just graduated in May, and when he vacated the position just before the start of that fall semester, they gave the job to me! Joe Sassano, the head of the ACC whom I’d gotten to know the summer before through the hockey camp, set me up with that job, and Rudy, the old janitor, contributed too. One thing leads to another in life. One step at a time. Every time. And building those relationships with people on campus made all the difference in the world.

  I moved down the hall from my closet cot to a little dormitory-style room right next to Gate 8, one of the entrances to the very same basketball arena where the Bengal Bouts took place. The room wasn’t much bigger than my room at St. Joe’s, but I had to share it with a roommate, a wrestler. The windowless room had concrete block walls, but it had a bed, a table, and its own private bathroom and shower. It was everything I needed.

  In exchange for the free room, I would walk the halls after hours with a flashlight in my hands, and spend hours going up and down the stairs, sweeping up the messes left behind after games, while gaining free, up-close access to every big event that would unfold within those walls. I didn’t miss the dormitory experience. I didn’t need that social aspect of college life. I liked the quiet. I liked having the ability to step out of my door and go sit high up in the basketball stadium to do my homework in the after-hours quiet of that magnificent space. And in daylight hours I loved being surrounded by the energy, the athletes, and the coaches who made Notre Dame great.

  I also enjoyed the easy access to the weight room and punching bags, where I started training immediately. Though it was months away, I knew more than anything that I wanted to throw myself back into the Bengal Bouts—this time as a full-time Notre Dame student who couldn’t be kicked to the sidelines by a technicality. I focused on one of those Bengal Bout jackets and pushed myself as hard as I could, whether hitting the bag or pumping iron. I figured every bit of
boxing training I did would only help me out on the football field too, where I knew for sure that I would need to be fit, strong, and ready to take some big hits. I couldn’t wait to strap on those pads and pull on that helmet.

  Finally, in August, I got my chance.

  The walk-ons’ tryouts began with a physical first thing in the morning. I passed. Next thing I knew, I was out on the field standing shoulder to shoulder with fifteen other guys vying for a spot on the scout team, a grunt team whose sole purpose was to help the varsity team prep for games. A junior varsity coach, a linebacker coach, and defensive coordinator Joe Yonto looked us up and down, pacing like drill sergeants. “We’re gonna put you guys through hell . . . Don’t think that just because you come out here you can become one of us! You have to earn it! . . . You’re gonna get hit . . . It’s up to you if you want to stay here or not, but if you want to go home, go home now, ’cause you’re gonna get hit.” They made it clear that the only reason they needed walk-on players was so their first-string guys could have some worthy human tackle dummies to knock down on a daily basis. And on this day, they would start testing us to see if we were good enough to serve as those dummies!

  The talk was over. It was time to get to work. They immediately started running the fifteen of us through agility drills. Over and over. No pads. No helmets. Just lifting knees through ropes and tires, bobbing side to side, tripping up, falling down, standing up and going again. I was drenched in sweat and ready to collapse by the time they sent us behind the blocked-off fence and up to the bleachers to watch the varsity team practice. I thought it was a little strange that they wanted us to sit there and watch rather than suit up and get in there and show ’em what we could do. But it didn’t take long for me to figure out why they did it: they wanted us to see what we were in for.

  It was amazing to have that up-close look at how the team worked. I knew they were the best. I knew it took hard work and massive effort to become the best. I just never knew what it looked like, or sounded like, for a football team to work that hard.

  Those guys hit each other with so much force, it sounded like a battlefield full of explosions from the stands. Every play was like a herd of cattle coming together—crash!—a cloud of dust, a mangled mesh of bodies. Then they’d all get up and walk away, only to do it again moments later.

  The plays, the patterns, the workouts, the endurance—all of it was a hundred times harder and faster and more intense than anything I ever experienced in high school football. And there stood Coach Parseghian, whistle in hand, pacing with the stressed-out look of a worried parent, barking orders as he put his team through the paces.

  Watching how hard those guys were sweating, the way they’d nearly collapse from exhaustion before getting up and doing it again, and again, brought up all of these little doubts and fears in me. I wondered for a moment whether I had what it took to be on that team after all. That’s natural, isn’t it? To have doubts?

  The thing I had learned by that point was never to let doubts overwhelm me. Doubts are like little spiders: they’re only scary if you let ’em be scary. You’re a thousand times bigger than those doubts! Just step on ’em! Squash ’em. Put ’em in a cup and dump ’em outside if you want to be all touchy feely about it, but get rid of ’em!

  Sitting in those stands, thinking of what the coaches said about not caring if we got hurt, watching those guys kill each other on the field, all I could think was, I’ve been through boot camp! They’ve spit in my face. I’ve gone to the edge of death getting seasick and still managed to stand watch. Be a man. Suck it up. They think they’re gonna scare me off a football team? No way!

  It’s all about attitude. Everything is about attitude. Once you change that thought and don’t see the negative, you see what you have to do.

  As I laid my aching body down in my room in the ACC at the end of day one, I knew that what I’d seen on that field was a guidebook. It showed me that I would have to work a little harder than I first thought. I was fine with that! I had already made the commitment to the team. I had already made the commitment to Coach Parseghian. I was going to be on that team. I couldn’t back out. Whether they knew it or not, people were counting on me: D-Bob, Freddy, my little brothers and sisters, the doubters back in Joliet, my mom and my dad. I had to do this for all of them. I had to do this for myself.

  The next day only five of us walk-ons showed up. Five out of fifteen! That’s how brutal that first day was. I didn’t care. I figured that just meant I’d have less competition. I was raring to go!

  Once again we hit the agility tests, sweat through the motions, fell down, stood up, and struggled through. By the time we hit the bleachers to watch the team practice, only two of us were left. Me and one other guy! And they still weren’t sure we were good enough to join the team. This same routine went on for days and days before finally they told us to put on some pads so they could see us in action head-to-head with the varsity guys. Now we were talkin’! I was so pumped up; I could hardly stand still. I was bouncing up and down on the sidelines. I threw those pads on so fast; I was ready before the coaches were ready to call us in. They didn’t even tell us where to go; they just lumped us in with the rest of the scout team and yelled, “Offense over here, defense over there!” I was the shortest guy on the field, but I felt ten feet tall and built like a brick wall. I started to turn toward offense, for no particular reason. Coach Kelly took one look at me. He said I was too short for his linebacker crew and threw me over to Yonto. “You take him!” he yelled.

  I was happy about that. I liked playing defense!

  So down I went, shoulder-to-shoulder, helmet-to-helmet with the greatest team in college football. I wished my dad could have seen me right then and there. I wished my whole family could’ve seen me. It was unbelievable!

  The whistle blew and crash! The first of those monstrous players knocked me over like a rag doll. I was stunned. I didn’t know what hit me. I wasn’t focused. I was too keyed up. Too excited. I picked myself up off the ground and got back in position. Another massive player lined up in front of me, and this time I stared right through his mask, powering my fist into the grass, stomping my legs down into position like a racehorse at the gate in the Kentucky Derby. The whistle blew and I shifted everything I had into pushing that guy back as hard as I could the moment he charged, keeping him up, keeping him from knocking me down, keeping him from getting around me at any cost until that whistle blew again— and I was still standing!

  Over and over, hit after hit. I kept going, hard as I could, pushing back with all my might against the strongest offensive linesmen imaginable—the legendary players of Notre Dame! It was awesome. My shirt was covered in blood by the end of the day, and I didn’t even know where it came from! I didn’t care. Nothing could stop me. I just kept diving in with everything I had.

  At the end of the day, they said, “See you tomorrow.”

  I had done it! I made it through the first practice. I was coming back again the next day. This was it. I was a walk-on player for Notre Dame!

  The pain didn’t hit me until I hit the locker room. I was moaning and wincing as I sat on the bench and pulled my shirt off. I realized that I had hurried so much to get out there that I had put my pads on backward. No wonder I was hurting!

  Finally dressed, I ran across the lawn to the ACC, to the pay phone in the hallway just outside of my room, and called home. My dad picked up. They had just finished dinner.

  “Dad, Dad! You’re not gonna believe it. I just practiced with the team.”

  “Slow down, Danny. What team? What are you talking about?”

  “Notre Dame!”

  He was silent for a second. “Football?”

  “Yes, Dad. Football!”

  He was speechless.

  “You there?” I said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding! I went to walk-ons and made it through the whole practice. They said ‘see you tomorrow,’ which means I’ll be there tomorrow
!”

  My dad shared the news with the family: “Hey everyone! Danny just practiced with the Notre Dame football team.” I could hear the noise of my brothers and sisters in the background all shouting, “What? Wow! Cool! Congratulations!”

  “Will we see you on TV?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Dad. Walk-ons don’t get to suit up. But if I keep at it, who knows.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you, son. Good work.”

  That was all I needed to hear. That was an accomplishment. A big one.

  My next call was to Freddy, who was so excited for me. Of course, the first thing he asked was when he could come see me play. I had to explain it to him, just as I explained it to my dad. I was just on the scout team.

  Then I went over to see D-Bob. “I did it, man,” I told him. “I made it through the first practice. I’m on the team!” D-Bob let out a huge yell. “We gotta go celebrate!” he said. That’s when I reminded him of his promise— the promise to quit drinking if I ever made the Notre Dame football team.

  He said he remembered and absolutely promised he would quit on the day he saw me play. So okay, he wasn’t quite ready to quit yet. Celebrating was in order! I noticed that look in his eye, though. For the first time, he was truly thinking about quitting. It was something. It was progress.

  He got me thinking: Would he ever get to see me play? Would anyone? The fact that none of my friends or family would be able to see me suit up with the team suddenly clawed into my gut. Man! I wished I could find a way to sneak them into the stands at one of those closed practices or something. Better yet: maybe if I worked hard enough I could get good and move up the list and dress for a game someday. Just one game!

  I should have known better than to even think such a thing. There were nearly a hundred full scholarship football players attending Notre Dame University, and some of them didn’t even get to dress for home games. We were told that from the outset. They made it clear from the moment we showed up for walk-ons that we would never wear that golden helmet, never once have a shot to run out of that tunnel with the big boys. I didn’t care. That crazy idea sunk into the back of my brain somewhere and I just couldn’t let it go. I had a feeling I could make it happen if I worked hard enough. Why not? Why not? I had heard about walk-on players who had gone on to professional football careers. I knew I would never go pro. I simply wasn’t that gifted. But I could certainly get to the point where they’d let me put on a uniform and get out on the field, right?