The Gipper

by Jack Cavanaugh

  Savoldi, though he gained more than 100 yards rushing against Penn, blocked ferociously for Brill and Marchy Schwartz, who was on his way to becoming an All-American for the first of two consecutive seasons, as, apparently, was Savoldi. That is, until a story broke during the following week that the 22-year-old Savoldi had filed for divorce—in a South Bend court, no less. What made that news all the more stunning was that apparently no one connected with the team or the university in general knew that Savoldi had been married. That meant that Notre Dame had two reasons to expel him: for being married, which undergraduates were not allowed to be, and for getting a divorce, which was not permitted by the Catholic Church. Francis Wallace offered a third reason, writing that, “Joe hadn’t learned not to sue for divorce in the middle of a football season, especially at Notre Dame.” Unwilling to play favorites, even with a key member of perhaps Notre Dame’s best team ever, Father O’Donnell informed Rockne that Savoldi had to go. For Rockne, it was perhaps the hardest thing he ever had to tell a player.

  “Don’t worry, Rock,” Savoldi told the coach, sympathetic to Rockne’s unpleasant chore, “I understand how it is.”

  In bidding good-bye to Savoldi, a personal favorite who he thought could become another Jim Thorpe, Rockne gave him a check for $1,500. Savoldi promptly signed with the Chicago Bears and appeared in three NFL games, scoring one touchdown. After that, “Jumping Joe,” as he was billed, launched a successful wrestling career in an era when the sport included such legends as Jim Londos and Gus Sonnenberg, a former Dartmouth lineman, and was actually on the level. However, Savoldi never played football again.

  For all of Savoldi’s talents, replacing him was no problem for Rockne, since he had more than an adequate candidate in Larry “Moon” Mullins, who performed well during the next two games before being injured in the second one, against Army. In Army’s first game in the Midwest, before a capacity crowd of 110,000 at Soldier Field on a cold, dank afternoon, Marchy Schwartz raced 56 yards for a touchdown and Frank Carideo kicked the extra point with four minutes remaining in the game to give Notre Dame a 7-0 lead. But then with less than a minute to play on Notre Dame’s next possession, a Carideo punt was blocked and recovered in the end zone by Army to bring the Cadets to within one point, at 7-6. Fortunately for the Irish, three Notre Dame linemen burst through to block a drop-kick extra point attempt by backup Army quarterback Chuck Broshus, which enabled Notre Dame to prevail, 7-6. The following Saturday, in Notre Dame’s last game of the season—and what would be Rockne’s final game as the head coach—the Fighting Irish crushed Southern California, 27-0, before a crowd of 74,000 in Los Angeles. Moon Mullins’s replacement at fullback, Paul “Bucky” O’Connor, a backup halfback from New Hampshire, was the star, running for three touchdowns while gaining more than 100 yards. The decisive road victory secured Notre Dame’s second consecutive unbeaten season and national championship. It was the fifth time a Rockne team had gone undefeated, and, as it turned out, a fitting coda to the Rockne legend. If the season marked the beginning of a new decade and a new stadium, it also was, undeniably, the end of an era in Notre Dame football.

  Four players from the 1930 team were named consensus All-Americans—Carideo, Schwartz, the pint-sized Metzger, and end and captain Tom Conley—while Joe Savoldi, though he had missed Notre Dame’s last four games, was named to the Associated Press first team, a tribute to his brilliance as a runner and blocker during the season’s first six games.

  Eight days later, Rockne would be on the sidelines again, this time at the Polo Grounds coaching the Notre Dame All Stars, a hastily arranged group of former Fighting Irish players, including the Four Horsemen and five of the Seven Mules who opened the holes for them to run through, along with playing defense. Others included Hunk Anderson, Jack Chevigny, and, from recent Notre Dame teams, Jack Elder and Jack Cannon, who, for this game, had the good sense to finally don a helmet. From the recently crowned national championship team came Frank Carideo, Tom Conley, and Bucky O’Connor, all who were in good shape yet worn out from the long ten-game season.

  Their opponent was the New York Giants of the National Football League, still struggling to gain media and fan acceptance during their sixth year of existence. The game had come about when New York Mayor Jimmy Walker had asked Rockne, a longtime friend, if he could bring his Notre Dame team to New York to play the Giants at the end of the season to raise money for families made needy by the national depression that had just set in and which was taking a heavy toll on New Yorkers. Rockne agreed to come, but with a team of former players, feeling that his current squad had had enough football after ten hard-fought games. Save for the fact that the game did raise $100,000 for Walker’s committee for unemployment relief, the game was a mistake from the point of view of Rockne and his players, most of whom hadn’t touched a football in six years, as was the case with the Four Horsemen.

  Nevertheless, the game attracted the second-biggest crowd the Giants had ever drawn, a capacity gathering of about 55,000 to the Polo Grounds, where Notre Dame had first played Army in New York City (the largest crowd was the 70,000 that jammed into the Polo Grounds to see the Giants play a Chicago Bears team that included the great Red Grange in 1925, the Giants’ first year in the NFL). From the outset, it was a mismatch, with the Giants, who had finished second in the NFL that year, dominating throughout and winning, 22-0, a margin that would have been even wider had not the professional team used substitutes through most of the second half, and, at Rockne’s request, taken it easy on his former players. The Notre Dame All Stars had spent four days practicing in South Bend before leaving for New York, but most of them were far from being in playing shape. In addition, their line was outweighed by more than twenty pounds a man, and they could not cope with the running and passing of the former Michigan star, and one of football’s first great passers, Benny Friedman, who scored two touchdowns.

  Before the first play of the game, John Law, a 165-pound starting guard on the 1928 and 1929 Notre Dame teams, who was from nearby Yonkers, took one look across the scrimmage line at 245-pound Giants tackle and eventual coach, Steve Owen, and said, mock seriously, to referee Tom Thorp, “Can you tell me how much time is left in the game?” Both Owen and Thorp couldn’t help but laugh.

  The first quarter was an omen as the All Stars gained only 5 yards rushing while losing 17. By game’s end, the Notre Dame All Stars had managed only one first down, gained only 34 yards rushing—12 on a run by Rex Enright, the team’s longest of the afternoon—and had failed to complete any of its seven passes.

  In the locker room afterward, Rockne, who seemed to enjoy the game, said of the Giants, “That was the greatest football machine I ever saw. I’m glad none of you got hurt.” The first sentence was probably Rockne hyperbole, intended to make the Notre Dame football alums feel better, while the second sentence was not only true but sincere. It was also the last time Rockne would ever speak to a team of Notre Damers—in this case a group that included some of the best players he had ever coached. At a banquet that night, he would raise a toast to the Four Horsemen and the rest of the Notre Dame All Stars, many of whom he hadn’t seen in years and most of whom he would never see again.

  20

  THE END OF AN ERA

  ROCKNE DID NOT dwell long on Notre Dame’s second straight national championship. He was the toast of the college football world—the most famous coach with the best team—and an excellent salesman to boot, whether it was “selling” Notre Dame as an outstanding academic institution or selling Studebakers. But as usual he was anxious to get back to work.

  Under contract with South Bend-based Studebaker since March 1929, Rockne made eighteen appearances on the company’s behalf during the winter of 1930 and 1931. In late winter, the Studebaker hierarchy, so pleased with Rockne’s performance on behalf of the company, made him its sales promotion manager. The work with Studebaker required considerable travel, but fortunately for Rockne his condition had improved, although his doctors cautioned him tha
t if he overworked himself, his phlebitis, then in an arrested state, could flare up at any time. Several close friends said Rockne had told them that he liked the new challenge he faced in the business world, and that, at forty-three, perhaps it was time for him to leave coaching for another career. A full-time job with Studebaker would enable him to remain in South Bend and close to his beloved alma mater, which he had threatened to leave several times.

  Meanwhile, John B. Kennedy, a veteran novelist and nonfiction writer and an associate editor for Collier’s magazine, had finished Rockne’s autobiography, which was based on a series of articles that had appeared under the coach’s name in Collier’s but had in fact been written by Kennedy. Kennedy stayed in close touch with Rockne while writing the book, which wound up including more than a few errors that Rockne, in skimming through the manuscript, apparently had overlooked. With all of his outside interests, it’s not surprising that Rockne, though he was hardly averse to reading about himself, would merely skim through his own autobiography, which would be published later in 1931. However, he was hardly the first, or last, sports celebrity to thumb through his own autobiography, even when he was not entirely sure of its contents.

  At his doctors’ recommendation, Rockne spent a week at the Mayo Clinic before joining his wife, Bonnie, and their youngest child, Jackie, close by the Atlantic Ocean in Coral Gables, Florida, in early March. Encouraged by his progress in recovering from phlebitis, Rockne had also heeded his doctors’ advice in taking a vacation, his first since the previous winter. Seemingly at ease on the Florida sand, Rockne knew he had a lot to be thankful for—a loving wife, four children (with whom he actually spent very little time, especially during the football season), a flourishing career that included two consecutive national championships, the satisfaction of knowing he had been instrumental in making Notre Dame nationally known, nationwide fame, and his work with Studebaker, which he enjoyed immensely. If he had one regret, it was not having devoted more time to his children: Billy, now 15; Knute Jr., 12; Mary Jean, 11; and Jackie, 5. Like many coaches, Rockne wound up being closer with his players than his own kids, who obviously adored their famous father. From now on, though, he would tell himself during the winter of 1931, I’m going to spend more time with my kids.

  Visiting Rockne in late January, Francis Wallace found the coach playing with Jackie on the sand.

  “You look great, Rock,” Wallace told him.

  “Good enough,” Rockne replied. “They’re letting me go swimming now. A year ago they only let me sit at the water’s edge and wet my toes. My legs are a lot stronger, and I can play miniature golf. Best news the docs gave me was that I won’t have to conduct spring practice from a chair.” But late the following month, according to Wallace, Rockne had told one of his closest friends, Leo Ward, a Los Angeles attorney, that “coaching was a thing of the past, and he was looking for some means to capitalize on his reputation.” Of course, Rockne had been doing just that for years: writing a syndicated column, doing radio commentaries, and ascending to a top executive post with Studebaker. But then his comment to Ward may have been a ploy to get Notre Dame administrators to stop trying to curtail his outside work in light of his phlebitis. And in March he did conduct spring practice at South Bend, indicating that he intended to be back on the sidelines that fall. By then Rockne had agreed to fly to California to discuss a proposal with Universal Studios to play a fictional football coach resembling him in a movie titled Spirit of Notre Dame, for which he would be paid $50,000. When President O’Donnell got wind of the offer, he asked Rockne to turn it down. Whereupon Rockne told O’Donnell that although he was going to meet with movie executives in Hollywood, he wasn’t really interested in the proposal. That, of course, begged the question as to why he would bother to make the long flight. Before making the trip, he flew back to Coral Gables to spend a week with his wife and little Jackie, spending some of the time at the Hialeah racetrack with Bonnie, who enjoyed watching the horses as much as Knute did.

  Rockne then flew to South Bend to see Father O’Donnell, but the university president was not available and Rockne left him a note telling him he was on his way to California. He then took a train to Chicago to see his mother, meet with Arch Ward, and have dinner with his business manager and agent, Christy Walsh, and another friend before taking a sleeper to Kansas City. There, on Tuesday, March 31, he had planned to meet his two older sons, Bill and Knute Jr., who were attending a boarding school, at the Kansas City station, but their train was late and Rockne had to hurry to the airport for his flight. Though commercial aviation was still in its infancy, Rockne felt it was not only safe but the most practical way to travel long distances, as he had already done a number of times. Five other passengers, a co-pilot, and a pilot who had already flown more than 4,000 miles were aboard when the ten-passenger Fokker monoplane owned by the fledging TransContinental & Western Air took off for Los Angeles with light rain falling. The combination passenger and mail plane was to make three stops along the way, the first one in Wichita, Kansas, where it was scheduled to pick up a few more passengers and more mail. About an hour and a half after the plane had left Kansas City, Ed Baker was feeding livestock on his family’s farm in the small eastern Kansas town of Bazaar when he saw a red and silver plane, apparently flying at an altitude of under 1,000 feet. Suddenly he and some other nearby farmers saw a section of the right wing snap off, after which the red and silver plane plummeted to earth, landing in a wheat field. As it hit, five of the bodies were catapulted from the aircraft while the pilot, co-pilot, and the sixth passenger were pinned inside the front part of the wrecked plane, which was perpendicular to the ground with its tail facing straight up. With several members of his family, Baker ran to the scene, about a half mile away. He didn’t know it, but one of the eight victims in the wreckage was one of the most famous people in the country.

  Knute Kenneth Rockne had turned forty-three years old on March 4. A bulletin put out by United Press International about the crash said, “The first flash to Emporia (a nearby Kansas city) that Rockne was dead shocked the entire world, and business and industry halted while all sources of communications were placed into service.” Speculation was that ice had accumulated on the plane’s wings after it had taken off. Investigators subsequently announced that the propeller on one of the motors had broken off due to a structural defect, which caused the one wing to snap off.

  Within minutes, the other two major news agencies, the Associated Press and the International News Service, also had put out bulletins on their wires about the crash, which had occurred about 100 miles from the cattle ranch of Rockne’s former coach, mentor and friend, Jesse Harper. Harper immediately drove to the crash site, identified Rockne, and then accompanied his body to South Bend. In the hours after the crash, radio stations across the United States interrupted regular programming to announce that Rockne had been killed. Scores of newspapers put out extra editions that afternoon, whose headlines about the crash and Rockne’s death stunned tens of thousands of people who had not heard the radio reports. Friends in Coral Gables hurried to the Rockne’s rented house to break the tragic news to Bonnie Rockne. Knowing that five-year-old Jackie had heard what the friends had told her, she said softly, “Your daddy has gone away. He loved you so.”

  “Did my daddy get killed in an airplane?” little Jackie asked his mother.

  “Yes, he did,” Bonnie Rockne replied.

  Within an hour, scores of telegrams addressed to Bonnie Rockne had arrived. One of the first was from Knute. It said, LEAVING RIGHT NOW. WILL BE AT BILT MORE . LOVE AND KISSES. The next wire was from Gus Dorais, the best man at Rockne’s wedding, with whom Rockne had been immortalized for their performances in Notre Dame’s upset of Army at West Point in 1913. Among those who wired condolences were President Herbert Hoover; King Haakon VII of Norway; Notre Dame President Charles O’Donnell; two fellow football coaches he had feuded with, Fielding Yost and Amos Alonzo Stagg; along with coaching counterparts Pop Warner, Bob Zuppke,
and Tad Jones; comedian and friend Will Rogers; General Douglas MacArthur, who had wanted Rockne to coach at West Point; Babe Ruth; Jack Dempsey; Gene Tunney; former Notre Dame coaches including Jesse Harper; and scores of former players who had played under him.

  A crowd estimated at 10,000 was on hand at the Dearborn Station in Chicago when the train carrying Rockne’s body stopped there Thursday night before continuing on to South Bend, where thousands more had congregated at Union Station, the site where so many of Rockne’s teams had been greeted by students and townspeople following especially significant victories, and even after surprising defeats. There would have been even more except that most of the Notre Dame student body of approximately 3,000 had already left for the Easter vacation. From the station, the hearse carrying Rockne’s coffin traveled to the McGann Funeral Home, where George Gipp’s casket had been on view following his death six years earlier. A guard of honor consisting mainly of Notre Dame football players was posted at the bier until the funeral and burial on Saturday, April 4.