“I’m just glad you’re alive,” she said.
Me too! I thought. It still frightens me to think that the steering on that old Plymouth could have gone out on me anytime during that 180-mile roundtrip excursion. A mechanical failure could’ve derailed my whole mission—or worse. Luckily it didn’t. Or maybe it’s more than luck. I wonder about that sometimes. I wonder about those moments, when we’re carried through.
By the time my dad came home, he was more concerned with my new job situation than the fact that I had taken his car without asking. “How much are they paying you?” he asked. I sheepishly told him it was about half as much pay as I had been making at my summer construction job. But it didn’t matter. It was important for me to be on campus. I felt it, in my gut. Sometimes that gut feeling is all you’ve got. And you’ve gotta trust it.
7
In the Ring
Between my frantic midnight visit and my work at the hockey camp that summer, the administrators and a whole bunch of other people at Notre Dame got to know my name. I could say hello to some of those leaders when we passed on a pathway by the lake, and they would recognize me. Ara Parseghian had a son who worked at the hockey camp. I was already friends with Joe Yonto’s kids. I didn’t seek them out, and I never thought once about using those friendships as some sort of a connection to give me a leg up to their dads, but it’s funny how people come into your life when you’re open to it, when you’re pursuing your dreams without question. As embarrassing as my audacity of knocking on the administrators’ doors at midnight might have seemed from the outside, it was exactly my audacity that got me noticed.
When the fall semester began, I moved up to the fourth floor in St. Joe’s. My room was in the back this time, with a perfect, unobstructed view over the treetops to the Golden Dome across the lake. I took inspiration from that every time I sat at my little desk. And yet, despite that view, and despite a series of late-night Grotto prayer sessions, I still had plenty of bottled-up anxiety and frustration heading into my second year. All the same old stuff: the worry, the doubt, the fear, the impatience, combined with the lingering high school and grade-school memories—all of it sat just below the surface ready to bust out at any moment.
I also learned that the odds were stacked against me even further that year: Notre Dame merged with St. Mary’s and began admitting women for the first time in its history. It seems amazing today to think that such a prestigious school wouldn’t have allowed women all the way up until 1972. But that’s the way it was. Don’t get me wrong: it was great having all those young women on campus! What guy wouldn’t love that? It just meant that I would have to compete against an even wider field of candidates for the few transfer slots that would open up the following year.
All of it made me work harder. I had no choice. I had no backup plan. It also made me spend even more time on campus, developing relationships with everyone I could, so when it came time to make an admissions decision, they would be sure to think of me, to remember me, and to think about how badly I wanted to be there. When they saw my name, they would think of me always being on campus, always working hard. That goes a long way, believe me. Never underestimate the power of a personal relationship. Those relationships mean everything, especially when you don’t have the money, talent, or other connections to get you where you want to go in life. Sometimes a relationship is all you’ve got! So I worked it. What was I going to do if I didn’t go to Notre Dame? Go back to Joliet? Back to the power plant? No way! Wouldn’t happen. I had to go to Notre Dame because it was the only future I could see. The only future I wanted to see. And increasingly—despite the improbability—that future for me included envisioning myself on the Notre Dame football team.
I poured myself back into interhall football that fall. Running that ball and taking those hits was still one of the best ways I knew to blow off some steam. Our equipment was all hand-me-down stuff from the varsity team: a bunch of beat-up gold helmets and tattered uniforms. I decided to pour some pride into those uniforms and wound up designing a whole new get-up, with white shirts (similar to Notre Dame’s away uniforms) that I ordered at a discount through D-Bob. We also painted the helmets navy blue, and one guy in the dorm painted a fancy SJ in orange on the side of each one—SJ for St. Joe’s. I loved the idea of making the team look good. There’s pride in that. There’s a feeling that you want to live up to the uniform, to your teammates, to the spirit of what you’re doing.
The whole experience kept me bonded to my housemates at St. Joe’s, including the guys who weren’t on the team. There was something about the energy and camaraderie of the game that increased the camaraderie of the whole sophomore-year experience. It’s like all of us were part of the same team off the field. In fact, there were about fifteen of us Holy Cross guys who were gaming to get into Notre Dame, and we wound up labeling ourselves the Rat Pack. One of our buddies even had a logo designed, and we all wore shirts with this drawing of an ugly rat lifting barbells on it.
We were all dreamers. We were all reaching for something more, all following our hearts. I couldn’t wait to see where we’d all wind up. Interhall football helped me focus on all of that: Coming off the field with that glow that came from the pumped-up feeling you got when you’d just given your all and played your best, I would sometimes look around and think, We’re all doing it! We’re all playing hard! We’re all gonna make our dreams come true!
Keeping that momentum, holding on to that pumped-up feeling— even when faced with the frustration and heartbreak of waiting to get into Notre Dame—meant everything to me.
At it’s best, that’s what sports can do.
I kept my grades up—all As and a couple of Bs—and reapplied to Notre Dame again after my third semester. A thin envelope arrived in my mailbox at St. Joe’s a few weeks later. Brother John scolded me, once again, for ignoring his guidance and applying too soon. I knew it was wrong. I just couldn’t stop myself. I simply had to try. I let it bounce right off of me as I set my sights on my final semester. I kept up the maintenance job. I went for runs around the interior of that beautiful old football stadium, beneath the concrete supports and archways, staying in shape all winter long. I kept working out at the ACC, staying in shape for the day my shot came to join the team.
I happened to be in the ACC one day when I stumbled onto a whole new outlet for all of my frustration: boxing.
The Bengal Bouts are a big, big deal at Notre Dame. The outside world might not know much about it, but on campus, among the students, the annual Bengal Bouts—a series of student-elimination boxing matches that raise funds for the Holy Cross Missions in Bangladesh—drive almost the same sort of passionate devotion and jam-packed stands as the football games. (Coincidentally or not, the Bouts were founded by legendary football coach Knute Rockne.)
I came across a bunch of guys training for the bouts in the ACC that January and asked what they were doing. If you haven’t noticed, I don’t have a problem talking to people. I talk to everybody! It never fails to make something happen, and at the very least leads to some interesting conversations. I was intrigued by the whole thing and asked if I could train along with ’em. They said sure. No questions. No student ID necessary. I jumped right in, and I loved it. I was a fighter at heart, always had been. Yet no one had ever tried to channel that fighting energy in such a positive way for me before. Working the bag until my heart felt like it would beat right out of my chest, lifting weights with a new purpose, learning to take hits, learning to hit harder—it all felt great, and it was one more thing to keep me out of trouble and away from the party scene or any other distractions that could have derailed my academics.
There were about six weeks of official training for the Bengal Bouts, which happen each spring semester, and I got all the way through the program. I was pumped! Suddenly I was climbing into a ring set up in the center of the basketball court in the ACC. The arena was filled to the rafters with screaming Notre Dame students, and the noise was incredible. Ding!
Just like that, my first match was underway. I went toe-to-toe with a guy who was quite a bit taller than me. Just about everyone was taller than me, so that wasn’t a surprise, but the audience seemed to like the David and Goliath–type matchup. I focused hard, using my height to my advantage and getting in lots of punches to his body. Enough punches to win the decision. First round over. Victorious. Piece of cake. I would move on to the next round.
One problem: the guy in charge of the whole thing came to me in the locker room just before the next match was set to begin and asked pointedly, “Rudy, are you a student at Notre Dame?” I could tell from the tone of his voice that he already knew the answer. I’m not sure if one of the administrators had a conversation with him, or if someone else recognized me from Holy Cross, or what, but I knew the jig was up. I told him the truth. He said he was sorry, but I wouldn’t be allowed to fight any more rounds. I had to leave.
I watched the rest of the Bengal Bouts from the stands that year. The most remarkable thing about the whole experience for me was watching how those Notre Dame students always rallied behind the underdog based entirely on his performance in the ring. Everyone would chant the names of their favorite fighters—many of which they hadn’t heard of until they discovered them in that room—watching for the great ones to emerge among their fellow students as they stepped foot into that ring, one by one, to do battle for the title and to earn the right to wear a Bengal Bout jacket, which was only awarded to the two finalists in each division. The idea of winning the title didn’t interest me: I really wanted one of those jackets! I could picture myself walking around campus wearing that thing. I was excited by the thought of how my fellow students would react once I had that coat on my back.
The immense power of the energy in that room rocked me. Round after round, I pictured myself standing in that ring, seeing just what I would have done to defeat each of those opponents. I sat there with my fists up, bobbing and weaving my head, mimicking the motions from my seat, fighting right along with each match. But the fact that I was outside, not inside, stung like a bee in my gut.
Next year, I told myself. Next year.
The Bengal Bouts were one more goal, one more challenge to keep me on course. I had to get into Notre Dame. I just had to!
I kept leaning on Freddy for help with my studies, and he came through for me, without fail, every time. Finally, I stopped asking as often because the work seemed to get easier and easier for me with every class I took. I kept leaning on D-Bob, too, for laughs and a sense of family in South Bend, and he came through as well. Neither one of those guys ever showed a shred of doubt that I’d get into Notre Dame. Ever.
That unwavering support meant everything. Especially as the end of the second semester inched closer and I started filling out my final application to Notre Dame, knowing it was my last chance; knowing that everything was on the line; knowing that this was the only application that really mattered; knowing that finally I would get the full recommendation of Brother John Driscoll and that my name recognition among the Notre Dame administration would likely help. I knew all of that but simply did not know with any certainty whatsoever if my combination of grades, determination, and grit was enough to overcome the incredible odds that were stacked against me in every way.
I graduated Holy Cross that May with honors. Cum laude, they called it. I walked away with my Associate’s Degree and had no idea what an Associate’s Degree was good for. I never thought about it. The degree wasn’t my goal. I didn’t even feel like celebrating. Here I was, the first kid in the Ruettiger family to hold any kind of a degree whatsoever, and it didn’t feel like an accomplishment. Not yet, anyway. The accomplishment was still to come. I found myself walking around with a knot in my stomach, wondering when I’d hear from Notre Dame.
I made a stop at the Grotto, lit a few candles, and prayed on my knees in that beautiful spot one last time before moving out of St. Joe’s and back to my parents’ house. It was strange to be home in Joliet without the absolute assurance that I would be headed back to Notre Dame in the fall. I held on to the powerful feeling that I would be headed back, of course, but that confidence and determination is never quite the same as true knowledge. I worried. In fact, I let myself fill up with worry. Let me tell you, that is not a good feeling.
The short walk down our driveway to the mailbox each day was brutal. Opening it up, peering inside, pulling out and sifting through the bills and letters and cards and various bits of junk mail only to come up empty-handed felt like a punch in the stomach every time. Until finally, one afternoon, I think it was late June, I pulled that handle, flipped through the bills, and recognized the Notre Dame insignia in the upper left-hand corner of one envelope. I noticed something different about this one too: it felt a little bit thicker. My heart started racing. Was I imagining the thickness? It wasn’t that much thicker, was it? Was I seeing things?
I didn’t open it. I hurried back inside and dropped the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter. I ducked into the downstairs bathroom, which was just about the only place to find any privacy in that house. I put the lid down and sat on the toilet seat. I took a few deep breaths, slid my finger through the little open slot at the back of the envelope, and carefully broke the seal. I didn’t want to rip it. I didn’t want to rush. The knot in my stomach felt like a giant ball of gnarled-up twine as I pulled the folded pieces of paper out and set the envelope on the sink.
I closed my eyes. This was it.
I unfolded the letter, keeping the written side facing the floor. My heart pounded like I’d been working the punching bag at the ACC. I took one more deep breath and turned the letter right side up. My eyes scanned the opening lines with the efficiency I now applied to my studies, using techniques I had learned from my friend Freddy—to scan for the important words, the meaningful words, the words that held the key to my entire future.
“Dear Mr. Ruettiger . . . Your application for transfer to the University of Notre Dame has been . . . approved . . .”
I could feel my face tightening. My eyes welled up.
“ . . . pleased to inform you . . . accepted for enrollment as a junior in the fall semester . . .”
I couldn’t read another word. With my elbows on my knees, I dropped my head forward into the palms of my hands, pressing the letter to my forehead and bawling like a baby. I tried to hold it in. I didn’t want anyone to hear me. I was embarrassed to cry! But the knot in my stomach unraveled almost instantly, and the floodgate of everything I’d been striving for, everything I’d dreamed about, everything everyone told me I could never do opened itself up wide, and the emotion flowed out of me like a great lake bursting through a mighty dam.
I’m not sure how long I stayed in that bathroom. I lost all track of time and space. When I regained my ability to breathe without tears, I reread the letter, from top to bottom, just to make sure it was real. I looked at the envelope, at the Notre Dame insignia, just to make sure it matched up with the letterhead. Just to be sure it was true. I had waited so long and worked so hard, it felt like a dream. Heck, it was a dream! An impossible dream that I’d made come true.
I set the letter down and splashed some water on my face, drying it off with one of my mom’s neatly folded hand towels before finally finding the strength to open that door and walk upstairs into the kitchen without bawling my eyes out in front of everyone.
My mom was zipping around, getting ready to start dinner. It took me a minute to get her to slow down long enough to realize I had something important to tell her. She finally looked at my face, and I’m pretty sure she could tell I had been crying. Moms tend to notice that kind of stuff. “What is it, Danny?” she said.
“Read this,” I said, and I handed her the letter. She read it, slowly, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was reading. Then she looked at me and gave me the biggest smile.
“Did you tell your dad yet?” she asked me.
“No, Mom, not yet,” I said.
“Well,
he’ll be home from work soon. He’ll be very proud of you.” It’s funny how she always used my dad as the reference point, as if he were the most pivotal figure in our family, as if his opinion mattered most. My dad always did the same thing with her. He was her hero, and she was his hero. I remember thinking, even then in my midtwenties, that wasn’t a bad thing to be to each other in a relationship.
My dad walked through the door maybe half an hour later with his usual worn-out, end-of-the-day look on his face. The house was buzzing with all the kids as he set his lunch bucket down. “Dad,” I said, “I’ve got some news.”
He stopped and looked at me. Like mom, I think he sensed that something big was going on. I handed him the letter and slowly watched the shock and awe come over his face as he read those precious words.
“Danny Boy got in,” he said to himself. And then, with a massive smile: “Hey kids, Danny Boy got into Notre Dame!”
My brothers and sisters flipped out, squealing with delight, echoing his words—“Danny Boy got in!”—in their high-pitched voices, patting me on the back and giving me hugs.
“Well come eat, everyone. Come eat!” my mom said, and we all sat down for one of the happiest dinners any of us could recall. My dad seemed totally energized through that whole meal, and I’m pretty sure I know why. My acceptance wasn’t just a new point of pride for him; it also lifted a monkey off his back: the crap he got from all of his co-workers at Union Oil.
It felt good to put an end to that misery for him. Of course, I added a whole new monkey for him to carry around about two seconds later, when I told him that getting into Notre Dame wasn’t my biggest accomplishment. There was still one more thing I was planning to do. “I’m planning to play football for the Fighting Irish,” I told him. My little brothers all thought that was the coolest thing in the world, but I could see in my dad’s eyes that he just didn’t think it was possible. The only Notre Dame players he had ever seen were the giants on the field. He had never been in the locker room. He had never seen the third- and fourth-string guys who helped make that team complete. He had no idea that anyone who looked like me could even dream about being a part of that tradition. I knew I wouldn’t convince him of it either. I’d just have to show him.
Rudy: My Story Page 12
