From 1-7-07. Today is a busy day on the Church calendar, for not only is it the Feast of the Epiphany but that of St. Raymund of Penafort. Still, deep down you knew that whether it began with a “K” (as Rockne spelled it) or a “C,” I would choose to write about St. Canute.

Actually this Canute, St. Canute Lavard, is maybe the less popular of the two St. Canutes although both lead similar lives—and met similar fates. Canute Lavard was the second son of King Eric the Good of Denmark. Establishing a reputation for holiness from an early age (his countrymen nicknamed him “the Lord”), Canute was appointed Duke of southern Jutland by his Uncle, King Niels. He instituted a regime of Christian justice although his hope for peace in this region of Denmark was often thwarted by Viking invasions. At this time Canute also became good friends with St. Vicelin and aided him in his missionary activities with both financial and spiritual support. His strength as a ruler was soon recognized by Emperior Lothair III who named Canute “King of the western Wends” which angered Uncle (King) Niels to no end, since Niels was hoping to extend his reign and make the Wends his own. So less than two years later, the evil Niels ordered the assassination of the newly crowned Canute, and it was carried out by two of his power grabbing cousins on January 7th, 1131.

While some in the Anglican Church now argue that Canute wasn’t truly a martyr because he was killed for political (a la John Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln) not religious reasons, his cult is still honored in the current Roman Martyrology. In any case, King Canute always championed the causes of the common man in his kingdom, and his life left a great legacy for future Knutes (and Rockne present-day fans) to follow. Thanks for your help Canute in getting me this latest Champions gig … I have a feeling that, since this is a two-week rush job, I’ll need the other St. Canute’s (whose feast is January 19th) help on the back end as well. St. Canutes (and you too, Knute Rockne), Pray for Us!

From 1-5-07. Going from the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame to the Bishop who brought the School Sisters of Notre Dame to teach at the newly established United States parochial schools, St. John Nepomucene Neumann was an American saint very into education, and one I’m happy I finally became educated about.

Born in Bohemia (present day Germany) in 1811, John was born to a German dad and Czech mom, the third of six children. Educated in the public school, John was soon determined to be a “real man of genius” (especially with languages), so he was sent to Budweis (the Seminary, not brewery) to study. Given the tonsure in 1835, John was actually turned down for the priesthood by Budweis’ stodgy old bishop, Dr. Ruzicka in 1835 “because I have enough priests.” Undaunted, John took it as a sign to follow his dream to become a missionary in America where John Dubois, the Bishop of New York, gladly ordained him in 1836.

John worked virtually alone for the first four years of his priesthood in the Diocese of Buffalo/Rochester ministering mostly to German immigrants and Native Americans, which meant visiting remote villages and climbing mountains, while celebrating Mass in homes with kitchen tables or mud furniture for altars.

Missing the community life, John joined the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer (the Redemptorists) in 1842, and quickly became their American Vicar. John was an immensely popular preacher, and the fact that he mastered eight languages meant he could preach to just about every American, native or otherwise. In fact, when stationed in Baltimore, the Irish started arriving in droves, so John picked up Gaelic—and spoke it so well that some of the Irish were actually fighting about Neumann with the German immigrants, claiming John knew their language so well he must be from Ireland!

John also spent a great deal of energy founding schools in Baltimore (which he staffed not only with the Notre Dame Sisters, but also with the Oblate Sisters of Divine Providence, an order of “women of color” that most spurned but John embraced), but this success brought him to where he did not want to go (John 21:18) and John was elected, against his wishes, as Bishop of Philadelphia in 1852. Here John not only built churches (establishing 40 Hours Devotion to all Diocesan parishes), but established the country’s parochial school system. In his eight years in Philly, Neumann increased the number of Catholic schools from two to 100, and founded an Order (the Sisters of St. Francis) to staff them. And, though now a U.S. citizen, John still had a special fondness for the natives of his homeland, and managed to find time to write two German Catechisms as well.

While a few men can learn eight languages, no man can do eight jobs for long, and under the strain of being Bishop of Philadelphia, Redemptorist Vicar, preacher, founder, builder, translator, writer and almsgiver, John collapsed on the streets of Philadelphia on January 5th, 1860, and died at the age of 48. John was canonized in 1977, the first male American saint (yesterday’s hero, St. Elizabeth Seton, was the first American saint, canonized two years previous to Neumann), and in those 30 years since, has had parochial schools in every corner of America named after him.

As a young Catholic, I read the Catholic classic Apologia Pro Vito Sua and, not being a very good speller and hearing there was a “St. John Neumann” who lived in the 19th Century, I mistook this book’s famous author, John Henry Cardinal Newman, to be that saint. So today, I figure I have two John Neumann/Newmans to pray to; one the actual saint, to help me balance my many roles (including one full-time job, two part-time employments, not to mention writer, speaker, husband and father) without dropping dead as well as the virtual saint (of last report, John Henry Newman was declared Venerable but why this great convert hasn’t moved up the saintly ladder yet baffles me) for my writing.

John Neumann/Newman, Pray for Us!!

From 1-3-2009. When she died last summer at the age of 87, it’s doubtful my mother-in-law, Genevieve Ohlin, had even heard of her holy namesake, St. Genevieve of Paris. First of all, “Murph” (the nickname my mother-in-law always went by), was an LLL (Life Long Lutheran), and not much of a churchgoer at that. But now that she has left the Missouri Synod for a far more heavenly assembly, I have no doubt Murph (who always loved a good story) has had a chance to hear the saint’s tale from the first “Gen” herself, and would love to share it with you.

St. Genevieve was born in Britain to a fairly wealthy merchant family in 422. The truly cool part of the story begins when, in an attempt to stop the spread of the Pelagian Heresy, St. Germanus of Auxerre came to preach on the isle, and in the midst of his mission saw the 7-year-old Genevieve listening intently to his every word. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, Germanus stops his talk in its tracks, lays his hands on the girl’s head, and the beautiful young Brit is instantly converted. Fortune later had Gen and her family moving to France, and at the age of fifteen, she presented herself to the Bishop of Paris to take the veil of the perpetual virgin, the fifth century’s version of a nun.

Although her selfless charity made an immediate impact on the less fortunate of the region, Gen’s holy hospitality initially inspired a great deal of hostility as well. Reasons for this hatred ranged from sheer jealousy to capitalist reality (as Butler’s Live’s suggests, “Merchants do not like rivals who give away for nothing goods that they might well sell,”) to being “female and bossy” (not counting the virgin-martyrs, Genevieve was indeed one of the first public female saints, which no doubt led to a lot of fifth century male chauvinism), but whatever the cause, Genevieve’s work among Paris’ poor seemed a lost cause until her old friend Germanus intervened. Hearing of her difficulties, the saint sent his youthful protege the gift of “blessed bread,” which the public instantly understood as not only the older leader’s esteem for her efforts, but solidarity with her spirit, and the opposition to her among Christians ended.

Of course, there was still many a persecution to be suffered from the pagans, but the future patron saint of Paris handled these problems with Christian aplomb as well. When the invading Franks captured Paris after a long siege, reducing nearly the entire population to starvation, Genevieve used both her merchant and missionary skills to secure an able ship, sail swiftly up the Seine to Troyes, and return triumphantly with a boatload of corn in time to save the citizens. On another occasion, when spies reported that none other than Attila the Hun was about to storm the city, Genevieve encouraged the Parisians to stop panicking and begin praying and fasting. Sure enough, when the amazed Attila heard that the people were not fleeing in droves as his generals had predicted, but were gathering en masse (actually “in Mass” at the brand new St. Denis Cathedral, whose building was also due to Gen’s intercession) to resist, the Hun shrugged and led his band of bloodthirsty marauders on a different excursion, and the city was spared.

As is true in the lives of many heavenly intercessors, Genevieve’s legacy did not end with her entering into eternal life at the turn of the 6th century. In fact, one of Gen’s greatest miracles did not occur until 1129, the year of the “burning fever.” The ergotism epidemic, which we know was caused by eating fungus-infected rye bread, had spread throughout Britain and France, and was now threatening to destroy the great French city that even the great invaders from Gaul and Hun could not. Neither physicians nor priests could stop the advance of the “holy fire” (so nicknamed because of the initial burning sensation ergotism produced before it resulted in gangrene, convulsions and death) but when the authorities arranged a solemn procession of the saint’s remains from her grave site to the still standing St. Denis Cathedral, the disease soon departed, and the epidemic abated. Afterwards, this procession of her casket was re-enacted whenever the city was in trouble, that is until the time of the French revolution, when, in the name of “science” and “progress,” the Cathedral was ransacked and her relics were destroyed.

I guess you could honestly say that now there are two real reasons to recall today’s saint. Certainly, the first is to honor the memory of my wife’s mother, but the other, on the eve of the elevation of another who, also in the name of science and progress, vows to once again destroy the innocent, is even more pivotal. For it seems St. Genevieve was also adept at politics, first persuading Clovis, the King of the Franks from 481-511, to spare the lives of conquered French prisoners, but later counseling him to marry (from among many fair and politically connected maidens) Princess Clotida of Burgundy, herself a devout Christian and later a Catholic saint. Due to the duos’ ceaseless prayers and humble influence, King Clovis himself was converted, and the Merovingian dynasty over which he reigned was saved, in more ways than one. Since St. Genevieve’s intercession has already caused one world ruler to spare lives and convert to Christ, would it be too much to ask of her to do so again?

Yes, I realize many in my mother-in-law’s former denomination, as well as those of other Protestant persuasions, also read my columns, and don’t get why all this saint-praying stuff is necessary. Fortunately, Catholics also celebrate January 3rd as the Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus, and since St. Genevieve did EVERYTHING for the sake of the Name, in this respect you have to give her credit. I also think that, after reading her story, I can safely say that Gen was the type of believer a person would ask to pray for them if they were alive at that time. And, while all Christians profess Jesus conquered sin and death, and that nothing, even death, separates us from the love of Christ (Romans 8:38-39), Catholics also believe death doesn’t separate us from the prayers of the heavenly believers either. Then isn’t it possible, if this future president is as formidable of a foe of the Kingdom as many think, that we will need not only the prayers of all the Christians on earth, but the petitions of all the saints in heaven, to turn Barack back to the worship of His Holy Name?

Come, and from now on, walk with us.
–the voice of the Irish in St. Patrick’s dream

From 3-17-07. Surein’ you’re all celebratin’ today whether you’re Irish or just wish ya were. But don’t ya think it a wee bit wise to know a little about the man you’re all celebratin’ over?

As with all legendary figures, there are plenty of legends surrounding St. Patrick that need to be sorted out. Truth be told, Patrick probably didn’t drive the snakes out of Ireland. But he did even better—he drove the human snakes, the heretics, out, and converted all the rest! And Patrick, well, he wasn’t even a native of Erin! Born in the bosom of Ireland’s dreaded enemy England, Patrick was kidnapped by Irish pirates as a teen and forced to work as a Shepherd-slave for six years before escaping back home.

But as Patrick confessed later, this captivity was to be a blessing in disguise. Faced with hunger, cold and loneliness, Patrick was humbled to the point that prayer became Patrick’s sustenance, and God his only companion. By the time a vision in a dream told him a ship was waiting for his escape—nearly 200 miles away—Patrick didn’t hesitate. And after landing, the crew (who was a bit unsure about the over-enthusiastic youth to begin with) told Patrick their food was out and challenged him and his God to produce some grub. Patrick proclaimed, “Just turn with faith to the Lord my God, to whom nothing is impossible.” Almost instantly, a herd of swine came running by, and while they trapped a few, they came upon wild honey for desert!

But alas, not long after Patrick was home safe and sound in his native land with mom and dad, he received his even more famous dream, in which the Irish appeared and bid him to return. After becoming a priest, Patrick did just that, and the rest as they say is history.

In his best selling book, How the Irish Saved Civilization, author Thomas Cahill argued that as a missionary, Patrick might have had an even greater impact than St. Paul, for not only did Patrick convert nearly a whole country, he and his monks copied the Bible and preserved Christianity in written form as well to assure the Lord’s message wouldn’t be lost. While vikings and vandals overran Rome and the rest of civilization, Patrick, by his duel ability to establish both monasteries with permanent monks and inspire missionary monks to preach to the rest of Europe, ensured the faith’s survival during a time of constant war and upheaval. And he did so by winning to the faith almost every chieftain in Ireland, some by his courage in the face of torture or death, some by his uncanny knack of relating to and attracting youth (a la John Paul II) and some merely by his humble sense of humor. Patrick, who thought of himself as nothing but an uneducated useless sinner, was constantly amazed by his success declaring, “I am greatly a debtor to God who has bestowed on me such grace that many people through me should be born again to Him.” But what Patrick thought a liability was indeed his greatest asset; taught not by men but directly by the Holy Spirit, Patrick’s unsophisticated but unwavering faith was irresistible to a country whose simple but hopeful people were always ready for a good story—especially one with a happy ending.

About the only dream of Patrick’s that didn’t come true was martyrdom; Patrick had converted too many beasts as well as chieftains that his desire “that my blood be poured out for his name, and my corpse be torn limb from limb by dogs, wild beasts and fowls of heaven” was not about to happen in his beloved Ireland. Instead, it was his soul that spread to every corner of the earth; as Butler’s sums up, “Wherever Irish missionaries have gone, they have taken with them devotion to the apostle or Ireland.” And now as my own three sons, Patrick, the engineer, John, the actor, and Gary, the Navy man, are setting out on their own as today’s saint did so long ago, I ask that he be with them on their various journeys—and they always return with tales of love, laughter and conversion.

From 12-26-06. It was mid-January in 1989 and Lou Holtz and the Fighting Irish National Championship team had just finished the day in Washington, D.C., being honored by outgoing president Ronald Reagan. But after going to bed that night on top of the world, Coach Holtz was awakened at 3 a.m. the next morning with the news that Bobby Satterfield, the team’s popular second string defensive back, had died of an unexpected heart attack.

Just as the sudden turn of events surely jolted Coach Holtz, the feast of St. Stephen, and the bloody story of the Church’s first martyr’s demise, startles many believers by falling on the day after the beautiful celebration of Christmas. But bloody as it is, Stephen’s story, in its own way, is a thing of beauty too.

Most of the facts about this “filled with faith and the Holy Spirit” (Acts 6:5) young man are found in the sixth and seventh chapters of Acts of the Apostles. To me, it seems almost eerie how closely the details of Stephen’s life and times mirrored those of Christ Himself. Stephen was “filled with grace and power,” worked “great signs and wonders among the people,” and debated “with wisdom and the spirit” against the Jewish leaders (Acts 6:8-10) just like Our Savior did. In the end, the jealous Jews brought false charges against him (including half-truths about Stephen’s claiming to destroy the temple), eventually settling on blasphemy, and when the authorities were stoning him, Stephen (like Christ), cried out to the Father “do not hold this sin against them,” and asked “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit” (Acts 7:59-60). And, despite the utter hatred his persecutors showed him and the gruesomeness of the killing itself, Stephen’s face “shone like that of an angel” (Acts 6:15).

Just as it is no mere coincidence that the details of the martyr’s death closely resembled those of Christ’s, it is certainly not chance that his feast is celebrated the day after Christmas. In fact, if ESPN can call Dec. 26 – Jan. 1 “College Football Bowl Week,” the Church could easily call the same period “Catholic Martyr Week,” for along with Stephen, the feasts of The Holy Innocents and St. Thomas Becket (not to mention that spiritual martyr at the foot of the cross, the Beloved Disciple John) follow close behind. For if the true spirit of Christmas proclaims, “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35), the true spirit of Christ says it is far more beautiful to lose your life for His sake than to save it for yourself. And so, while the songs of the angels proclaiming Christ’s arrival were beautiful music to the Shepherd’s ears (Luke 2:13), Stephen’s laying down his life for the Good Shepherd was the start of a movement even the most melodious hymn cannot match.

The date was 3-31-31. While there was, on that same date, an earthquake in Nicaragua that killed thousands, the Midwestern newspaper headlines (and indeed those around the world) instead centered upon a small airplane crash in Kansas that killed eight. The first seven would have died unnoticed, but the death of the last passenger (according to the United Press accounts) “shocked the entire world, and business and industry was halted …” Within minutes, telegrams from the president of the United States, the king of Norway and heads of state from nearly every country, not to mention the presidents of colleges as well as athletes such as Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey, began arriving. Meanwhile, millions of boys wept. The eighth man on that plane was Knute Kenneth Rockne.

If Rockne was merely the greatest coach who ever lived (his 13-season record of 105 wins, 12 loses and 5 ties, still remains the best ever in college football) his death at forty-three would not have brought such grief, nor would his legend have been so lasting. Son of Norwegian immigrants, Rock came to America at the age of five after his father’s two-wheel carry-all buggy won an award at the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893. Knute learned the game of football in the rough and tumble Windy City neighborhood of Logan Square, under the watchful eye of (I’m not kidding!) “an Irish copper named O’Goole.” Knute’s dad Lars wasn’t keen on college, so Rockne earned his way to Notre Dame (then cheaper than the University of Illinois!) by working in the mail room for five years before entering Our Lady’s University, “the lone Norse Protestant invader of a Catholic stronghold,” a balding broken-nosed freshman, at the age of twenty-two.

There’s no doubt Rockne was a decent football player at Notre Dame—his class went 24-1-3 and he was a key component along with QB Gus Dorais of modernizing the passing game, catching half of Dorais’ completions in Notre Dame’s shocking 1913 35-13 rout of highly favored Army. But he was a better tactician, and even better chemist, and upon his 1914 graduation, stayed on at ND as chemistry instructor, head track coach and assistant football coach—in that order. But when the head coaching job came open, and Rockne chose it over heading the Chemistry Department, most observers thought he was crazy.

After 1918, his first season, which WWI shortened to six games (the Irish winning three, losing one and tying two) Rockne went undefeated the next two years and the Irish were crowned undisputed National Champions in 1920. Still, that was not the main story. THAT headline belonged to Rockne’s shooting star George Gipp. Gipp, who like Rockne entered college late, was indifferent toward sports—and life—until he met his mentor. Under Rockne’s guidance, Gipp, a superb runner, passer, and kicker (George once drop-kicked a field goal from sixty yards away) became the best player (according to Rock) ever to play at Notre Dame. Although Knute could not completely reform George; indeed Gipp continued to skip class, to earn his money hustling pool, and to party (allegedly Gipp caught the pneumonia that would kill him at the age of twenty-five sleeping off an all-night bender in the South Bend snow) Rockne and Our Lady definitely had an effect on him. Gipp, who died weeks after the 1920 season and within days of being named Notre Dame’s first ever 1st Team All-American, converted to Catholicism on his death bed, and his life, early death and conversion, coupled with Rockne’s own, certainly sealed the legend of Notre Dame football forever.

Rock’s own conversion to Catholicism came on November 20, 1925, to the delight of his young son, Knute Jr., when he saw his dad also receive the Host during his class’ First Holy Communion Mass. Rockne, describing his religion decision, stated “One night before a big game in the East, I was nervous and unable to sleep and went downstairs to the lobby. Between five and six o’clock, I saw two of my players hurrying out [of the hotel]. Within minutes, almost the whole team followed … and I decided to go with. [While at morning Mass] they didn’t realize it, but they made a powerful impression on me … walking up to the Communion rail to receive … the hours of sleep they had sacrificed … I understood for the first time what a powerful ally their religion was to their work on the football field. Later I had the happiness of joining my players at the Communion rail.”

Truth be told, Rockne’s death was not exactly martyrdom, and he probably did not die a saint. He spent too little time with his young kids (he sent his two sons away to boarding school) and too much time on his football job and business promotions (at the time of his death, Rockne was flying to Hollywood to ink a $100,000 movie/newspaper deal). He continually embarrassed the Holy Cross Fathers of Notre Dame by seeking more lucrative jobs while under contract—Rock nearly agreed to terms with several Big 10 schools and actually signed a written contract with Columbia College in New York, needing several lawyers and confessors to extradite himself. And yet, at the time of his death, Rockne had directly (as when he let a suicidal blind man meet his team, and the man became a fan—and believer—for life) or indirectly (as when a priest tried futilely to bring a cynical ex-Catholic back to the Church, until he finally told the man of Rockne’s conversion, at which time the man broke down and gave his first confession in thirty years) led many to the faith. But his tragic death at the height of his coaching powers (his last two teams were both undefeated National Champions) no doubt inspired and continues to inspire many in ways his life alone couldn’t. And so on the anniversary of his death, let us not only recall the great coach, the man who revolutionized the game and put Fighting Irish football on the map. Let us also remember the humble soul who followed Gipp to the Faith and his players to the Communion rail, that we, like Rockne, realize it is Christ (and of course, Our Lady) that makes Notre Dame football special.

From 1-6-13. Today is January 6th, and while to most Catholics it is the Feast of the Epiphany, to many college football fans, it is simply know as “BCS Championship Eve.” But to the select group of those who are both Catholics and college football fans, those who follow both the BCS and CSC (aka Catholic Domers) they may be pleased to realize that the last day before the big game also happens to be the Feast Day of the Holy Cross Order’s (the one that runs Notre Dame) only saint, the remarkable Andre Bessette.

In my own preparation for the big game day/feast day (in the moments not spent praying for the Irish, that is) I read the Catholic Register article on the Notre Dame faith/football subject, sent my way by my Catholic journalist friend, Matt Abbott. Unfortunately, this being my area of expertise, a lot of it appeared to me to be mere fluff.

For example, while mentioning that a young Father Ted Hesburgh had something to do with Notre Dame’s Hall of Fame football coach Frank Leahy’s resignation, they didn’t say Hesburgh’s not-so-holy quest for making Notre Dame a so-called Catholic (as well as less athletic) research university had a lot to do with it. Also, the article mentioned that the current team is under fifty percent Catholic, but did not say that the admission board’s aggressive reverse discrimination actually made it more difficult for Catholic athletes to be admitted than Protestants, Mormons or Muslims.

However, the story did uncover one somewhat covered up (the administration often seems deathly afraid to display any of its Catholic side to the public) fact: that the team still hands out a saint’s medal to each player, Catholic or not, before each game. The article then stated that a different saint’s medal is handed out before every game, although somehow failed to detail which saints were given out during this unforgettable undefeated season.

In any event, I hope that the saint they hand out for tomorrow’s game is today’s saint. For not only is St. Andre the CSC’s very own, but his humble, faithful life was in stark contrast to Notre Dame’s current over-emphasis on hiring expert professors at any cost, including Catholicism. Not only was Bessette not a scholar, the Order never promoted him above the role of doorman, or as St. Andre used to say, “My superiors showed me the door, and I stayed there for forty years.”

Of course, Andre proved to be hardly your average doorman; for by the time God called him home, so many who met the man were cured (“by Saint Joseph!” the humble one insisted) that long lines always waited to greet him, and Bessette was beset by over 80,000 letters a week by those who couldn’t meet him in person.

But besides the fact it is his feast day, and Bessette’s unique humility to do anything to be a team player, there’s yet another reason that I wish the team (if they indeed do not already possess it) to be given his medal, and that is the name Andre itself. For in between Oct 17, 2010, the day Andre Bessette was canonized a saint, and Janurary 7, 2013, the day Notre Dame plays Alabama for the National Championship, Andre Jones, a leader of Notre Dame’s last championship team and father of current Irish wide receiver T.J. Jones, died unexpectedly of a brain aneurysm. And while the cynical person would claim that T.J. now playing in the championship game only to be unable to share it with his best friend and father, must at best be bittersweet, I believe the message of Our Blessed Mother would be just the opposite.

For if Our Lady was called upon to give the pre-game pep talk, I think She would say how fitting it is for the Fighting Irish to have not only St. Andre Bessette as the team’s heavenly link to the University’s Order, but the Lord’s servant Andre Jones as their heavenly link to the 1988 Notre Dame Championship team. Alabama may have more talent than Notre Dame, says She, and Nick Saban may be a better coach than Brian Kelly, but something besides pure skill often decides the outcome of such moments. In other words, after taking into consideration all the great secular causes both the Tide and Irish play for, with Our Lady, the two Andres and all the others who have gone before, Notre Dame will always be playing the game for a little something more.

Reflections on the Game
by Tom O’Toole

Well, it happened again. This time the woe fell upon Bo and his Wolverines, and the doom was dealt by the terrible toe of our Harry Oliver. But the situation was nothing new. But why, one may ask, do the Irish win so many close encounters of the turf kind? Indeed, why Notre Dame? Why Our Lady? Why, OUR LADY! Of course! The answer’s in the question.

The first inexplicable factor behind the Fighting Irish’s fantastic success is, of course, the fans themselves. Yet, as I watched them milling around the gates before the Michigan game, it almost seemed as if there were too many for the team’s own good. True, the gaudy green-suited alumni whose greenbacks keep this place in business all have their tickets way in advance, but many of the common faithful flock here with no way of getting into the stadium, except on a whim and a prayer.

“The Pope can’t help me, but maybe you can,” proclaims one sign. “I need six tickets,” it challenges, as it waves in front of the “All ticket peddlers will be prosecuted” sign at Gate 14. As I walk through the midst of the stalkers and scalpers, I see off in a corner an old man sitting on a parking block, his head in his hands. He is crying. As I approach him to see if there is any comfort I can lend, I see a sign by his side, “I desperately need 20 tickets,” it reads. I turn away; no further explanation is needed.

But as I turn back, a more familiar sight strikes me, and it is infinitely more painful than the last. It is my folks. It is almost inevitable that my dad will come down for every home game, and he inveterately will have tickets for none of them. As I trudge toward him, I am aware of the futility of the forthcoming conversation, but after four years, I feel it is my duty.

“Hi, Dad. Bring any tickets this time?”

“Nope. But we’ll find some,” he promises proudly.

“Dad, tickets are going for fifty bucks apiece!”

“Well, we’re not going to pay that much.”

“But look at all the people walking around who need ‘em!”

“Don’t worry, Tom. We’ll get some. I’ve done it this way for 25 years and haven’t failed once.”

It was no use. Domer alumni just have too much faith to face the facts. So I waved good-bye to Mom and Dad and my little brothers and sisters, and went in to claim my safely established seat.

Of course, a SEAT, per se, is a hypothetical concept in Notre Dame Stadium, at least in the student section. For even if you can get to your allotted two-foot block of bench, the only thing you’ll be able to use it for is to stand three feet above the concrete. Now, there is no rule against sitting, and it is really a rather nice thing to do, if you like to look at legs. But if your goal is to see the game, about the only time you’ll get to rest your toes is at halftime.

By halftime at this particular game, we had squandered a two-touchdown lead, as Michigan tied us and then passed us in the third quarter. But after Krimm picked off a pass and proceeded 49 yards to pay dirt, it looked as if we were going to even the score, only to have some chump named Oliver blow the P.A.T. The crowd’s comments were predictable.

“That a–h—!”

“That point’s gonna cost us!”

But the throng was finally calmed when, with but three minutes left, “Concrete” Phil Carter cracked over from the four, and we went ahead by five. Bo’s boys had put up a good fight, but we had prevailed. Until an excellent return, an unexpected draw play, and a deflected touchdown pass deflated our dreams, and all but destroyed our team’s hopes. As I looked down at the referee declaring our demise with outstretched hands, four men in identical T-shirts passed in front of him and then turned our way. The shirts had writing on them, and aided by binoculars, their simple, prophetic message became clear; “Never Doubt.”

And yet, despite an interesting 30-yard interference call on Kiel’s “alley oop” pass to Tony Hunter, and two short “quicky” completions, faces in the crowd still read, “too little, too late.” For with four seconds and 34 yards to go, a 51-yard field goal loomed as our only hope. But as we looked up at the flags and realized the 20-mph gust that was making them flap, all hope was gone. With that wind, there was no way.

“What should I do?” pondered Harry Oliver at that point, quite new to this type of situation. Never before had he kicked a field goal of more than 38 yards in his life.

“Kick the hell out of it,” answered the practical Mr. Crable, “and kick it straight.”

They lined up, and all was calm. The wind stopped, the blocking held, and the foot connected. “I knew I hit it good,” Harry would say later, “but I didn’t know if it was that good.” It was that good. The ball fell through, and the place fell apart.

People were still floating on air when I met my family after the game.

“Did you get seats?” I inquired more anxiously than usual.

“Sure did,” said Dad, the afterglow of the victory still very apparent in his smile. “Right after you left. Some guy with extra tickets walked right up and gave them to me.”

“How much?” I grimaced, prepared for the worst.

“He gave them to us,” he repeated. “Took one look at little Danny sittin’ on top of my shoulders and said, ‘Here. Take these tickets. I want the kid to see the game.’ After that I knew something was going to happen.”

Meanwhile, I found out my sister Kathy had devised her own plan. Persuading a young vendor to lend her his programs, she snuck in with a bunch of the other vendors when the guard wasn’t checking so closely. But while her accomplice was having a hard time convincing the gate keeper that he was legit, my sister passed the time by selling his programs for him. She had already sold two by the time he got in and came to reclaim them. “So I made four bucks getting into the game!” she exclaimed deviously.

Soon afterward, we met up with members of the Taylor family. My dad had been a Domer with Hobie (or Mr. Taylor for the unacquainted), and our families now live in the same town, so we knew each other well.

“Some game!” Mom greeted them. “I still don’t believe it!”

“Only nonbelievers don’t believe,” countered Hobie. “And we just saw 20,000 Michigan fans heading toward the Grotto. You can bet they’re believers now. Hey! Look what Fitzgerald gave me.”

“What is it?” asked Dad, as his friend pulled out a little plastic bag with something green inside.

“It’s turf,” he told us. “Fitz went down on the field after the game and dug up a square from the spot where Harry kicked the ball. He has turf from all the important games. Still has a patch from the ’77 Southern Cal game growing in his backyard.” Michael Molinelli, take note.

Although that all was only my observation of the game, other chroniclers were pretty much in agreement about the outcome. Though the Detroit Free Press admitted only a “near miracle kick” in “one of the greatest games in recent college history,” the Michigan student paper was more adamant. “Michigan 27, Notre Dame 26, God 3″ its headlines stated as the obvious fact. Bill Jauss of the Chicago Tribune said we “used a script too fictional even for the Gipper or Rockne,” while Dan Devine, who has been known to repeat himself on certain calls, called it “the all time, all time, all time moment.” Finally Father Ted, who is always the last word on such theological debates, simply called it, “a whole new chapter in an ongoing tradition.” The tradition he was referring to was doing the impossible. Or as Harry Oliver would say, “not giving up.”

But what does Harry have to say about all of this? Two weeks after the big event, the author of the latest chapter of Irish grid lore is still shaking his head. “I still can’t comprehend the magnitude of that kick,” he says softly. “It didn’t seem like it was something that important at the time. But everyone keeps telling me differently.”

Harry’s story is not that of the average football hero, except perhaps at Notre Dame, where it fits in rather nicely. Harry hated football when he was young. He preferred basketball. When he tried out as a cornerback freshman year at Moeller High, it was solely because of peer pressure, and he was cut as being “too small.” Then in a sophomore year soccer game his kicking ability was noticed by head football coach, Faust, not unlike Rockne’s accidental discovery of Gipp, who was booting drop kicks at the time. Like the “Rock,” Coach Faust was also successful in his recruiting, and Oliver came out as a placekicker his junior year. He was still only second string but the number-one man, who happened to be Junior Nabor (now a star at Stanford), helped Harry immensely. So, by his senior year, Oliver was ready.

That year, he performed well enough to catch Devine’s eyes, and along with such Moeller greats as Koegel, Condeni, Crable and Hunter, Oliver came to Notre Dame. Then, after two years behind the likes of Joe Unis and Chuck Male, Harry felt that he was again ready, only to come out of spring sessions second to Mike Johnston. Even though he was extremely discouraged, he didn’t quit. Instead, he kept working, and waited for a chance to redeem himself. Which, in a nutshell, is exactly what happened to Harry in the Michigan game.

Though a quiet soul six days out of the week, Harry will tell you he’s as emotional as anybody the day of the game. And yet, despite his tremendous emotional intensity, Oliver, whose 37 of 39 set an Ohio high school record for extra point percentage, admits it was a simple lapse of concentration which made him miss one against Michigan and which almost cost us a game. But again, he prayed for a chance to prove himself, and miraculously, it came. Miraculously, too, in more ways than one.

“I didn’t notice at the time that the wind had stopped, but so many people have told me so it must be true. I COULDN’T have kicked it that far against the wind,” he confessed.

The secret of his success is much simpler. It’s his faith. He prays constantly. He attends Mass daily. He visited the Grotto before the game, after the game, and probably would have snuck out at halftime had it not been for the gospel music the band played that day. And he says his Rosary always. Our Lady is truly his first love.

Yet, it would be hard for us to believe that all the hoopla has not changed his ways a little. “Well, a lot of girls call me up now,” he concedes, “and I get a lot more letters.” He received over 40 letters last week from all over the country, not to mention one from an alumnus in Argentina. (Father Ted would be pleased about that one.)

People who do not know him can’t help view him differently. But Coach Devine’s comment, “Harry’s a heck of a nice kid; he was even before he kicked it,” sums up the “change” perfectly. His teammates now playfully ask if they can kiss his left toe, and Harry recalls that the Monday after the game, just as he was coming out for practice, the sky turned from blue to grey to green. Immediately a storm which was to uproot trees and drench the campus fell upon them. “Gee, Harry, if you wanted the day off, why didn’t you just say so!” they kidded him.

And yet, they are only half kidding. The kick has boosted his confidence, but has not shaken his foundation. When asked why he thought the Irish came away with so many last second wins, he looked around for awhile as if to think up some highly technical explanation, but finally just shook his head and shrugged.

“It has to be Divine Intervention,” he said.

“That’s spelled D-I-v-i-n-e, right?”

He laughed. “Yes, but it was Coach himself who said we owe this victory to one lady, OUR Lady.”

“It’s like the prayer goes, ‘now and at the hour of our death,’” Harry continued. “And after that touchdown I thought we were pretty dead. Everyone did. But I also had the feeling something would happen.”

“After the kick, do you think Coach will let you kick off?” I asked while leaving.

“Oh, Harry’s above that,” his roommate cut in.

“Yeah, he’d get creamed,” offered another.

Nevertheless, Our Lady helped us again. And this time, Harry Oliver just happened to be Her instrument.

Jogging near our home last night, I was disturbed to see a few houses with Christmas lights already off, and Christmas trees already tossed. It must be sad to be a Christian (or non-believer) whose Christmas celebration begins and ends the 25th. Talk about Bowl Week, the Catholic post-Christmas week-long extravaganza is a saint-studded line-up starting with Steven, John the Apostle, the Holy Innocents, Thomas Becket, the Holy Family, Pope St. Sylvester (and, perhaps soon, Pope St. B16!) and finishing with the greatest saint of all, Mary Mother of God.

Jesus, of course, is ‘the reason for the season,’ and these saints were ‘not the Light, but testified to the Light’—and no one’s life was more of a testimony to Jesus than Mary’s. Not only conceived without sin, but conceiving Christ and never sinning herself, Mary perfectly executed God’s ‘game plan,’ and became not only the greatest saint, the best intercessor, but our biggest ‘fan.’

Jesus was ‘full of grace and truth,’ or mercy and justice—but Mary was ‘only’—and also—‘full of grace.’ To face Judgement Day staring down eternity with equal parts justice and mercy is a sobering thought—but with Mary’s prayers, I figure my chances for mercy doubles… and as a betting man (especially on Notre Dame), I’ll take those odds any day… but especially THIS day…

In other words, while it is always his mercy that makes Christmas Merry, it is Mary who brings us Christ’s mercy. Through her prayers; may the Mother of God become your mother too!

Notre Dame Our Mother—Pray for us!