Rudy (15 page)

He sat down next to me, and I tried to turn my attitude around.

“I'm gonna play football down there someday,” I said to him.

D-Bob looked at me and shook his head. He could tell I wasn't kidding around. He could tell I meant it.

“The day you play football for Notre Dame is the day I quit drinking!” he said to me.

I couldn't believe he would say something like that. To agree to quit drinking was a big, big deal to him. I knew it. I felt it.

“That's a bet,” I said, and we shook hands, high above the glorious Notre Dame field that solemn afternoon, with Touchdown Jesus looking right at us the whole time.

The fact is, I took D-Bob's promise seriously, and I let him know I would hold him to it. There was no way I'd let him squirm out of it when it happened. And it was gonna happen. I knew it. I just knew.

I ended my first full year at Holy Cross with all As and a couple of Bs. You should have seen the looks on my parents' faces when I got home to Joliet and handed them that report card. They were floored. So was my brother Francis, who was still struggling through school and getting into all kinds of trouble, just like I used to. I think the fact that I had gone to college and improved so much had a real effect on him. Made him think about focusing on his future a little more, you know? I was glad for that.

I went home and took a construction job for the summer that my dad hooked me up with. It was hard work, for good pay. Working-class heaven. I didn't want to do it, but I needed the money.

I was living at home when I received my second letter in the mail from Notre Dame. Despite Brother John's insistence, my impatience and stubbornness (let's call it “determination”) got the best of me: I had applied once more to the school of my dreams, two semesters early.

I had good reason, I mean,
Did you see my report card?

“Danny, there's a letter for you from Notre Dame,” my mom said when I got home that night. It was already well past dinnertime. The sun was just about down. I stepped into the kitchen and saw that letter lying on the counter, right where she used to put my lunchbox—and it sunk my heart. The envelope was just as thin as the first one. I didn't even need to open it to know what it said. But I opened it anyway.

This time, reading those words didn't make me sad. It made me angry.

I told my parents I didn't get in, and they tried to console me a bit.

They could see how upset I was. They knew how badly I wanted it. They tried to say those protective things parents say, about how I should be proud of what I'd accomplished, and that I shouldn't let it bother me. I didn't want to hear any of it.

“I want to know why,” I said. “I want answers!”

I stormed out of the house and hopped in my dad's car with that letter in my hand. I had sold my Mustang to help pay for some of my school expenses. I didn't know that my dad's car had a faulty steering mechanism at the time, and that he would worry to death the whole time I was gone. But it held out just fine and nothing happened. Thankfully.

I squealed out of the driveway and hopped on I-80 East. I drove under a star-filled sky, cursing out loud, angry at the world.
Why? What else do I have to do? Haven't I done everything I need to do? What more can I do?
I wanted answers, right that second.

As I drove toward South Bend, I started to think about the extra layer of disappointment my failure must've been causing my dad. A lot of his co-workers at Union Oil knew I had gone to Holy Cross with the intent of getting into Notre Dame. And for that whole year of waiting, those co-workers gave my dad crap. “Your son still going to that community college? . . . Why don't you tell Rudy to quit dreaming and get a real job like the rest of us. . . . Can you imagine a Ruettiger at Notre Dame? Ha!” All that kind of crap. He hated it. He never spoke up, but he hated it, just like he hated the chatter about how big his family was and how all those kids were going to drive up everyone else's insurance rates. I could see it in his eyes. I could read it in his face. And every once in a while he would actually say something to me about it.

The whole thing made my blood boil.

By the time I parked on campus it must've been eleven o'clock. I grabbed that letter off the passenger seat and stormed over to Corby Hall, where all of the administrators lived. I was mad as a hornet when I walked up the steps onto the porch and knocked on that old wood door.

I was surprised when Father John Cavanaugh opened the door. He was the retired former president of Notre Dame and was quite elderly. His presence diffused my anger a little. I felt as if I had to dial it back a bit, out of respect. Even so, I was still in quite a state. “Father, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I'd like to speak with Father Hesburgh.” Father Hesburgh was the current president of the University, and Cavanaugh immediately let me know that wouldn't be possible. It just wasn't proper to wake Father Hesburgh at this hour. “But I'm a student over at Holy Cross, and I want to come here more than anything. I'm ready. I want to know what I have to do,” I insisted.

He smiled and invited me inside. He asked me to take a seat. “I'm glad you came, my son,” he said to me. “We're always looking for good priests.”

What?
For some reason he assumed I had shown up in my emotional state in some sort of existential crisis, looking to join the seminary! Holy Cross Seminary. “No, no, no, Father. I don't want to be a priest. I just want to know why I can't get into Notre Dame. I've got the grades. I've worked hard. I want to go here more than anything else.”

He seemed very confused.

“I'm not sure what to do with you,” he said. “Let me get Father Tom. He'll help.”

Father Cavanaugh hopped on the phone to Father Tom McNally. I knew Father McNally. He lived at St. Joe's. He came riding over on his bicycle at that late hour and sat with me for a few minutes. He felt my frustration and said the only one who could really answer my questions was Father Burtchaell, the University Provost.

“I want to see him,” I said. “Right now.”

“Right now?” he asked.

I insisted. So he called him, reluctantly. “Okay, Rudy. He'll meet you in his office, over at the Golden Dome.”

I thanked him and walked over, up those great steps, where Father Burtchaell stood waiting at the top of stairs, glaring at me with a look of,
What seems to be the problem, son? What's going on that couldn't wait until some decent hour?

He didn't say a word as I approached.

“I need answers, Father,” I said. He was reluctant, but he still had that priestly way about him, as if he knew it was his duty to listen to a young man in pain. He asked me to come inside and we walked up to his office on the second floor, amongst all of that dark-wood molding and those fifteen-foot ceilings. Taking me into that space felt almost like a form of intimidation. But once we sat down, he listened. He listened to my whole story, of how far I'd come, how hard I had worked, how I had all As and Bs now, how I wanted to do this to prove to myself that I could, to prove to all those people back in Joliet who said it was impossible, to prove to all of those Union Oil guys who busted my dad's chops that Daniel Ruettiger's oldest son actually made it to Notre Dame. I wanted to show my brothers and sisters that
anything
is possible if you set your mind to it and work hard. Wasn't that the truth, after all? Was I asking too much? I felt all along as if I were following God's will, I said. Could I be fooling myself?

“You know, son, Notre Dame's not for everyone,” he said.

I didn't know how to respond to that.

I told him all about my grades again, and how well I was doing. He actually seemed impressed. “You're doing everything right, Rudy,” he said. “But it's a very, very rare occasion that we accept first-year transfers. We often turn down first-year transfers with perfect 4.0 averages. It's about the experience as much as it's about the grades. Didn't anyone explain to you that based on your previous record you'll need to complete four semesters before applying for transfer?”

I put my head down. “Yes. I just . . . I want this more than anything!”

“I understand, Rudy. But there are no shortcuts here. Have patience.”

No shortcuts. Right. I should know that
.

I sighed. There was no denying that he was right. I knew I was being impatient. Sometimes patience is the hardest of all virtues to grasp, isn't it?

“Is there anything I haven't done, Father? Is there anything more I can do?”

He thought about this. “I think you're doing everything you can,” he said. “But in the end, it's not entirely up to you, is it?”

The moment he said those words, I understood what he meant. I thanked him for his time and apologized for showing up in the middle of the night. He said it was okay. He actually called Father Tom again and asked him to set me up in one of the dorms. He didn't want me driving all the way back to Joliet at that hour. He wished me luck.

It was well after midnight as I exited that great building and descended those steps, still carrying that rejection letter in my hand. I stuffed it into my pocket, turned right, and followed the winding path behind the Basilica, descending the steps to the Grotto. There wasn't a soul around— just me and the flickering glow of those white candles in the darkness. I lit one . . . then another . . . and another. I knelt before that beautiful shrine and prayed for guidance. I prayed for strength. I prayed for patience. I prayed for understanding.

It occurred to me as I meditated there, for hours, that I had no backup plan. Maybe that was good. A backup might be an excuse to quit. But I hadn't let the thought of
not
getting into Notre Dame enter my mind.
What would I do if it didn't happen?

I prayed a little harder. I did everything I could to banish that thought from my mind. I had to trust my gut. I had to trust in God. I had to trust that the path would appear beneath my feet, even in this, what felt like my darkest hour.

The way I saw it, I only had one choice: I had to keep moving forward.

I never wound up going to the dorm that night. I stayed up all night at the Grotto. As the sun came up, I just started wandering around the campus. I decided to walk over by the ACC, the big building just east of the football stadium that held the basketball courts, the hockey rinks, the weight rooms, and all of the athletic offices for the Notre Dame sports program at the time. After staying up all night, I had this burning desire to stop into Coach Parseghian's office to let him know that I wanted to play football for him. He was such a commanding presence, I respected him so much, and I admired him so much that I was a little scared to do it, but it seemed like a fear worth facing. That whole summer I felt like I was firing on all cylinders. I was so pumped up about what was happening, so pumped up about my future, that I convinced myself I should just go see him and say what I had to say.
Why not?
Every time I had taken a bold step and spoken up so far, the result had been positive. So I went for it.

Remember now, it was really early. The door to the building was locked. I didn't want to give up, though, so I just hung around a little while . . . until I saw Parseghian's car pull up. I was embarrassed! I didn't want him to see me hanging around. I wanted it to seem more casual. I don't know what I was thinking exactly, but I ducked behind some bushes near the entrance and watched in secret as he let himself in and headed to his office.

I paced around for a minute, just gathering my thoughts, regaining my courage. Then I grabbed the cold metal handle of that door, swung it open, and stepped inside.

As I came around the corner, I saw Parseghian at his desk through the window. There was no secretary out front. There was no one else in the building. I took a deep breath and stepped in.

“Coach?” I said.

He looked up. “Yeah?”

I don't remember my exact words, but it went something like this: “Sorry to bother you, Coach. My name's Rudy. Rudy Ruettiger. And I want to play football for Notre Dame.”

“You a student here?” he said.

I was struck at that moment by the way Coach Parseghian reminded me of my father. He was firm. To the point. Commanding, but approachable in his own way.

“Not yet,” I said. “But I will be. I'm enrolled at Holy Cross. I've been a Notre Dame fan for as long as I can remember, and I just want to let you know that when I get here, there's nothing I want more than to play for you. I promise I'll give you everything I've got.”

Parseghian looked at me. He could see I was about half the size of his best players. He had every right to laugh at me or to tell me to get lost. But he didn't. Instead, he gave me a little nod.

“I bet you will, son,” he said. “I bet you will. You come see me when you get in.”

He looked back down at his desk, back down at whatever he was doing before I burst in, and I took that as my cue. I had said enough. “Thank you, Coach!” I said. He looked up and nodded.