Back on ND's Campus

The afternoon’s elusive sun slowly applied its gentle pressure on my back, warming me through four layers of clothing.

In front of me rose a wall of the Hesburgh library, 17 stories high. I was waiting with hundreds of Notre Dame football fans for the team to come walking by.

The large, shallow reflecting pond at the foot of the mural is empty of water, having been drained for the winter, but it’s pretty nonetheless.

As I waited, I thought, this is heaven on earth. I’m so glad to be back on campus. The anticipation in the air among the crowd was exhilarating.

My son Matthew had surprised me with two tickets to the Boston College game, a school that at times had become a bitter, highly competitive rival, replete with crushing last-second field goals and sod rudely torn from ND’s football field after one BC victory.

They are the only two Catholic universities that play Division I football, and there’s not a lotta love lost between the teams or the fans.

And it was Senior Day, when seniors on the team would play their final home game, and be specially celebrated by their parents and the ND faithful.

But the football played in ND Stadium on some recent Senior Days had been disappointing. ND lost to Syracuse University on Senior Day in 2008, after Syracuse had already fired its head coach, who was permitted to coach the rest of the season. On the Senior Day the following year, ND was upset by the University of Connecticut.

Earlier that day, the ND players and coaches had celebrated Mass in a roped-off portion inside the high-ceilinged basilica, had lunch, and were making their way toward the stadium about two hours before game time.

One of my layers of clothing was a navy blue football jersey that bore the number three, for senior wide receiver Michael Floyd.

Floyd had decided to stay at ND for his senior year, despite a cloud that shrouded his college football future – a third conviction for driving under the influence. After a suspension, he was reinstated to the team, and had by this time set many new records for pass receptions.
Floyd plays with a passion and sometimes reckless abandon that is a privilege to watch, and his talent is often a thing to behold. And I had had that privilege for four years.

At 4:10 p.m., ND’s final home game for the 2011 season would begin, bringing to a close a season that, for me, represented progress and some very fine moments, but fell short of preseason expectations.

I use the following examples: In the first game of the season, ND running back Jonas Gray was en route to a touchdown when the ball was stripped. It fell to the ground, was grabbed on the hop by an opposing player, who ran the length of the field for a score. As they say, it was a 14-point turnaround to begin the game.

The following week, another opponent has the ball near the goal line. The running back plunges toward the end zone, and the ball is stripped by an ND defender. The ball takes a single bounce toward UM quarterback Denard Robinson, who grabs it and runs in for the score. At times, it was that kind of season.

But you make your own luck, and you are what your record says.

And it’s not just the game. The people – the students, the university staff and the visitors are unfailingly polite. “Welcome to Notre Dame,” the ushers say as your enter the stadium.
The main bookstore at the other end of campus is impossibly crowded and warm under four layers of clothing, but everyone is patient and polite with each other. No Walmart-type altercations to mar the day, at least not in my field of vision.

Matthew, who recently developed a passion for photography, brought a camera and several lenses for the event, and at times I was his assistant. Having raised him, I know he is given to strong interests in different things, and I’m happy to help.

The two non-human staples for the day appear to be electronics and beer. Everyone’s got a camera or a cell phone, happily taking photos of each other, and cans of beer are ubiquitous. It’s not allowed on campus, of course, but one of the things I’ve always liked about visiting ND is that they bend over backward to make all visitors comfortable. A few pregame beers on campus, as long as people behave, are not a big deal. And that, by my lights, is the way it should be.

We don’t drink. Gotta drive home after the game. But the atmosphere on campus is sufficiently intoxicating for this fan.

The game? A nail biter that ND toughed out for a 16-14 win. They’re learning how to win, like Coach Brian Kelly says. Matthew and I drive home, happy, analytical about the game, and I’m a bit tired. It was a great day. Thanks, Bud.

Researching and writing the cost of burial

I just got off the phone with Lisa Long, the very helpful clerk for the city of Belleville, and my head is spinning with data. I'm preparing a story about areas in Belleville's Hillside Cemetery that have been reserved for what are called columbaria, monuments in which up to 12 niches may be placed. A niche contains an individual's cremated remains.

I was working with her to develop estimated costs for alternative forms of burial, because I wondered whether the columbarium alternative was less costly. Based on our assumptions, some of which she suggested I confirm with a funeral home, it does appear as if it may be the low-cost alternative.

Sometimes when I research a story and work with a subject matter expert like Lisa, I get a lot more information than I bargained for, and I learn that the task isn't yet done - not if you want to get the story right. You need to make another phone call, and continue your reportorial journey through the development of the story.

Then, when the data is fully gathered, you need to sort out the detailed story for yourself, and the process of simplification begins, in which you need to be truthful and accurate in telling the story, taking care to include only elements that might interest a reader.

Sometimes, I love this part of the job best, but I've learned it's a process. Time to stare at the numbers, call the funeral home, confirm the numbers and write the story.

A lesson for me, and for us

It was hard for me to assess the personal impact of the recent revelations of child sexual abuse at Penn State. Penn State had been for me a football program like Notre Dame. It's not enough to win on the field; you have to do it in the classroom as well, and graduate your athletes. Integrity and honor are priorities. There is no greatness without goodness.

At times, I thought JoePa had overstayed his welcome. It was a little like football coach Ben Schwartzwalder at Syracuse University toward the end of this career. The football program was tanking and Ben stayed on - the desire was to reach 25 years as head coach. And he did. But the football program took some time to recover.

In fact, however, JoePa's longtime stewardship at Penn State was a good thing for the school. The program was classy, and maintained a winning tradition. Now, had JoePa not won football games, we wouldn't be seeing the wave of sentiment toward the guy. He would have been run out of Happy Valley years ago if he didn't win. Winning is the sine qua non of all sports, and indeed of life - but where does it stop? Where is the reality check?

When I wrestle with issues, I read. The information is good, but often the perspective is better. I saw a column in the National Review online that helped me a lot, because the most insidious aspect of the sorry tale is how it was handled by several people who should have known better, should have done more.

It was called "Penn State and the Wages of Cowardice," by David French. I'd never heard of the guy before.

An excerpt: "It was cowardly for an athletic director to hear reports of abuse and do . . . nothing. The way of the coward is to seek self-preservation and the preservation of your friends and cronies. The coward keeps the gravy train rolling and revels in the accolades even as he knows terrible truths — truths he will never, ever have the courage to reveal." The link to the full story is: http://www.nationalreview.com/corner/282956/penn-state-and-wages-cowardice-david-french

It reminded me of how evil, for most of us, consists primarily of sins of omission. Of turning a blind eye; of following the letter of the law, not its spirit; of a failure to recognize and to do the right thing.

It reminded of the importance of being brave and risking longtime career and friends to see that justice is done.

Because I'm subject to that kind of thing. Sometimes the fraternity of men, the easy camaraderie of like-minded fellows, reinforces your sense of yourself, and your moral touchpoints become dulled.

But the most important lesson of being an adult, of being a good person, is sometimes calling a spade a spade. Of blowing the whistle, and seeing that justice is done, and that the innocent are not harmed. A stunning number of Penn State officials, probably otherwise good men, failed this test. And I have to ask: what would I have done?

Today, this morning, I know that I will remember this lesson about a tragic sin of omission, and think twice about giving a wink and a nod toward behavior that is patently wrong, and risk my membership in easy fraternity, to see that the right thing is done.

Quantity vs. quality time

As I write this, my wife Jan and I just completed three days of babysitting for my grandson Noah. His parents - my son Matthew and daughter-in-law Crystal - left town on vacation. We stayed at their home. They rolled in last night after midnight, and Noah continued sleeping. Noah has a video and audio monitor in his bedroom that enables us to see and to hear what's going on. My wife and I watched him on the monitor after we put him down for the night, and it was a stitch. This morning, my wife returned to work for the day, and I joined her.

I use the word babysitting, but my wife does the heavy lifting – diaper changes, feeding, sleep time, baths. I'm kinda the good-time Charlie, helping her out and keeping Noah amused. Relative to amusement, however, I'm surprised to say that Noah does the heavy lifting, not me. If I introduce something new to him, he picks up on it right away, remembers it, and we do it again and again.

I have a silly gene in myself that lies dormant most of the time. I have watched shows like Saturday Night Live almost since its beginning in 1975, and am riotously amused by sight and sound gags on television comedies. “Seinfeld” is a favorite, as were the shows “Taxi,” “Cheers,” “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” and others. I have on occasion replayed their best scenes several times after I first see them, and laugh each time as I watch the scene unfold.

Case in point: the Reverend Jim Ignatowski on the TV show “Taxi” is taking the written exam to become a cab driver. He doesn't know the answer to one of the questions, and whispers to his cohorts a few feet away, “What does a yellow light mean?”

To which they reply, also whispering, “Slow down!” Jim looks puzzled, a little exasperated, and asks them again, this time more slowly, “WHAT...DOES...A...YELLLOOOWWW...” This goes on two or three more times, and I can't contain myself. I am consumed by idiot laughter, and I play it again and again, just to laugh some more. My wife wonders sometimes about me.

The silliness within has begun to re-emerge with Noah. A couple weeks ago – I don't know where it came from – I was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, and he was in the center of the room, a foot or two away from me.

I looked at him, and said “Jump,” and I jumped a few inches in the air. When I landed, Noah was consumed by idiot laughter. When he collected himself, he looked at me and shouted “Jump!” We both leaped into the air, and had a good laugh at ourselves. He's since elaborated on the game by saying “Ready?” (It comes out like “Weddy?”) and bends his knees, ready to jump. I, of course, bend my knees as well, and together we jump, and laugh.

He is fascinated by what appear to an adult to be the simplest things – the opening and closing of a door, for instance. He has a game now where I sit on a chair in his bedroom. He goes to the door, shuts it, runs down the hallway to his “Amma,” (my wife Jan), and runs back down the hallway toward the bedroom where I sit, waiting. He opens the door slowly, and I feign surprise and fear. He is contorted by laughter and repeats the drill, again and again. We have a ball.

Yesterday, I took him outside, and we went for a walk in his wagon. As we always do, I found a small broken stick on the sidewalk, and gave it to him. As he rolls down the sidewalk in the wagon, he drags the stick, and we talk about what we see – the 16-year-old friendly cat a couple doors down, who sidles over to greet us, the spooky decorations on the houses for Halloween, the ambulance with its sirens, the concrete pig decorating a lawn, the black squirrel running by.
The talk is almost nonstop, mostly by me. In between our conversations, I sing a couple verses of “Elmo's Song” to him, and he appears to like it. He almost never complains, and is almost always in a good mood. And I couldn't care less who hears me sing.

Yesterday, in the backyard, he noticed his dog Gretta rubbing the side of her body along a cyclone fence, itching herself. The bottom of the fence is less than a foot away from the edge of the driveway, and a narrow strip of grass lies between. Its width varies along its length, so it's tricky for him to walk the strip of grass along the fence. At times he can place both his feet in the strip and walk forward slowly, at other times he has to lift one foot to the driveway, leaving the other foot below on the grass.

He appears to be genuinely challenged by the uneven surfaces, and will do this for up to 15 minutes. I hold his hand to break a potential fall to the concrete, but the perambulation is all his.
Yesterday, it reminded me of a wonderful novel I read years ago, in which the protagonist practices a physical move with a friend many times over the years, as they grow up together. In the climax of the book, they find themselves in a situation in which the move is essential to saving the lives of several young children.

Tonight, my wife and I are heading back up to Noah's home, to see him go out for Trick or Treat. He says something that sounds like “Dwick u Dwee.” We will be there for only 20 minutes. At 18 months old, Noah doesn't get to go to many houses, but I want to see him in his costume, and to see him enjoy himself. It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already.

I remember reading years ago an article about broken families, and the notion of “quality” time that a non-resident dad may use to maximize enjoyment with his children – a trip to the zoo, say, or going to get ice cream. And I say Amen to that – it's gotta be a tough situation.

But I had to agree with the author's conclusion that it's quantity time that often makes the difference in a relationship. It's the downtime when you're talking with each other, it's the silence in the room, it's laughing together at a funny scene on TV. Even, say, just jumping together.