V

FRANK LEAHY RIDES INTO TOWN 

It was with double-barreled enthusiasm that we returned to Frank Leahy’s apartment for the second session.  Before arriving for our first meeting, we had discussed the project at great length, pondering over just what difficulties we would run into.  Would Frank’s narrating flow smoothly?  Would the various episodes come off in proper sequence, or would he hop from one event to another?  Would his voice hold up?

Now we knew.  Listening to Frank talk was as easy as tuning in on a TV sportscast with your team winning.  He had a built-in knack for holding your interest.  His profound effectiveness in painting word pictures eliminated our having to interrupt all the time by asking questions.  He rode on waves of inspiration, enjoying every minute.

“I’m all ready,” said Frank, after greetings.  “I think you’ll get a big bang out of today’s session.  First, let me set the date.  I entered Notre Dame in 1927, but the way I entered wins the barbed wire necktie for originality.  I ask you to draw upon your imaginations. 

“Visualize the Notre Dame practice field.  Knute Rockne and his assistant, Tommy Mills, are watching a practice scrimmage.  Suddenly, Rockne seizes the whistle suspended from his neck and gives it a vigorous blast.  The team comes to an instantaneous stop.  What I’m telling you now, I found out later.  You see, I had not quite reached the scene.  Anyway, Rockne shouts, ‘Miller!  Get over here!’  So, one of the players breaks from the squad, crosses the field on the double and pulls up in front of Rockne.”

“He sure had them trained in more ways than one,” I noted.

“Hell, they were so well trained, they should have been known as the Rockettes and billed as Knute Rockne and his original Rockettes.  Respectful discipline!  That’s what held them in line,” said Frank.  “Anyway, Miller rushed up, almost saluting, and announced in crisp words, ‘Yes, sir, Coach Rockne.’

“Well, Rockne gave him a granite gaze.  ‘Miller, what are the signs of a great football team?’  Miller looked like a school kid just caught with a wad of chewing gum in his mouth and began with, ‘I think,’ but that was as far as he got.  Rockne turned up the volume dial in his voice and bellowed, ‘Notre Dame players don’t think.  They know!  Get it?  They know!  K-N-O-W!’  Then, he turned down his vocal chords slightly.  ‘A great team must have the ability to switch immediately from defense to offense.  Know what that means?  It means blocking instead of tackling.  When Carridos intercepted that pass, what did you do?  You just stood there like a wart on a toad’s hide.  Were you saying Mass, Miller, or just trying to figure out what you wanted for Christmas?’”

“He didn’t cushion his words,” I commented.

“He probably would have lighted up the scene with a few of his famous sky rocket expressions if his attention had not been drawn suddenly toward a moving object approaching from across the field.  With mouth wide open, he gazed, no doubt searching for an expression startling enough to fit the occasion.  Finally, he said, ‘Who the hell is that horsing around?’”

Frank switched his position and said, “Bet you gentlemen can’t guess what that moving object was?  Well, fasten your seat belts.  It was I, Frank Leahy, approaching on horseback.” 

Frank’s eyes gleamed like marbles catching the light from an afternoon sunbeam on a school playground.  Father Tom and I let out howls of laughter.

“Yes, sir, I pulled up in front of the group.  Tommy Mills stepped forward and shouted, ‘And, who might you be?’

“I had met Mills before but not while on horseback. No wonder he didn’t recognize me.  I gave my horse a pat and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it high and grinning from ear to ear.  Players started to mill around me, examining the harness and saddle.  I heard one guy shout, ‘Hey, Coach!  Who’s the Paul Revere?’  Another said, ‘Has he come to warn us?’ Then, out tumbled one comment after another such as, ‘Where are the British?  I don’t see no British!’  ‘One if by land and two if by sea.’  ‘Hey, Paul, you looking for the Old North Church?’  ‘How come you’re riding in the daytime?  You’re supposed to take the trip at midnight, remember?  Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.’”

“At least some of the players knew something about American history,” I said.

“And, poetry, too.  Several of them locked arms and began to recite the poem in unison to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle,’ doing a simple dance step at the same time.  But, when the group started to sound like the mob scene from Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Caesar,’ Knute Rockne blew his whistle.  ‘Break it up!  Break it up!’ he commanded.  When the din quieted down to an occasional snicker, Rockne approached me and my horse and said, ‘What’s this all about?’”

“What a picture!  I sure wish I had been there to see that!” I exclaimed.

“Waving the paper, I announced, ‘I am Frank Leahy reporting, Sir.  I have a football scholarship.’

“’Hurrah!’ shouted the group.  ‘Instead of warning us that the British are coming, he’s joining us,’ said Mills.  ‘But, what’s the horse for?’”

“Didn’t you realize that you were being made fun of?” I asked.

“This wasn’t an occasion for jocosity.  This was the culmination of a youthful dream.  No, I didn’t realize that I was being ribbed.  In answer to Tommy Mills’ question as to what the horse was for, I replied, ‘Transportation!  I rode him here.’  Mills shrugged his shoulders and looked at Rockne.  The players continued to examine me and my means of transportation, waiting for Rockne to explode.”

“I suppose Rockne was searching his vocabulary for adequate word ammunition with which to explode,” I offered.

“But, there was no salvo.  In a calm, fatherly tone, he asked, ‘How far did you ride that horse, son?’”

“’From Omaha, Sir,’ I said.  For a moment, everyone seemed stunned, even Rockne.  Then, once again, facetious remarks from the players began to flow.  ‘The Pony Express rides again,’ commented Mills.’”

“How did all this make you feel?” I asked.  “Weren’t your feelings hurt?”

“Oh, I suppose they were.  The fact remained that I had arrived at Notre Dame with scholarship credentials in my hand and the great Knute Rockne looking up at me.  Finally, Rockne shouted, ‘All right!  All right!  Everybody quiet down.’  Then, to me, he asked, ‘Do you plan on playing your position on the horse, Leahy?’

“I said, ‘No sir, I plan to sell him.’

“’That’s good, Leahy.  I was afraid we might have to fit him with shoulder pads,’ said Rockne.

“At this point, I knew I was being ridiculed, but seeing that everyone around was chuckling and Rockne was smiling, I joined in the spirit.  Rockne continued, ‘Tell me, Leahy, do you want to be a polo player or a footballer?’

“Of course, I shouted, ‘A footballer, Sir.’”

“’Then park that nag somewhere and report to Freshman Coach Tommy Mills, here.  Or, maybe, you’re not ready to play yet.’

“’But, I am!  You’re damned right I am,’ I said. Coach Rockne then left the scene.  As I was about to leave, two players came close.  One of them said, ‘Hey, Leahy, settle an argument with us.  This guy here says hippology is the art of shooting from the hip.  What do you say it is?’

“’The study of horses,’ I said and gave my horse the signal to move on.”

“I suppose they wanted to give you one more jolt of embarrassment, but you fooled ‘em.” I said.  “You knew the answer.  Anyway, so long as we are still on the subject of horses, here’s a funny story I heard some time ago.  This happened during the First World War.  It seems that this Yank was standing on the edge of a big mud hole.  In the center was a British soldier completely submerged except for his head.  The Yank hollered, ‘What’s the matter?  You having trouble trying to get out?’ And the Brit replied, ‘No!  I’m on horseback, trying to get my horse out.’”

Frank laughed. “Oh boy, Bernie!  Things are not always the way they appear.  Right?”

“Well, what happened next?” I eagerly asked.

“Well, I started to ride, but players moved in, bombarding me with questions.  It reminded me of a presidential press conference.  Questions like: ‘How long did it take you?’  ‘Hey, did you bring your horse into your hotel room every night?’  ‘How about the feedbag?  Did you carry a sack of oats with you, or did you feed him on stale bread the way the organ grinders used to do?’  ‘How many blacksmith shops did you have to stop at for new horse shoes?’  ‘Did you find horse comfort stations along the way?’  ‘Did you find trees to get under when it rained?’  ‘Did the highway patrol officers give you a ticket for exceeding the speed limit, despite your one-horse power vehicle?’”

“They wanted facts, didn’t they?” I stated.

“They sure did,” recalled Frank.  “I told them that as soon as I could get all set, with my horse taken care of and living quarters settled, I’d answer all the questions they could shout at me, plus a lot more.”

“Now, I’ll ask a question?  Did you get tired or sore riding so long?”

“No, I can’t say I did,” Frank replied.  “You see, I always had my own horse.  Quite often, another boy and I would drive a herd of cattle 125 miles or so, making many miles a day.  When you herd cattle, you ride much more than along the road.  You have to go back after stragglers, go ahead to see how the road is.  In fact, you weave back and forth.  In actual riding, you ride twice as far in miles than merely making a trip.  We’d be gone day and night.  Moreover, we knew how to sleep out in the open and how to cook our own meals and, of course, how to make sure the cattle didn’t stray away at nighttime.  We even knew about building a fence around them.  This was great training.  I wish every kid in America could have an opportunity to ride a horse, get to know a horse and herd cattle and sheep for at least a little while.  It provides a communication with nature practically impossible to acquire in any other way.”

Frank stopped and took on a far away gaze.  For a few minutes, he seemed completely away from us, lost in the engulfing fascination of God’s great outdoors.  I could even see his eyes light up as if they were catching the reflection of flames from a bonfire swirling around a coffee pot.

I pulled Frank away from his thoughts.

“And, so you made it to Notre Dame, a dream so carefully planned that it virtually had to come true.  What happened that first year?”

“Well, my brother Gene helped me financially at Notre Dame, at first.  Then, I worked during the summer.  I earned some pretty good money playing baseball.  In the morning, I would do manual labor, like hauling 100-pound sacks of sugar, loads of crushed rock and anything that had to be hauled from the railroad depot into the stores.  I’d work from 8:00 a.m. ‘til noon, and then after lunch, I’d rest for an hour or so after which we’d practice baseball every day.”

“Which kept you in good shape, physically,” I added.

“Yes, it did – also financially.”

“What position did you play in baseball, Frank?”

“I was a pitcher and an outfielder.  Actually, I never was an outstanding prospect.  But, I made the first team.  Let me tell you something you probably never knew.  Those baseball games in little towns a few years back were absolutely dangerous.  The ranch owners would get together and bet 100 head of cattle or so many acres of their land on the outcome of the game.  You can see how all-important winning was.  This led to some pretty unfair tricks such as sneaking a star pitcher from the Western League, or maybe from Omaha or Denver, saying nothing about it.”

“That reminds me of the gambling episodes on the Mississippi River during the Mark Twain days,” I said.  “A plantation owner would leave his estate to go on a trip.  He’d get into a poker game and wind up without a home.”

“Speaking of those Mississippi River gambling episodes,” said Frank.  “I’m reminded of a story which is supposed to be true.  It seems that a Southern Gentleman got into a poker game with a young fellow on his honeymoon.  His beautiful bride sat by watching the game for a while and then retired to their stateroom.  The bridegroom continued to play, losing heavily.  Finally, when the pot reached astronomical proportions and the bridegroom’s opponent saw that the bridegroom was having difficulty, financially, he came up with a proposition: ‘I can see that you’re about broke.  So, if you want to call me, toss in the key to your stateroom.’

“The bridegroom pondered for a full minute, then said, ‘All right.  I’ll call you.  If I lose, I’ll give you the key to my stateroom.  If I win, I get the pot.’  Their hands had already been dealt.  Quickly, the Southern Gentleman spread his hand, revealing three kings.  The bridegroom threw down his hand, made up of two pairs.  ‘You win,’ he said.  ‘So, want the key to my stateroom?  Here it is.’  Quickly, he drew out the key, and fitting it into the muzzle of a pistol, fired.  The Southern Gentleman slumped over on the table, dead.”

I looked at Father Tom.  The expression of amazement on his countenance must have equaled mine. 

Frank continued, “Yes, those ranchers would pull some pretty wild tricks.  Let’s say we were going to play Rushville or Gordon, Nebraska.  We’d never know whom we’d be facing.  They’d just as soon sneak Bob Feller in if they could.  I tell you it was very dangerous, like if the umpire made the wrong decision.  You never knew what would happen to you before you got out of town.”

“You said that your brother, Gene, helped you financially during that first year at Notre Dame.  How come Gene didn’t attend Notre Dame?”

“Gene was and still is a fine fellow.  But, as a young man, he wasn’t much interested in making big money.  What he wanted to do more than anything was to play baseball in the summer and hunt in the fall.  Gene started out from Winner, South Dakota for Notre Dame when he was about eighteen-years old.  One of the Notre Dame graduates living in Winner had sold him on the idea.  Well, he stopped off at Omaha to see some friends.  These friends, however, put pressure on him to go to Creighton instead of Notre Dame.  And that’s where he went, which he always regretted with all of his regrettable might.”

“Would he have been a great football star?”

“I’ll answer that question by repeating what Tommy Mills told many people – that brother Gene could do anything George Gipp could do on the gridiron, except throw the football as accurately.  You see, Gene has small hands.  What’s more, his right hand had been broken five times from boxing.  In fact, the back of his hand was covered with knobs resulting from broken bones.  Just the same, Mills insisted that Gene could do anything as well as George Gipp could, which was quite a compliment to be paid to any football player.”

The time had come for a lunch break.  Father Tom and I left to locate an eatery. 

“I’ve got a brand new idea for a restaurant,” I said as we walked along.  “It works like this: as you enter, you are weighed.  You are given a slip with your weight recorded.  Then, you eat.  After you have finished the meal, you weigh again.  The difference between your weight before eating and your weight after eating is computed, and you pay accordingly.  How about that?”

“I’m too hungry to comment,” said pleasantly plump, Father Tom.