What I found out years later is that those four guys who came to visit me in my room at the ACC had actually gone to the coaching staff on my behalf and asked if I could dress. “Guys like Rudy deserve a chance,” they argued. And Coach Devine agreed without hesitation.
I dressed in a fog, almost dizzy with emotion. I almost quit! The thought of it made me laugh! I almost quit when I was so close! What a mistake that would have been. I was overwhelmingly grateful to Coach Devine, to those players who hoisted me up with their pep talk, to Rudy the janitor, and to my brother Frank.
Frank! I had to call Francis right away. I suddenly snapped out of the fog and booked it over to the pay phone in the ACC. Of all the people in that house in Joliet, it was Frank who picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Frank, you’re never gonna believe it,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s happening. I’m dressing for the game tomorrow!”
“What?” he yelled. “For real?”
“For real, Frank. Coach just announced it in front of everyone at practice!”
He was beside himself. “You’ve gotta tell dad.”
“Is he there?” I asked.
“No.”
“Frank, you’ve gotta tell him. And tell him I’ve got four tickets to the game. You’ve gotta be there!”
Frank cupped his hand over the phone and yelled out to the rest of my brothers and sisters, “Hey guys, Danny’s gonna dress for the Notre Dame game tomorrow!”
Just as my Notre Dame dream coming true set the whole family off on one of the happiest dinners of our lives, and my making the football team sent the whole clan into cheers over the phone a little more than a year earlier, once again I listened as my whole family erupted with excitement over something I’d done. What a feeling that is, to spread that kind of joy.
I called Freddy, who just about blew a gasket on the phone. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it up on such short notice, he said, but he’d be there in spirit and he’d be sure to listen to the game on the radio.
I called D-Bob, who flipped out too, and promised he’d be watching the game on the TV at his store.
I ran into Rudy the janitor down the hall and told him the news. He was so thrilled for me. “Come to the game!” I said. “I just might do that, Rudy. I just might do that,” he replied with the biggest, broadest version of that smile he always seemed to wear. “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know?” I said to him.
“Well, I don’t think that’s true. But thank you, Rudy. It’s quite a story you have to tell.”
It was quite a story. I had never really thought of it that way. Even after it showed up in the basketball program and the student paper, it never occurred to me that my story was anything special. It was just my life. But to dress for a game? To actually step into that stadium with a gold helmet? Me? This lousy student from Joliet who wasn’t even a “college-bound” type of guy? Yeah. I guess that did make for a pretty good story. People always joke about this sort of thing, but I remember thinking, right then and there, I’ ll be telling this story to my grandkids someday.
That was a pretty cool feeling.
Of course, it wasn’t nearly as cool as the feeling that would come my way in the next twenty-four hours.
It’s funny, but on my way into the locker room the next day, it still didn’t feel real. I remembered what Coach said—and said in front of the whole team—but I still had this nervous knot in my stomach as I walked up to check the dress list. I put my finger on the first name on the top of that piece of paper and dragged it down, down, down the list until finally, there it was. “Ruettiger—#45.”
I kept my finger there for a moment, and just stared at it. All that waiting. All that anticipation. All that dreaming, hoping, praying. There it was. It was real.
It was real.
12
Twenty-Seven Seconds
My parents drove in from Joliet with my brothers Frank and John. I knew I wouldn’t see them before the game. I’d be sequestered in the locker room, right where I needed to be. The stadium was packed, fifty-nine thousand strong, as it was for every home game. The noise of that crowd filtering in echoed through the tunnel and down the hallways into my ears every time somebody opened a door. And there I was, standing in front of my locker, looking at my first-ever game jersey—and a gold helmet.
I held up that shirt and just stared at it—45. At first, I fell into that old sense of feeling sorry for myself: everyone else’s jersey had their names on it. Not mine. It was just a number. And for a few seconds, that’s exactly how I felt.
I picked that helmet up off the bench and held it in my hands for a moment. Just a couple of years earlier I had broken the rules and snuck in here as a Holy Cross student to help touch up the paint on game helmets just like this one. Now here I was, about to put one on.
Nine years had flown by since I first stepped foot in this very locker room as a high school student, an overzealous fan rolling with the flow as the team filtered in from practice. Nine years since Ara Parseghian first laid eyes on me and told me to get out of there. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself.
I wished Coach Parseghian could have been there right then.
I remember looking over at the brass plaque on one of the columns— a plaque featuring the famous quote from the film Knute Rockne: All American, starring Ronald Reagan as George Gipp: “Rock, sometime when the team’s up against it, and the breaks are beating the boys, tell them to go out there with all they’ve got, and win just one for the Gipper. I don’t know where I’ll be then, Rock, but I’ll know about it; and I’ll be happy.”
So much history. I just took it in. This one chance, this one shot to run out on that field, to be not just a part of the team but a part of the team’s history—it was overwhelming. I was so grateful. I pulled that shirt over my head and caught a glimpse of myself wearing it in one of the mirrors, and suddenly any feeling of disappointment I felt over that silly notion of not having my name on my back went flying right out the window. This was it. I was part of the Notre Dame tradition. Me!
I basked in it for as long as I could.
In some ways, I wished it could have lasted forever—that feeling right before the payoff, right before the goal is reached, right before the dream comes true, when you know for certain there’s nothing left to stand in your way, but before it’s all over.
Nothing lasts forever, of course, and I was starting to feel the rush. I wanted to play!
Before I knew it, Coach Devine was calling us over to gather round and take a knee. I got down right in front, surrounded by all of my teammates, listening as he thanked us seniors one last time and instructed us to take it all in—reminding us that we would never forget this day for the rest of our lives . . . and that Georgia Tech was the number one offensive team in the nation.
Father James Riehle, the chaplain of the athletic department, led the team in prayer. I closed my eyes, knowing this was the one and only time I would ever have the opportunity to take part in that beautiful pre-game ritual. In my mind, I privately thanked God for the blessing. “Amen,” I said, as Coach Devine took command once more. “Now let’s go get ’em!” he yelled.
We all jumped to our feet: “Raaaahhh!” The noise was deafening as we made our way out of the locker room, all of those players ritually tapping the signs above the doorway and along the corridor on our way out. I joined right in, slapping my hand against the cold metal, joining the pulsing rap of one hand after another in a steady chain of solidarity.
The sunlight streamed and bounced off of the brick and concrete in the tunnel outside. I looked back over my shoulder, and through the gates at the top of the ramp I caught a perfectly framed view of Touchdown Jesus glistening in the sun. The Notre Dame marching band blew their horns and pounded their drums just outside the tunnel, energizing the crowd for a big Fighting Irish welcome. I could barely see around the rest of the team, they were all so big. I only caught brief gl
impses of the field from the back of the group.
“Rudy! Where’s Rudy?” someone yelled. All of a sudden some of the guys started pushing me forward. “Rudy, you lead us out!” They pushed me right up front. Suddenly the whole stadium came into view. Fifty-nine thousand people, all looking our way. Man, I thought sitting in the stands was exciting! Standing in that tunnel, feeling the anticipation of all those fans left me shaking. I kept jumping up and down, just trying to throw my energy around. I was so pumped.
I could barely hear the announcer over the roar of that crowd. I couldn’t make out all the words. All I could make out was the buildup of excitement in the sound of his voice and the sudden roar of the crowd when, suddenly, Raaaahhhhwww!, the whole team exploded forward, bursting out of the tunnel and running onto that field as the band tore into the Notre Dame fight song: “Buuuh, buh buh, bu buuuh, bu buuuh!” My legs sprinted beneath me as my arms rose up in the air, carried by the sound of that crowd and the powerful feeling of running out flanked by the greatest team in college football history. I was flying on pure adrenaline. I could’ve run sprints from end zone to end zone for hours at that moment and not even felt it.
The photographers, the reporters, the cheerleaders, the guy in the Leprechaun mascot outfit, the site of Georgia Tech’s team and coaches all blurred together in the excitement of those glorious, glorious seconds until finally I made my way to the sideline and found my spot on the bench— which is, by far, the best seat in the entire stadium. To sit and watch and feel every breath of every player, the pacing coaches, the physical contact of that team all around you while throwing your energy out to those players and feeling every move along with them, knowing that you’re a part of it all and responsible for some of the work that went into creating each play, every move, every instinct that drives them, is greater than any skybox experience at any stadium in the world.
I loved every second of it.
I kept looking up in the stands, spotting familiar faces from all over campus, catching people waving and pointing at me, clearly excited to see me on the bench. Those articles about me had spread even further than I realized. My “story” had caught on. I spotted a few friends from back in my Holy Cross days at St. Joe’s too—including Fred Rodgers and Bo Potter, the guy who tackled me in our very first interhall football practice. He was a full-time Notre Dame senior now, just like me, and he stood there with his camera in his hand. I wasn’t the only guy who made the leap from Holy Cross to Notre Dame. A bunch of us “misfits” made it. Look at us now! I thought.
Funny thing is, I never told Bo or those other guys I was aiming to get on the varsity team. I was in that whole mind-set of not wanting anyone to tell me I couldn’t do it. So this had to be a surprise to him. I can’t even imagine what he must’ve thought seeing me sitting there on that bench!
Freddy wasn’t there; he couldn’t make it. But he was certainly there in spirit. I knew D-Bob was back at his store, watching it all unfold on TV—probably while drinking a few beers between visits from customers.
The game seemed to fly by. The Yellow Jackets of Georgia Tech managed to score one touchdown, but we basically dominated the entire game. In fact, we were so far ahead by the fourth quarter, Coach Devine started playing some of the scholarship seniors who were second- and third-team players, just to give them one final chance to get out there on that field. The fans loved that, and the players loved that. He played so many of ’em, I started to get a little ticked off. I wanted to run out there! I had already achieved everything I asked for, everything I dreamed of: but now I wanted to make sure my name appeared in the history books by stepping out onto that field and getting in the game! Heck, I wanted to get in there and sack the quarterback just like I’d done in practice, over and over for the last two seasons.
I kept looking at the clock. My time was almost up. We had possession of the ball with less than two minutes left to play, and we were up 17–3. There was no way we’d give up the ball at that point. The quarterback’s sole mission was to run that clock down and give Notre Dame that victory.
All of a sudden, Coach Devine ran over to me. “Rudy, get out there! Go play!”
“I can’t, Coach. I’m not offense!”
“It don’t matter. Get out there. Now’s your chance. I’ll put you in for—”
“No, Coach. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be right.” I didn’t want to take a shot away from some player on that offensive team. As much as I wanted to get out there, it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t.
He looked disappointed. “Alright, Rudy.”
Coach walked all the way to the other end of the bench and sent someone else in. He seemed to be distracted for a moment as the team huddled up before the next play.
That’s when a minor miracle happened.
For some reason, the quarterback decided not to play it safe. He went against Coach Devine, against offensive coordinator Merv Johnson’s orders, and threw a pass. He went for it, and we scored! The crowd went nuts.
Suddenly we were up 24–3 with less than a minute left to play, and our defensive line had to go take the field once more. Coach Yonto spun around and looked right at me: “Get in there, Rudy. Get in there, kid. Get in the kickoff.”
I jumped up off the bench and pulled my helmet on, running out behind the rest of the kickoff team when I had to stop and turn back. “Where do I go?!” I yelled. I had never been a part of a kickoff before, even in practice.
Coach Yonto waved me over to the far side of the field, but I couldn’t hear him. I just ran as fast as I could and lined up in what seemed to be the only position available. As I ran by the kicker I said, “Kick it to the guy so I can tackle him!” Well, that didn’t happen. He kicked it all the way down to the end zone. I looked up at the clock: twenty-seven seconds.
I swear my whole life flashed before my eyes. “Twenty-seven seconds.” I was twenty-seven years old. Time had flown but now it seemed stopped. I knew I would remember these next twenty-seven seconds as much as anything that had happened to me in those twenty-seven years. I could feel the weight of it and the excitement of it, all rolled up into one. The coincidence of my age and the clock seemed significant in that moment. So did the fact that the score was 24–3; a total of twenty-seven points had been scored in the game that was about to change my life forever.
I got in the huddle—my first time ever—and they called the play. I was defensive end, over on the far left side of the line. I could see that Georgia Tech’s offense was tired. They were over it. They were playing in the final seconds of a horrible loss, and their morale was down. No fire in their eyes. I remember telling myself, I’m gonna sack the quarterback!
The snap came off and I broke free, jerking left and then right, arcing around until that quarterback was in my sights. He’s right there! But he got his pass off too quickly, a high throw over the head of his wide receiver, who just barely managed to knock the ball away to keep our guys from intercepting.
I looked up at the clock again: five seconds. Five seconds!
This was it. Last play. Last chance. The Notre Dame fans were going crazy, and some of them were chanting something—this repetitive sound. Then I realized what it was: the student body was chanting my name!
“Ru-dy! Ru-dy! Ru-dy!”
It was unbelievable! The chant grew louder as more of the crowd joined in.
I planted my fist into that grass one last time. I drove my legs in, pounding them like a racehorse chomping at the bit to get out of the gate. I focused hard as ever. He’s mine. He’s mine! I could feel it. I had trained for this. I had worked my whole life for this! If he passes again, I’m gonna get him!
Adrenaline rushed through me. I could’ve run through a wall and not felt it. The sounds of the stadium disappeared. The only sound I heard now was my own breath in that helmet and the muffled audibles from the quarterback. All of a sudden he took the snap and I saw him drop back. I jerked left and then right, blowing right through the offensive line to come aroun
d right behind him. There he was! He still had the ball. I went for it, diving right into his waist, knocking him down with everything I had.
I hit the ground. So did he. The crushing rumble of collapsing to the earth left me rolling and reeling, and two seconds later I realized what happened: I did it. I made the tackle! I sacked the quarterback!
The crowd went nuts. I popped up and jumped in the air as the whole team erupted in victory. My teammates started knocking my helmet and slapping my back. I felt arms around my legs, my body hoisted from the ground. I looked down as two of my fellow players, Howard Meyer and Ronnie Cullins, hoisted me onto their shoulders and a bunch of other players circled around and started carrying me off the field: Tony Zappala, Ross Christensen, Teddy Burgmeier, Pete Johnson, Jay Achterhoff—all these great guys who had always been good to me. And all I could think was, I almost quit! I almost quit! I was so close to quitting!
The whole team didn’t carry me off. Just that group of guys who felt connected to me. Who felt, much to my surprise, inspired by me. There was still division on that team, and I guess that’s just the way life is. But the players who lifted me up did so from their hearts. They were living the dream and appreciating the magic of the moment. And to me, that’s all that counted.
The view from that vantage point surpassed every expectation, every dream, every notion I had about what it would feel like to play football for Notre Dame. Blew them right out of the water. Flying over the field on the backs of those players, looking over the heads of my teammates and the defeated players of Georgia Tech to the cameras snapping away, to the crowd on their feet waving banners and shouting and hugging and high-fiving as the marching band played and those drums rattled my rib cage, to my clear view of Touchdown Jesus, who seemed to be looking me right in the eyes was bigger than anything I had ever dreamed. Bigger than anything I had ever imagined. Bigger than anything that anyone— including myself—ever thought could happen to me.
Rudy Page 17