IRON DESIRE
THE LEGACY OF NOTRE DAME FOOTBALL COACH FRANK LEAHY
AN UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY
By
Bernard J. Williams
With
Leslie O. Read
Edited by
K. Raven Rozier
All photographs are property of the publisher.
Originally published in hardcover in the United States by JCL Services, Inc. in 1974
© 1974 by JCL Services, Inc.
© 2009 by K. Raven Rozier
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Control Number for print version: 2009907406
Print version ISBN 978-0-557-09198-0
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BERNARD J. WILLIAMS
Businessman, industrialist manufacturer, inventor, merchandiser, Mr. Williams was Frank Leahy’s closest friend. It was this intimate association and complete trust that Frank Leahy had in “Bernie” Williams which made the writing of this book possible.
LESLIE O. READ
Son of Opie Read, famous novelist, Mr. Read is past president of the Chicago Press Club, magazine contributor with outstanding credentials in the fields of modern journalism, advertising and public relations.
K. RAVEN ROZIER
Ms. Rozier is a screenwriter and the author of the book, “Last Door.” As editor of “Iron Desire,” she has aimed to bring a modern fluency to this mid-century manuscript while maintaining the 1950s charm of Leahy for contemporary readers.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my lovely wife, Dawna, who never lost faith, whose encouragement and confidence constantly spurred me on. Each day, beautiful memories of her continue to provide comfort and solace.
-- Bernard J. Williams
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
I. A Visit
II. Burning Down the New Barn
III. Frank Leahy the Boxer
IV. An Invitation to Play
V. Frank Leahy Rides into Town
VI. The Cornerstone of a Coach
VII. Leahy’s “Don’t Quit” Creed
VIII. Frank Meets John Cavanaugh
IX. Some Tricks of the Trade
X. Frank Rooms with Rockne at Mayo Clinic – Then Tragedy
XI. New Responsibilities
XII. Frank Heads to Boston College
XIII. Frank Becomes Head Coach at Notre Dame
XIV. Frank Brings the T-Formation to Notre Dame
XV. Frank Enters the Navy
XVI. Frank Speaks to the Youth of America
XVII. Frank Offers Further Advice to the Youth of America
XVIII. Frank’s Final Years at Notre Dame
XIX. Frank Enters the Business World
XX. Frank’s Condition Worsens
XXI. Father Cavanaugh Replies – Ziggy Talks
XXII. The Lou Wolfson Encounter, a Spectacular Telegram and a Dog
XXIII. Frank Visits Mrs. Bernard Williams
XXIV. So Long, Frank Leahy
XXV. Final Appraisal by Bernard Williams
XXVI. Interesting Angles, Statistics and Glimpses
Photos
IRON DESIRE
THE LEGACY OF NOTRE DAME FOOTBALL COACH FRANK LEAHY
INTRODUCTION
“When the going gets tough, let the tough get going.” Notre Dame head football coach, Frank Leahy is credited with coining this phrase. It is, indeed, an appropriate statement for a coach to offer a trailing team during a half-time, locker room speech. Leahy, however, was never one to spout idle advice, especially to his players. He understood what tough was, and he never allowed it be an obstacle to his own goals. In his later years, during the recorded conversations of this book, Leahy battled valiantly against his final opponent, a fatal illness. Not surprisingly, he met the “tough-going” with the same fortitude he exerted in every aspect of his life.
Nicknamed, “the Master,” Leahy worked hard and long to achieve all that he set out to accomplish, many times at the sacrifice of his friends and family.
“There are no shortcuts in life,” he’d say, “only those we imagine.” Despite his optimistic, determined attitude, Leahy also possessed wicked pessimism and biting Irish sarcasm.
Bernie Williams was a close friend of Frank Leahy’s. Bernie spent many hours with Frank to record these conversations, to offer readers a personal glimpse of this great man. There are other books that delve into the analytic aspects of Leahy’s strategies on the football field. Bernie’s conversations with Leahy, however, examine the man’s character and philosophy on and, perhaps more importantly, off the field. These discussions cover an array of topics, some of which recall us back to a different time in America’s history; others ring even more profoundly sound in today’s society.
Frank Leahy was a man of rare quality, the like of which is not often seen. He was a proactive, fiercely patriotic, American always seeking to improve himself, his Notre Dame “lads,” the youth of America, and society. Personal letters from two U.S. Presidents illustrate this devotion and service to country.
It is with great hope that the re-publication of this book will find a new generation of Leahy fans and will inspire the “iron desire” in us all to manifest our own greatness.
K. Raven Rozier - Fresno, California 2009
I
A VISIT
September in Portland, Oregon can turn on the most spectacular and glamorous weather of the year. The morning of September 12th, 1971 was no exception.
From the plane seat, I could see mountaintops outlined in brilliant copper as we came in for a landing. I elbowed my associate, Father Thomas Schneider. His finely chiseled profile turned toward me, and his mouth broadened into a jovial smile.
“Everywhere you look, Bernie, it resembles a colored, picture postcard,” he said. “What a country. What a day. I sure hope our mission is a success.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” I said. “The good Lord is with us.”
What was that mission? To gather material for writing the life story of Frank Leahy. Frank Leahy, the super football coach. Frank Leahy, the successor to Notre Dame’s famous Knute Rockne. Frank Leahy, who had been struck down at the height of his magnificent coaching career by a dreaded disease. Frank Leahy, now completely incapacitated and indubitably lost track of by his erstwhile millions of admirers.
But, he had not lost me as an admirer. I had previously followed his successes, attended as many games as I could, just as I had done when Knute Rockne was at the Notre Dame Football helm.
One day, a news item had pegged him as being in a Portland, Oregon hospital. In a sort of frenzy, I had seized the phone and called him from my headquarters in Long Beach, California. I was rewarded by having a great chat with him.
“I’d welcome your visit,” he had said. “Come any time. I promise you my full cooperation. But, look; I’ll be going home in a day or so. Why not see me then?”
We set up a date, and I began to consult plane schedules. I asked Father Thomas Schneider of Huntington Beach, California to join me on the project. He immediately fell in with what he termed, “a must – a double plus mission, long overdue.”
We were met at the airport by Frank Leahy’s son, Jerry, with his car, which was too old and dilapidated to permit determining its make. A clothesline held one side together, the door was inoperable, and the paneling was festooned with huge knots. We had to get in on the driver’s side. The biggest surprise, however, was that it actually started.
Jerry was a likeable chap, but he was no fashion plate. His hair had not encountered barber’s shears in months. However, neither ruffled clothes nor long hair had interfered with that exuberant charm for which the Leahy dynasty had been renowned. There was no cover up, no apology. He could not have been more self-confident or under more self-control than had he been garbed in new clothes of the very latest cut.
Aside from the few old age creaks and engine sputterings, the improvised car forged ahead, obeying, for the most part, the commands from the driver. While trying to establish a few conversational pleasantries, my attention was again called to the glorious weather. The air, richly oxygen packed, gave me a physical lift. I breathed deeply and sent my regrets to smog-encircled areas. The trees were a fresh, snappy green, with no thought of autumn colors.
Breaking the silence, I said, “And how is your dad, Jerry?”
“Gosh, I can’t say,” he replied. “We’ll be there in a few minutes, and I’d rather have you come up with your own opinion. It’s been rugged, believe me.”
We pulled up in front of an ordinary apartment building, which had little hope of surviving the renewal programs. It was not an optimistic trio that ascended the stairs.
Mrs. Frank Leahy and her daughter met us at the door. Mrs. Leahy, a beautiful woman, greeted us as if we were the first arrivals to a social gathering and long-planned get-together of fun and frolic. The pretty daughter played a duet to her mother’s graceful amenities, making me feel so much at home that I almost forgot the object of our mission.
A quick look around revealed that this was no model furniture showroom in a leading department store. I was shocked. Could this be the home of the great Frank Leahy? Only the bare necessities were in evidence.
Frank Leahy was sitting on the edge of a bed in his small bedroom. He had on a blue bathrobe. He gave us a forceful, “Hi!” His voice was surprisingly strong, youthful and musical. Chairs had been arranged around the bed in preparation for this meeting.
Father Thomas and I shook hands with Frank and settled down. I had brought a tape recorder and a number of blanks for taking down a large portion of the interview.
One look at Frank sent ice through my veins. This simply could not be the fine, upright specimen of manhood who for so long had dominated football. How many times had I seen him on the sidelines strolling up and down, never fidgety, never scowling, his very presence commanding attention?
During a game, as he moved, hundreds of pairs of eyes followed him. How brightly the girls’ faces would light up as he stepped from one strategic point to another. Yes, his good looks had endowed him with captivating, magnetic powers on women. He truly had female adoration.
Frank’s physical perfection began with a well-shaped head, capped by an abundance of light brown hair, parted slightly off center. His blue eyes were deep set. His prominent chin instantly conveyed the impression that he possessed a strong will, in complete control of any situation which might arise. He stood six-feet tall and weighed about 185 pounds during his coaching era. His playing weight had tipped the beam at the 180-pound mark. Had Michelangelo been on the search for a model to sculpt David, he could quite easily have chosen Frank Leahy.
That was the Frank Leahy I was so accustomed to seeing. Then, suddenly to gaze upon this famous coach, now transformed into a human wreck – well, it was an emotional blow, believe me.
Frank sensed it. He looked at me as if to say, “Please don’t blame me for slipping like this. I couldn’t help it.”
A sudden silence came over the scene. I heard a truck rumble down the street. In the back yard, some children were playing. They could be kicking a football around. Their voices were full of the joy of living, exuberant, carefree, maybe future Frank Leahys, just getting started.
Frank’s eyes took on an unusual sparkle. Then, I realized that they were filled with tears. I glanced at Father Thomas. His eyes, too, were damp, as were mine.
I broke the dismal spell with, “I’m going to call you ‘Frank.’ I want you to call me ‘Bernie,’ and, of course, this is Father Thomas. First of all, I want to thank you for making this biography possible. The massive audiences you have built up will surely welcome anything about Frank Leahy.”
“And, don’t forget the youth of America,” Father Thomas broke in. “If ever there was a time when young people needed help and guidance, it is now. What you have to offer, Frank, is an inspirational cyclone. Even the fight you have been waging, health wise, will show the young people of America how a thoroughbred meets and handles bad breaks.”
“Yes,” I added, “and don’t forget what Frank has shown the sports world in the realm of strictly fair play.”
Father Thomas stood up and walked over to the window. “Sure is great country,” he said, “and, say, how about a little lunch before we get rolling?”
“Fine,” Frank said. “I’ll send Jerry out for some hamburgers with onions.”
Frank Leahy looked at me, and I got the message. I pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket and gave it to Jerry. But, the idea of Frank Leahy, a man dying of leukemia and heart disease eating hamburgers with onions did not make sense as far as the proper diet was concerned.
While waiting for his vitamin bag to be attached, I quizzed Frank regarding his unbelievable coaching record and credits. At the time he had been ordered by his doctors to end his coaching career, he was forty-five years old. He had put in eleven years coaching at Notre Dame.
“I guess I didn’t do too bad for a farm boy,” he said. “As head coach, we won 107 games, lost thirteen and wound up with nine ties. Of course, my greatest hero was Knute Rockne. How often I had dreamed of his suddenly visiting earth and complimenting me for my record, which was second only to his.”
“That would have made a terrific news report – you two shaking hands after all those years,” Father Thomas said.
“Well, in thirteen seasons at Notre Dame, Rockne, as head coach, chalked up 105 victories, suffered twelve losses, and had only five ties. Was I giving his record a run for the money, or wasn’t I?”
“Wow, you sure did.”
Frank was a soft-spoken man, yet his facial expressions exuded emotions that conveyed so much.
I strained my ear to see if I could hear Jerry’s chugging car. Hunger was beginning to take over.
It was around 12:30 when Jerry returned with the burgers. I still couldn’t get over the fact that Frank Sr. was about to wolf down hamburgers and onions in absolute violation of the diet restrictions his doctors had, no doubt, established.
We talked about the tremendous credits Frank had received during his activities in and out of the coaching world. Some of these credits were unknown to me despite the fact that I thought I had kept as close a tab on his career as anyone not directly employed in the field.
For instance, I didn’t know that he had been named “Coach of the Year” five times by five different newspapers and that he had won the accolade of “Football Man of the Year” in 1949.
“One thing I do remember, Frank, and that is that your 1949 team was voted by sports writers as the best college team during the last 25 years.”
“I’ll give you credit for having an alert memory,” Frank said. “To put an additional spotlight on my record, I can say that I developed seven undefeated teams, four national championships and ran four consecutive years without a loss – the longest winning streak in Notre Dame history, I am told.”
Mrs. Leahy came in and adjusted Frank’s pillows. I could see by the expression on his face that he was enjoying immensely our conversation.
“You know,” he said, “this gab is doing me a lot of good. I feel better than I have felt in a long time. You guys have brought me a new kind of therapy. I wish the docs could see me now. I’m even digesting the hamburger and onions without a gastronomical upheaval.”
“Tell us about some more credits and recognitional high spots,” Father Thomas said.
“Well, I can give you more, but I’m afraid you might think I’m bragging.”
“Not at all, Frank, and, anyway, who has more right to brag than you?”
“Okay, you asked for it. Now, let’s see – did you know that I was the only coach ever selected to second a presidential nomination?”
“You’re kidding,” I said, surprised.
“No, I’m not. It was Eisenhower in 1956.”
“Boy, that’s something. Keep on,” Father Thomas said.
“In 1951, I was made a Knight of Malta by Pope Pius, XII. Besides Vince Lombardi, I was the only coach so chosen. And, let’s see; in 1958, I was selected as the “Hoosier of the Year.”
I turned to Father Thomas, “This man is absolutely fabulous,” I said as I slapped my knee.
“Oh, yes, then I went from Indiana to Illinois to broaden my influence, so to speak. Mayor Daley of Chicago appointed me a Special Consultant to his youth programs. That was in 1967 through 1968. At the same time, I served as a football broadcaster for CBS, and, as you know, I am now an assistant to President Pat O’Malley at the Canteen Corporation.”
I stood up and placed our paper plates on a small table. “There just isn’t any end to the scope of your activities. We came here to get the story of your life and have become overwhelmed by learning about more credits than King Arthur and his Knights, Popeye and Sailor, and Buck Rogers all rolled into one.”
“Let him finish,” Father Thomas said.
“I’m about finished as far as the credits are concerned,” Frank said.
“How about the Emmy Award from the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences,” I blurted out.
“That’s right. I earned that award in 1968-69 as Sports Commentator on ‘The Big News.’”
I stood up again and walked over by Frank’s side. “How come they didn’t run you for president?” I said.
“I was elected,” Frank said, “but not to the Presidency. It was to the College Football Hall of Fame, February 9th, 1970.”
Mrs. Leahy came in, handed Frank a paper to read and departed. For a few moments, Frank concentrated on the paper. Father Thomas and I remained quiet, although my mind was anything but that. I just could not get over the tragedy in Frank’s life. Had it not been for the ravages of the dreaded disease, he would be out on the field at Notre Dame right now, laying the cornerstone for another year’s championship.
How does it feel to be on top, a catering world recognizing your outstanding talents, bowing to every whim, cheering you into the fleecy clouds of adoration, and then suddenly to have the axe of fate sever you from all hope, all you have built up, all you have fought for, for so long?
How does it feel to be told that, “This is it,” that your number has come up, that your world of prosperous and successful living is on the skids, and those skids are now being greased like fury?
How much such punishment can the mind and heart take? I looked at Frank, still fingering the paper, marveling at his courage, at his ability to withstand the battering ram of a fatal malady.
Then, I thought of the effects of his leaving Notre Dame. It came to me that he was not the only one to suffer. The entire university, alumni, and fans all over the world would feel the blow. Frank Leahy would no longer be around to produce another Notre Dame Championship football team.
Who feels the effects when a Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart dies at the youthful age of thirty-five? Think of the wonderful productive years he had left and how the world of music lovers had been deprived of all those “could have been” creations.
Think of the great loss when athletes are struck down prematurely. Yes, the star of a tragedy represents one loss. The wonderful congregation of fans and followers represent the other side.
Frank put down the paper, called to his wife, turned it over to her with a few whispered words, and turning back to us said, “I’m ready to go on.”
Father Thomas and I moved our chairs closer.
“I guess I’d better begin with my childhood,” Frank said. “At three years of age, I burned down my father’s barn. There aren’t many prominent people who can start their biography with the burning of a barn! So, here goes.”
II
BURNING DOWN THE NEW BARN
Instead of starting the story, Frank stood up slowly, seeking a balance as if he were on a high wire.
“I’ve got to get rid of this gum,” he said.
He began to shuffle toward a wastebasket, moving one foot forward feelingly, then the other. I looked at Father Tom and saw that what was going through his mind corresponded with what I was thinking. The tremendous effort Frank had to exert in order to navigate at all was such a pathetic sight that I had to turn my head away. It reminded me of seeing children on television trying to move around, crutch supported, in their courageous battle with polio.
“Did you ever think of the energy you use up to chew gum?” Frank asked. “I’d like to see a physicist do some computing and come up with the dope on just how much energy a guy expends in say two hours of vigorous chawing.”
“I think you’ve got an idea there, Frank,” I said, trying to cover up my feelings.
“Maybe, a device could be rigged up that would store up that energy to be used for some useful purpose,” Father Tom interposed with a chuckle.
“Now, you’re talking,” Frank said. “I could inadvertently chew gum for two hours and store up enough energy to run a washing machine.”
Frank had now, finally, reached the wastebasket, had spit out his gum and was on his way back. Here was a man who at one time could have run the hundred in ten flat, but who now could not run two steps without falling flat. For me, this was turning out to be a more difficult assignment than I had anticipated. The feeling of sympathy was overpowering.
The kids playing outside became noisier. I could identify the boot of a football and wondered what their window-breaking score was.
“Those youngsters got wind to the fact that I was living in this apartment,” Frank said. “Several times I have heard my name mentioned. Just before going to the hospital here in Portland, I was standing on the porch watching them. One of them threw the football to the other one who missed an easy catch. ‘You’ll never make a Frank Leahy,’ the tosser shouted, looking up at me. Well, you know something? A sort of gloom came over me – self-pity, I guess. Anyway, I had to go inside. I didn’t want them to think I was chicken.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to tell you about. You know, one of the toughest deals you have to wrestle with when you’re as deeply under the weather as I am is handling your thinking properly. Of course, I’m very religious. God comes first. I spend a great deal of time in prayer. But, now and then, the old bean begins to wander through strange vistas of the imagination, and I don’t mind telling you, sometimes I get carried away.”
“Such as what?” Father Tom asked.
“Well, such as this: The other day in the hospital, I got to thinking about this screwy idea. Suppose animals had a football team. What players would play which positions? You see what I mean?”
“In a way,” I said. “Yes, I guess I do.”
“Let’s start out with the backfield,” Frank continued. “Which animal would make a good fullback? I chose the elephant because of his size and weight.”
“An elephant would make a powerhouse of a fullback,” Father Tom said. “How about the other backs?”
“Well, on my animal team, I had the cheetah as the left half and an antelope as the other half. They’re both fast. The cheetah can run a mile a minute on short spurts, and that’s certainly good ball-carrying speed.”
“Good,” I added. “How about the quarterback?”
“I put the fox in that position because of his slyness. He’s fast, too. I put a leopard and a cougar in at the ends. I gave the tackle positions to the lion and a water buffalo, and for guards, I nominated a rhino and a hippo.”
“Boy, what a team,” I said. “Tell me, who would do the coaching?”
“Oh, I’ve been giving that assignment a great deal of thought. I rather favor the giraffe. He can look down on his players and see exactly what’s going on.”
“That’s true,” Father Tom concurred. “But, I don’t think he’s very articulate.”
“Neither am I as far as this interview is concerned. I’m getting down to business right this minute.” Frank began to recollect his beginnings.
“I was born August 28th, 1908 in O’Neill, Nebraska. When I was but a few months old, we moved to Winner, South Dakota, where much of my upbringing took place.”
“Were you the first born?” I interrupted.
“No. The first born was Gene. Then came Jack, then Ann, who is now Mrs. L.C. Molner, then Marie, who is now Mrs. F.P. Bentlage, then Eileen who is now Mrs. Lee Stennett, then my turn came to join the growing family, then Margaret, who is now Mrs. H.P. Starr, and, lastly, Tom.”
“That’s a lot of childhood if you ask me,” Father Tom said.
“That’s a lot of childhood if I don’t ask you,” Frank said. “Of course, a kid doesn’t remember anything to speak of in those first few years. But, when I was three or maybe four, I started out with an unforgettable incident in my life.
“It was in Winner, South Dakota. Mother, Father, and all of the other children, with the exception of my older sister, Marie, who was about twelve or thirteen years of age, had gone to church. Marie had been left to guard me. You see, we had no vehicle to ride in and walked wherever we went in our little town during those days. I was too small to walk and too big to be carried.
“But, there was something that pointed a household out as being classy. It wasn’t owning a Cadillac car or even a luxurious home; it was owning a big barn. The barn rated much higher in importance than the home.”
“I used to hear things like that,” I interjected. “Only it ran a little differently, like this: If the house happened to be bigger than the barn, the wife was the boss. If the barn happened to be bigger than the house, the husband was the boss.”
“In other words, you were known by the barn you kept,” Father Tom said.
“Just about,” Frank noted. “Anyway, my father and all of the older boys in our family, plus many of my dad’s friends, had completed this beautiful brand new barn, and everyone was proud of it. On this particular Sunday morning in 1911 or 12, the barn was filled with livestock, including some magnificent horses.
“It is difficult, after all these years, to try to analyze just what motivated me as I waited until my sister was not watching me very carefully. We were in the kitchen, and I knew exactly where the matches were. So, at the strategic moment, I reached up and grabbed some. Then, I beat it out to the barn. I saw this cave in the manger, struck a match, and tossed it right smack onto the dry hay.”
“Had you been told never to strike matches, especially in a barn?” I asked.
“I suppose so, probably many, many times.”
“Maybe you acted in the reverse,” Father Tom said. “Sometimes you tell a child not to do something; then, he deliberately goes and does it.”
“I remember, as a kid, everybody used to warn us about touching your tongue to ice skates while out doors in the cold,” I added. “But, many kids did it just the same and had the skin torn off as it stuck to the steel.”
“Another warning was during the days when cigar smoking was more popular,” Father Tom said. “In all cigar stores, and wherever there was a cigar counter, there was a cigar cutter. To use it, you had to stick the end of the cigar in a small opening and automatically a knife would clip off the end, readying it for lighting. Children were warned not to put a finger in that opening, but a lot of them had the compulsion to try it. So, they wound up with the tips of their fingers clipped off and bleeding.
“As to the barn?” Frank continued. “Well, whatever made me do it, the fact remains that everything went up in flames and was soon converted to ashes. Destroyed was that beautiful barn. All of the livestock were killed with one exception – one horse, a big black stallion, got away. He tore out of the barn, breaking a wooden bar at the gate. My sister told me that the stallion and I ran out together. I was very fortunate not to have been trampled and killed.”
“I’ll say you were,” Father Tom said. “Horses and burning barns don’t mix.”
“What happened to you when your parents got home?” I inquired.
“It wasn’t so much what happened to me; it was what happened to my father. He never did go back to church after that. He wouldn’t even enter a church.”
“You mean he lost his religion?” Father Tom asked.
“Whether he lost his religion or not, he never went back to church. Anyway, I finally went to my father and mother and told them I would tell them the whole truth if they would promise to get off Marie’s back. You see, she was being blamed for the catastrophe. They agreed. Of course, they could hardly wait to get the real story as to how the barn had burned down.”
“So, what did you tell them?” Father Tom asked.
“I proceeded to give them the real facts. I said I saw a great big wolf sneak down the hill and into the barn. Out of the wolf’s big nostrils spurted flames of fire onto the hay. ‘That’s what did it,’ I had insisted.”
“And you got away with a yarn like that?” Father Tom asked.
“At the time, I thought I had. But, I think that in their gratitude that nothing had happened to me, they went along with the story. Strange how I stuck to that story. I stuck to it with such intensity that I guess I actually believed it myself.
“I remember when I was about six or seven years old, I was in the kitchen watching Mother adding the finishing touches to a big pot of Irish stew. Oh boy, how my mother could make Irish stew.”
“I’ll bet it was great,” I said.
“It sure was. I can see her now as she ladles a taste of the stew to her lips. But, I had another idea. I was seated at the kitchen table, and a freshly baked cake was only a few finger hops away. Carefully, I eased my hand in the general direction of the cake. There’s no question about it, Mother had eyes in the back of her head. She walked over to a cupboard and lifted out a large bowl for the stew. With her back toward me, she said, ‘Let there be the mark of a boy’s finger on that cake, and you’ll be eatin’ stew off the mantle.’ I snatched my hand back. Mother began to fill the bowl with stew.”
“Makes me ravenous to think of it,” I said. Frank’s mouth broke out into a wide grin as his tongue slithered over his lips. I could see that he, too, was reviving the taste and aroma of delicious Irish stew.
“Mother never pulled any punches,” Frank continued. “She never beat about the legendary bush. ‘Now, make yourself useful and carry this to the table,’ she ordered. I obeyed, being very careful not to spill any. Funny how you remember little insignificant thoughts and forget some major events. I remember as I carried the stew that I was puzzled over the fact that people always saved the best, such as cake, for the last. My idea was that the best should always have been first. I gave a longing stare at the cake as I walked by while mother picked up the coffee pot and followed me. ‘Just count your blessings that the good Lord sees fit to share his bounties with us,’ she said.”
I studied Frank for a moment to see if I could detect any indications of his becoming tired. There had been nothing said by Mrs. Leahy about not working Frank too long. But, actually, I was surprised over how spirited he had become.
“It must have been a pretty big gathering that sat down to the stew,” Father Tom said. “How many were there?”
“Well, there were eight children at that table. My father sat at the head. They were all there: brother Gene, 16 years old, Jack, 14, ten of us in all. I set the bowl in front of my father, walked around to help mother with her chair, then took my place. Father spoke, ‘You all could learn some manners from young Frank,’ he said.”
“Bet that made you feel pretty good,” I added.
“Yes, it did. Remember, I said that after the barn burning, Father never went back to church. But, he continued to ask the blessing at mealtime. ‘Let us pray,’ he said. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘Bless us our Lord as well as the food.’
“The meal progressed along amicable lines, at least as far as I was concerned, until mention was made of the new barn. This caused me to sneak a look at my sister. I waited a dozen heartbeats. Then, with deep conviction I addressed Father. ‘Uh, Dad, there’s somethin’ I been wanting to tell you for a long time.’
“Dad said, ‘Yes, son, what is it?’
“‘Remember when the barn burned down?’
“‘I’ll never forget it.’
“‘Well, every time you talk about it, you blame Marie for it. You complained that she failed to guard me properly. I been meanin’ to tell you that I know what happened.’
“Dad put down his spoon. ‘How did it happen?’
“‘I was so little and so scared, I, I…’ I could see that Dad was becoming impatient. ‘Spit it out. Spit it out, son.’
“‘Well, from outta the woods behind the barn, I saw this big, big wolf with fire shooting from his nose. I saw him go into the barn, so it must’ve been him that burned down the barn.’
“I held my breath to see how well that same yarn was holding up. Dad began to shake his head in movements of complete unacceptance. ‘What an imagination,’ he said. ‘You ought to be doing a comic strip.’
“Mother came to the rescue with, ‘Now eat your stew while it’s hot, Frank, and quit botherin’ your father with such wild tales.’
“For the first time, Gene got into the act. ‘Yeah, eat hearty so you will get some meat on those bones. The more weight you build, the better for boxing and football.’
“‘Football?’ said Dad. ‘Frank’s my champion fighter. Put ‘em up son’. I put my spoon down and my fists up.”
I was now getting a clear idea where Frank’s fighting spirit originated.
III
FRANK LEAHY THE BOXER
A quick glance at Frank Leahy told me that there was no need for a rest period. Somewhere, stored in his remarkable constitution, was an abundance of reserve energy, especially when it came to reciting his past and drawing on his memory.
“I’d like to tell you about my dad,” Frank continued. “In the first place, he was no champion of schooling. Somehow or other, he simply didn’t believe in it. But, don’t get me wrong; he came from a very fine family. For instance, two of his brothers became priests, two of his sisters were brilliant schoolteachers, and two other brothers had drugstore chains. Moreover, still another brother became a famous doctor.”
“That is some family record, Frank. It isn’t often that all of the offspring of one family become so successful,” I said.
“Strange as it may seem, to tell you the truth, I was scared as hell of my dad. Maybe, it was because I got my share of strappings whenever I fell out of line, or maybe it was because of his size and strength. I think he was the strongest man I ever saw outside of a circus, or even inside, for that matter.”
“How tall was he?” Father Tom asked.
“Six feet, four inches, and he weighed about 230 pounds, perfectly proportioned. He wore a size 19 shirt. Tremendous wrists and great big hands and arms.”
“I’ve heard many a strong man say that you had to have big wrists if you wanted to cut any kind of figure in boxing or wrestling,” I said.
“Here’s an interesting observation regarding measurements,” Father Tom said. “A well-developed physique includes three measurements all the same: flexed bicep, the calf, and the neck all measure about the same.”
“How interesting,” I noted.
“I think Dad developed those big wrists from a sport called ‘wrestling stick pulling.’ Two guys stood facing each other, hands grabbing the stick. At a given command, each started pulling. Dad used to do this with the heavyweight-wrestling champions such as Farmer Burns and Caddock. Dad was never beaten in this stick pulling, but, God, how quick he was despite his weight. And, I don’t mind telling you that he had a bad temper.”
“A big powerful man and a bad temper don’t always assure peace,” Father Tom commented.
“Anyway, I did go to him when I knew my scholarship would become firm at Notre Dame. I thought it would be good news to him. One of the remarks he fired at me, however, was, ‘For playing football, they give you a heavy sweater to keep you warm. What do they give you for playing basketball, a kimono or something?’
“This remark was a little goat-getting, but I managed to keep my cool. ‘Listen, Dad,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I can rely upon you for a little spending money.’ I felt that he was getting off pretty easy. I wouldn’t be costing him anything in the way of tuition. But, his reply sent me into a whirlpool of despair. ‘Not a goddamned cent,’ he blurted.”
“That must have been quite a shock to you, Frank,” I said. “Instead of being delighted, he turned you down with no ifs or ands about it.”
“Oh, he didn’t stop there. He countered with this proposition: ‘If you’ll go to Omaha and take boxing instructions for two years, say, at the Omaha Athletic Club, I’ll pay every dime. Two years, you understand. Room, board, tuition – anything you want if you go to Denny O’Brien’s every day for boxing. You’ve got the stuff to make a champ. I really believe in you.’”
“Some offer. What do you think, Bernie?” Father Tom asked.
“Some offer is right,” I agreed.
It flashed through my mind that Frank’s father had a terrific amount of confidence in him. Two years of rigid training and instruction, living away from home at a decent place, with the best of meals as laid down by O’Brien’s dieticians. That wasn’t peanuts.
Frank continued. “You see, Dad always wanted a son who would become a great boxer. In fact, he didn’t even stop at great boxer. He wanted a son to become the world’s heavyweight champion. They tell me that Dad used to look at me in my crib and watch my swinging arms and fancy footwork and declare over and over again that I was a natural born boxing champion.”
“Tell me this, Frank,” Father Tom asked. “At the time your dad made you that offer, were you pretty good with the gloves?”
“Dad thought I was. He and my oldest brother had been giving me boxing lessons all along. All was well and good until a big event took place, which definitely convinced me that I wasn’t cut out to be a great fighter. I was sixteen-years old and a junior in the O’Neill, Nebraska High School. Dad matched me a pro from Omaha. His name was Silent Joe Blaha, a great big mature guy who had chalked up plenty of experience.”
“Were you concerned? Or scared?” Father Tom asked.
“I don’t think fear entered my consciousness at that time. I had been assured that I was pretty good and had nothing to fear, regardless of who my opponent might be.”
“What kind of a fighter was this Joe Blaha?” I asked.
“Well, he was built just like Jack Gibson but black all over. He wasn’t black, you understand, but had spent a lot of time out in the sun. This accentuated his muscles which rippled over his back upon the least movement, and get this: he was a deaf mute.”
“A deaf mute,” I exclaimed.
“That’s right,” Frank said. “He couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t talk, but he could hit. God, how that son-of-a-bitch could hit.”
“Did you get mutilated?”
“Mutilated? That’s a nursery rhyme term compared to what happened to me. The bout took place in a barn on the afternoon of a Fourth of July. Jack Johnson knocked out Jim Jefferies on a Fourth of July way back. I was wearing green velvet trunks bearing the initials F.L. The announcer was one of Dad’s friends, and he was as plastered as one can get and still remain vertical. Not only that, the referee was drunk, and so was the timekeeper.”
“Didn’t your Dad complain?”
“No, because there wasn’t time to make any changes. I was introduced as Frank Cane.”
“How come Frank Cane?” I asked.
“That was the way I wanted it. You see, I still had another year of eligibility at school. I wanted to pick up that hundred bucks due me for the fight. A hundred bucks was a lot of money in those days. So, I was introduced as Frank Cane from Moansfield, South Dakota, or some such place. As I came out to fight, Silent Blaha landed a left hook on my chin and down I went, flat on my back like a tipped over sack of anvils. I hit the canvas so hard I bounced. I was so stunned. I couldn’t even hear the birdies sing.”
“How long did you stay down?” I asked.
“About five seconds according to what I was told. I got up struggling harder than a mountain climber striving to reach the top and spit out a tooth. I went at it again, and do you know, this behemoth knocked me down five more times in that first round. They let it go, and no one stopped the fight. So, I kept on.”
“What happened in the second round?” I asked with bated curiosity.
“I landed a good slug on him and really set out to destroy him. Well, the referee and the timekeeper got together and decided that I was running out of gas. I must have shown it at the end of the second round. So, the referee said to the timekeeper, ‘If Cane, or Leahy, gets into trouble, you sound your little gong there, and the round will end.’ Well, Silent Blaha had been trained always to look over at his manager after the three minutes had expired. The manager could hear the bell, but Blaha couldn’t. The manager would then let Blaha know that the round was over.”
“You were still fighting?” I said.
“I sure was. We were now on round three, which was about half over. I was slammed to the floor again, and just as I was getting up, that wonderful drunken Irish timekeeper clanged the bell. But, Silent Blaha kept on hitting me, despite the round’s ending.”
“So, what happened?” I asked eagerly.
“The referee seized my hand, pulled me to the middle of the ring, held my hand high and announced that, ‘Leahy wins on a foul.’”
“What a break!” I said. “Poor Blaha couldn’t hear the bell ending the round.”
“Dad and my brother, Tom, tried to clean up the mess on my face. What a sight.”
“Was your jaw broken?”
“No, but I spoke broken English for days afterward. The next day, I took a good look at Frank Leahy via a mirror, and while I wanted to learn more about the art of boxing, I knew, right then and there, that I’d never go into it professionally. Definitely, I was not qualified to become a pro fighter, not with the type of jawbones I had. They were of too fine a structure. They just couldn’t stand horrible punching which any fighter is bound to receive, now and then, if he’s going to get anywhere in the fight game.”
“It was a good decision to come to, Frank. Don’t you think so, Bernie?” Father Tom asked.
“Absolutely. If he had stuck to the fight game, what would have happened to Frank Leahy the great Notre Dame Football Coach?”
“Yes, the next day, I took a good gander at myself and marveled at the fact that I was still alive. My swollen eyes had to be pried open. They looked like the lips of an Ubangi Chief. The combination black and blue looked like a new technique in marbling. A major tooth was gone, making me look like a circus clown. The inside of my mouth was so bloody I thought I was in a stockyard slaughterhouse. With swollen lips and puffed tongue, I managed to say aloud, ‘the fight game is not for me.’ My voice sounded like some of the strange noises Silent Blaha managed to utter. No Sir! I just couldn’t take the punishment.”
“Tell me this, Frank. How did the crowd take that decision?” I asked.
“Oh, they were a noisy, rowdy bunch. When the referee announced that I had won by a foul, Blaha’s manager jumped into the ring as mad as a wet hen stung by a mad hornet. ‘Just a minute! Just a minute!’ he roared. ‘What are you hicks trying to pull? That wasn’t no three minute round!’ But, the crowd was on my side. They began to boo and to get sullen. Blaha’s manager decided that he and Blaha had better do a disappearing act. He pulled Blaha out of the ring, and out of the barn they went.”
“And, how did the fans act then,” I asked.
“Okay. The local well-wishers converted me into a hero right then and there. I remember saying to myself, ‘Enjoy this ovation to the fullest, Frankie old boy, because it’s the only one you’ll ever get from a pro boxing arena.”
I leaned close to Father Tom, and in as low a voice as I could control, suggested that we take a break. He agreed. I stood up.
“Time for a stretch. Anything we can get you?” I asked, easing toward Frank.
“No, nothing,” he said energetically.
“You’re not tired?”
“Hell, no. I’m getting a big bang out of it all. I knew a guy once whose memory was so good, he told of events that never even happened. That’s not the case with me. Every word I’ve been uttering is the truth, so help me.”
“No question about it, Frank,” Father Tom chimed in.
I walked over to the window and looked out. The street below seemed peaceful, no doubt resting before the onslaught of the rush hour traffic. Shadows were lengthening. Now and then, a woman with a shopping bag load of groceries crossed the street. Somewhere in offices, their husbands paused and asked themselves, “What’s for dinner?” There would be many a happy household, many a dinner table set for well-adjusted families, for husbands and fathers with strong legs and clear worry-free futures. But, here, in this very home, the curtain of doom had been lowered upon a stage that once had held forth such limitless inspiration.
How much longer could Frank Leahy bear up under such a burden? What went through his mind as he faced the shaving mirror every day? How many more times would he continue to compare the classic features of a vigorous Frank Leahy with the sunken eyes and cheeks of a dying Frank Leahy?
That afternoon, as he talked, his voice was surprisingly strong, and he never missed an opportunity to laugh. Anyone listening to that voice would be sure that the speaker was a young, healthy man, full of the zest of life and well set up in the business or the professional world.
Where did Frank Leahy get that reserve energy? I turned from the window and glanced toward him. He caught my gaze.
“I’m ready to continue,” he said. But, this time, there was a hidden streak of sadness in his voice.
Father Tom spoke up. “Tell us, Frank, how old were you when your father died?”
“Let’s see – Dad was seventy-three when he died. That made me twenty-seven, maybe twenty-nine at the time.”
“How did he die?” I asked.
“He was beaten to death. It happened in Winner, South Dakota. You see, my dad used to carry all of his money in his trousers. Some days he had a pretty good wad, believe me. One night, he was mugged, beaten most severely. Shortly thereafter, he died.”
“What a dastardly thing to happen,” I commented.
“It sure was,” Frank reflected. “You know, Dad was always in perfect health. Just think, at the age of seventy-three, he had never been to a dentist, had never been to an optometrist, never needed a hearing aid.”
“What a man,” I remarked. “I wonder how many men on earth today could present the same outstanding record at that age.”
“My dad was more than a physical marvel. He was a brilliant man. His mind was just fantastic. We used to have a little produce shop in Winner. We sold butter, eggs, cream, and chickens, which we procured from the farmers. In exchange, we gave the farmers flour, sugar, rock salt, and grain for their livestock. But, we’d always give them a check for what we got, and they’d give us a check for what they’d get. It worked out better that way.”
“How did you get along with your brothers?” I asked.
“I’d like to go on record as saying that my older brother, Gene, was, in my opinion, the greatest big brother any younger brother ever had.”
“Did he play football?” I asked.
“Did he play football? He sure did. He went to Creighton University for four years and did nothing but play football. In his senior year, he was the full back and captain of the team. He wasn’t much on class work, however. Actually, when football season was over, he’d play baseball somewhere. As I said, he cut so many classes that his education began to suffer. Realizing this one day, he decided to go in strong for studying. So, he went back to Creighton University and really did himself proud. He worked his way through, waiting on tables and doing all kinds of jobs to get the education that had been so ruthlessly neglected. Yes, he had his share of that good old Leahy determination.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Gene lives in Rushville, Nebraska. He was rated as one of the greatest centers ever to play for Creighton University. My brother Tom played center at Notre Dame for a couple of seasons. Tom also won the light heavyweight title in the annual Bengal Bouts. In 1946, he served on the Indiana State Legislature as representative. He is now in the insurance business. But, I’m afraid I’m getting ahead of my story.”
IV
AN INVITATION TO PLAY
The sun was preparing to call it a day. For over four hours, Frank Leahy had been talking with a gleam, a sparkle in his eyes as he recounted the events of his life. I was indeed thrilled with the material already captured, but I could see that the Frank Leahy story was not to be told in only one sitting. We would have to come back, maybe several times more.
Mrs. Leahy came in, raised the shades, flipped on a light in a darkened corner, and departed. However, there was no let up in Frank’s enthusiasm. One episode after another tumbled from his eager lips, and statistics took on new and exciting dimensions. Once in a while, a mischievous grin resulted from a recalled tale.
Today, Frank was deliberate in his speech, emotional, yet controlled.
“I think I’d better give you a rundown on my pre-Notre Dame athletic and scholastic activities,” he said. “I attended Winner Grammar School, then put in three years at the Winner High School. My folks must have become restless, for our next move was to Omaha, Nebraska. There, I attended Central High School.”
“Did you play football?”
“At the Winner High School, I earned letters for three years in football, baseball and basketball. The coach was Earl Walsh, Notre Dame Football Monogram winner in 1920 and 1921. I played halfback at Winner, but at Omaha Central High School, I was moved to tackle by George Schmidt, former Nebraska University star. Once again, I won letters in all three sports, captaining all three teams.”
“When did you get the Notre Dame fixation? I mean, when did your interest in attending Notre Dame first hit you?”
“A good question. In fact, a very good question. If my mother should suddenly show up in this room and tell you that as a babbling baby I mumbled ‘Noder Dame,’ I’m sure I would believe her. The moment I could pick out letters in the sports pages of the newspapers, I became fascinated by the name Notre Dame. From then on, I read everything I could get a hold of about football and other activities at Notre Dame. When Knute Rockne came on the scene, I was his most devout admirer. So, you see, the Notre Dame image had been implanted into my consciousness during my upbringing and development.”
“When did you first get wind of the fact that going to Notre Dame could become an actuality?” I asked.
Frank shifted his position, gazing up at the ceiling. I could see that he was searching through the archives of his remarkable memory.
“Sometime during my junior year in high school, my brother Gene seized me by the arm while I was leaving the school and said, ‘I’ve got a great piece of news for you, brother.’ ‘What could that be, Gene?’ I fired, my enthusiasm rising. Gene never kidded around when it came to something serious. ‘Well, get this. My friend Tom Mills and your high school coach told me you could have a Notre Dame scholarship.’
“For a moment, I could not talk. This was absolutely fabulous news, something I had dreamed of asleep or awake. I knew a schoolmate in his senior year at Omaha High, and all he could think of and talk about was getting an appointment to West Point. The day it came through, that kid, I even remember his name, Lew Smithson, was as excited as a top winner at the Kentucky Derby.”
“Getting a West Point Academy appointment is a great honor,” I interjected.
“Getting in is as hard as defying gravity,” Frank noted.
“Did you ever find out how he made out?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t. My mind was too much on Notre Dame to concentrate on any other scene. Anyway, after thanking brother Gene for the wonderful information, I began to wonder what preparatory steps I should take to condition myself for this great event. ‘Do you think I should start on some part of a schedule of study and physical programming to become more adequately prepared for Notre Dame?’ I asked. Gene squeezed my arm and said, ‘Frank, whatever you think you should do will be the best for you. Always remember that you are a Leahy. Leahys always make good.’”
“That was certainly an encouraging remark,” I said and added, “not only encouraging but true.”
Frank took a lengthy swig of water and resumed. “You know, it is actually amazing the number of different jobs open to a young fellow eager to earn some spending money. You’d never believe this, but I was once a dance hall bouncer, yes sir.”
“Frank, the bouncer,” I said. “Yes, I would believe it. I’d believe it because, as your brother Gene had said, you were a Leahy, and Leahys always made good, no matter what they tackled. Tell us about it.”
“Well, I got this bouncing job and felt that I could handle most any situation. You see, I had had a lot of boxing training from both Dad and Gene, and, don’t forget, I had won the decision in the Silent Blaha match, unfair though it was. So, I felt pretty sure of myself.”
“Street fighters can never stand up long before pros,” I said. “I remember some very good street fighters in our group. They were good, all right. One night at a party, one of them got into an argument with another guest. The street fighter said, ‘I’ll take you outside and blast the daylights out of you.’ The guest said, ‘Nothing doing. I’m not going to go outside for any fight.’ ‘So, you’re a coward? Is that it?’ ‘No,’ said the guest. ‘But, if you want to put up a few hundred, I’ll meet you in Milligan’s gym tomorrow morning for ten rounds.’ ‘How come?’ asked the street fighter. ‘I’m a professional fighter. I’m in the ring. I don’t fight for nothing. My name is Bud Marsky.’ Well, you can bet that ended the argument.”
Frank grinned. “That’s exactly the way it was. The guy who hired me said that the only ones who would pick a fight or cause any disturbance would be those so-called street fighters and that I had absolutely nothing to fear.”
“Was he right?” I asked.
“Let me put it this way. If you had been on the outside of that dance hall, one night a year later, you would have seen the front door fly open and a patron tumble out and remain in a heap on the sidewalk. But, you would have seen something else, too. You would have seen me spit out a tooth. That tooth spitting–out routine was beginning to become a habit. You would have seen me pull out a handkerchief and wipe the blood from my mouth. The lights from the dance hall entrance didn’t make me look much like a champion as I stood there blotting my lips.