There are only three things in life my grandfather loves more than Notre Dame football: His family, his faith and his Notre Dame education. Growing up, he came over to my family’s house every Saturday afternoon to sit down with my mother and watch that week’s football game. He would wear one of his dozen 100% cotton plain ND shirts purchased at the outlet store or, if he got cold, one of his Notre Dame Adidas jackets my mother had bought him when ND signed its apparel over to the company.
He had lived through the Parseghian era of dominance, sent his daughters to Notre Dame to witness Lou Holtz defeat Miami and West Virginia to claim the 1988 title, struggled through the Charlie Weis era and followed along as Brian Kelly rebuilt the program, only to watch in disbelief and horror from the stands in Hard Rock Stadium as Alabama and Nick Saban pummeled Manti Te’o and the rest of the team one game away from another title. Through it all, he raised his two daughters and three grandchildren to appreciate the majesty of the blue and gold.
When I was young, he used to pay me and my siblings $5 to read books that he considered classics. You know, “Moby-Dick,” books from the Bible like “Acts of the Apostles” or “Job,” and “Notre Dame Football Golden Moments.” At the ripe age of 7, he was exposing me to ND football lore with stories like the “first ever” forward pass vs. Army in 1913, Knute Rockne’s 1924 cross-country championship team, and Notre Dame’s 1957 snapping of Oklahoma’s historic 47-game win streak.
Growing up in metro Detroit, my grade school would have a no uniform day whenever Michigan and Michigan State would play where you could “pick your side.” On those days, mixed in with a sea of kids in maize, blue, dark green and white, you could find me sporting one of my Kelly green Notre Dame shirts — much to my classmates’ chagrin. When I’d walk out of school on those days, he’d be especially happy to pick me up wearing his trademark black ND leather jacket, with its golden “Fightin’ Irish” stitched on the front. Before the 2012 national championship, he bought me a custom Notre Dame football jersey with my name and number on it. It was huge on me and drooped like a hand-me-down ballgown. I was confused as to how he could mess up the sizing by so much (even with my mother’s help!), but he said that one day I’d grow into the jersey, just about when I needed it most. Just over a decade later, I’d wear that same jersey to my first ever Notre Dame game as a student.
It wasn’t just on the football side that he kept his grandkids prepared, however. He took great pride in our intellect and never once doubted our ability to get into Notre Dame and succeed there. To be absolutely sure, though, he would quiz us with SAT vocab flashcards so that we weren’t tripped up in the reading comprehension sections. This started in second grade, and by the time we took the SAT, vocab comprehension was no longer on the test. He would correct our English papers and help us review grammar concepts, and he and my grandmother would tutor us in math and science. He invested everything he could into our education, and considering that every one of his grandkids ended up enrolling at Notre Dame, I’d say that it worked.
I am an anthropology major today due in large part to the time he would spend with me when I was sick watching the National Geographic show “Unearthed,” and he always loved to tell me that if he didn’t have to worry about money, he would have studied Egyptology and archaeology when he was in school. He was thrilled when I told him that I’d be studying those subjects at his favorite college. I also minor in Irish studies and Irish language and literature due to the interest he passed on to me in his fifth favorite thing — his 100% Irish heritage. Last summer, I traced our lineage back to dozens of legendary Irish high kings and even the mythical giant Finn McCool.
Since I’ve been at Notre Dame, he does his best to visit whenever he can. All throughout my years of college, he would drive down to see me around football games or at personal events, like my performances with the Notre Dame basketball pep band or Irish traditional music band. Whenever he would prepare to depart from campus, he would always pull me aside to tell me how proud he was of me, and how excited he would have been living in Cavanaugh Hall in his senior year of 1960 if he had known all of his children and grandchildren would attend the same university he loved so much.
The author outside of LaFortune Student Center in the described jacket.
When I graduate from Notre Dame, he will be on campus and I’ll be sure to see him and catch up. It’s been too long since we’ve chatted. And while he doesn’t like long phone calls anymore, it’s still my fault we don’t talk as much as we should. In fact, anyone at Notre Dame can talk to him whenever they want. If you walk south on Notre Dame Avenue past the bookstore, hang a right through the iron gate, go past Knute Rockne, Arian and now Lou Holtz, stop and the second granite mausoleum on the right with the other veterans, there he is. He’s on the right side, facing the street. “Richard A. Meaney, 1936-2024.” When I cross the stage in Purcell Pavilion ready to receive my diploma, I’ll be doing it wearing the class ring he left me. When I drive home that night, I’ll be wearing the same leather jacket he used to pick me up from school in, “Fightin’ Irish” emblazoned on my chest the same way it was on his all those years ago. I’m going to cry a lot that weekend. Hell, I’m crying right now writing this.
Growing up, he always told me that his one goal was to make it to my college graduation. He wanted nothing more than to be there clapping as I crossed that stage at Our Lady’s University. The day before he died, as I kneeled by his bedside, and I told him I loved him, he told me that he’d still be there for me. And while it won’t be in the traditional sense, I know he will be. He never misses a chance to support his grandkids — certainly not while they’re at Notre Dame. I miss you, granddad. I hope you’re proud of me.
