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Privy to an invitation

By: Henry C. Mayer '52, '57

World War II had ended, but getting into Notre Dame in 1947 was a battle. Even with the temporary housing know as Vetville and increased construction of new living quarters on campus, there was not enough room.

By late August 1947, I had received three letters of respectful rejection from the Committee on Admissions. So I reluctantly accepted the advice of a friend and made plans to enter a nearby Catholic university. But I still wanted to go to Notre Dame.

One Saturday, I accompanied my Dad to help him pick potatoes from his patch on a friend's farm about 12 miles in the country. In the midst of potato picking, I heeded the call of nature and headed for the outdoor privy. The only reading matter was the local paper society page, yellowing with four months age, and a Sears catalogue. I opted for the society page. I had barely begun perusing it when the following item caught my eye: "Mr. and Mrs. William Veeneman's Derby guests included Mr. and Mrs. Frank Leahy of South Bend, Indiana." You didn't have to tell me who that was!

I must have filed that away in my memory for I said nothing to anyone. Life went on, and I registered and began classes at nearby Xavier University. On a Saturday near the end of my first semester, I suddenly felt such an intense longing to go to Notre Dame that I hustled to the Jesuit faculty chapel in the building where I had been working on the student newspaper. All I can remember saying was, "make it happen, as soon as You can." Then I went back to the newspaper offices. Late that afternoon, I stopped to collect a friend so we could go to dinner. He wasn't ready to go, so I sat and read his newspaper. Suddenly one item caught my eye -- "the Notre Dame Alumni Club of Greater Cincinnati will host a dinner Tuesday evening for university president Rev. John J. Cavanaugh, CSC, Club President Walter Nienaber announced."

After supper, I went back to the student newspaper office and called Mr. Nienaber. I told him that I was a Xavier student but really wanted to go to Notre Dame. "Could I buy a ticket to their dinner?" I asked. He response was quick. "Since you want to go to Notre Dame so badly," he said, "you can be our guest for the dinner, and I will introduce you to Father Cavanaugh."

My next step was to make a long distance call to Bill Reisert Jr. '30, former president of the Louisville Alumni Club, who had been advising me regarding my application for admission and personal finances. "I have a chance to go to a dinner here Tuesday and meet Father Cavanaugh" I told him. Bill offered me some suggestions how to talk about the matter closest to my heart.

Tuesday evening finally came; I dressed with special care and paid special attention to shaving. Two short bus rides later, I was at the hotel. The dinner would take place in about two hours, and I was determined to allow enough time to meet Father Cavanaugh before the crowd arrived. As it turned out, I got there before the guest of honor. You can imagine my excitement when he and Father Howard Kenna, CSC, prefect of studies, arrived. Two other persons ( I think they were local alumni) were also on hand. Father Cavanaugh took the initiative; he walked up to each one of us, extended his right hand and introduced himself, and then presented Father Kenna. I simply said my name and that I was from Louisville, Kentucky. After these preliminaries, the two priests stepped aside and chatted informally with each other. After a few minutes, when no one else had yet arrived, I stepped forward. "Father Cavanaugh, do you have another minute or two?" I asked. He moved to where I was standing and in a voice audible only to me asked, "what do you wish to say to me?"

"I've applied to your school three times and wondered if there are other opportunities to do so." I can still hear his reply: "Three times; why did we say no?" Fortunately, I had the presence of mind simple to quote from the University registrar's letters without any comment from me. Father Cavanaugh continued, "Write me at Notre Dame and remind me of this conversion, and also write Father Thornton to express your continuing interest in admission." I thanked him and went on to talk with Mr. Nienaber and enjoy the evening.

Shortly after that, my dad became seriously ill. I had to leave school at the end of my first semester, but fortunately my civil service status let me regain my job at the local post office. I had scarcely resumed work and was back home when answers to my letters came from Fathers Cavanaugh and Thornton. They exuded good will, but Father Thornton would only wish blessings on my present studies and observe "there might be some improvement in the following February semester enrollment situation." So I simply did my job, continued to add to my college savings account and wrote items on sports for the weekly archdiocesan paper.

So things continued until a day in late April 1948 when those of us on the city side of the post office were sorting magazines for the various substations. It was almost 11 a.m. when our boss rushed over to us. "The mail from Chicago and the Indiana towns north of Indianapolis just got in; it's 10 hours late so come on up front and get it ready for the 1 o'clock dispatch!"

About a dozen of us headed for the sorting cases. I found a niche next to a coworker, Jimmy Tucker, and we discussed our stamp collections. As I continued to sort mail, an envelope postmarked "Notre Dame, Indiana" grabbed my attention. I examined the envelope's return address and sender. It simply read "F. Leahy." But I didn't need anyone to identify him. The addressee was "William Veeneman, President, Frankfort Distilleries." I wondered why Coach Leahy would be writing him. Then I recalled my long-ago visit to the outhouse It was Derby Week; maybe, I thought, Veeneman had invited Leahy and his wife to this year's "Running of the Roses." Just maybe I could interview Leahy for the archdiocesan paper.

Saying nothing to anyone anywhere, I let two days elapse before asking the boss if I could be excused briefly to use the pay phone in the lobby. He agreed, and I headed for the lobby and called Frankfort distilleries, asking for Mr. Veeneman.

I identified myself as a sports writer for The Record who was aware that Coach Leahy had been his Derby guest last year. The school's gridiron prospects were a conversation topic throughout the year, I said, then mentioned then we had heard a rumor recently that the coach might return for this year's race. Would he care to comment? I could almost feel his smile. "Yes, I will. I received a letter yesterday telling me he's coming." After mentioning that we also knew his sons had gone to Notre Dame, I continued, "We would like to interview the coach but since he is going to be your guest, I would like your permission to contact him." The distillery executive replied, "that's fine with me but let me make a suggestion. We're having a post- Derby dinner party for him so call him here then. If anyone of the servants hesitate, just tell them I told you to phone him here."

After thanking him, I could hardly wait till Saturday night. It seemed ages as I waited for Leahy to come to the phone. Responding to my request, he said "could you meet me tomorrow afternoon around 4 o'clock at Bernie Crimmins' mother's house? I always visit her just before completing any visit to Louisville." I agreed, thanked him and hung up.

Now, all I had to do was to make a list of questions, buy some film for my box camera and purchase a blue and gold bow tie and wait for the time to leave. Preparing questions came easy except for finding the one whose answer would convince Notre Dame authorities that my becoming one of their students would be in their interest.

My question focused on the alleged over emphasis on football. The school was in the midst of its four-year unbeaten streak. But I was only a 20-year-old writer, and could barely get the words out, since they might sound too negative or critical. I finally told myself that if I didn't ask it then, I would never have another chance to do so. So I got it out and in writing his answer, I added some other relevant comments including one from the school's centennial history.

So I sent copies of the published article to both Coach Leahy and the Father Thornton, but did not say to the latter that I wanted to reapply. Leahy prompt reply simply wished me luck about admission. Father Thornton's letter arrived almost two weeks later. It was all I might have wanted: an apology for his delay; stirring compliments about the quality of my article; assurance of admission in February; the beginning of a lifelong friendship.