By Chris
Parent '93, '00J.D.
Jim Kuser was proud of being a New Jersey native, a fact concealed
by his accent, which echoed his blue-blood heritage. Although
he often gave the impression he grew up just off of Highway 9,
the road made famous by Jim's hero, Bruce Springsteen, he was
actually born and raised in the town of Lawrenceville, a Manhattan
bedroom community neighboring Princeton and Pennington. The Kusers
owned a beautiful Colonial the town had dubbed Green Farm. Jim
loved that house, but probably more so the fond memories of a
loving family and a happy childhood.
In the summer of 1995, Green Farm was host to a minireunion
for Jim's friends from Notre Dame. We had graduated two years
earlier, and most of us still clung to the glory days of college.
Although we weren't so far removed from Notre Dame that nights
of revelry would be deemed immature, we were cognizant that the
last vestiges of our youth were fast approaching.
In preparation for the event, Jim sent out an invitation memo
entitled, "Try Outs for the A-Team." It was framed as if he were
the coach and we were recruits attempting to make his A-Team Drinking
Squad. The playing fields were to be the bars of New York and
New Jersey. In addition to a schedule of daily activities, the
memo included a coach's note: "Collectively, you're light in the
skilled positions but heavy in the trenches. You should have a
solid ground game, but I hope you don't have to drop back into
zone coverage. Regardless, you're a veteran squad with a lot of
heart. I expect great things out of you." It was pure Jim -- less
genius than it was exceptionally genuine.
I didn't know Jim much until the summer of 1992, before our
senior year. Jim and I were among the first group of Washington,
D.C., interns for the Hesburgh Program in Public Policy. The fact
that I was a Dillonite and Jim a Dawg from Alumni Hall -- when
a rivalry still existed between the dorms -- made little difference
to either one of us. With a legal I.D. in each of our pockets,
there were few limits to our fun.
Perhaps the best night of our summer was Jim's 21st
birthday. We toured some of the city's most infamous drinking
establishments -- Garrett's, Sign of the Whale and LuLu's -- before
settling in some dive near our dorm at American University. It
was near closing time and I was begging the DJ to play Bruce Springsteen
in honor of Jim. When he did, I saw Jim hobble onto the dance
floor. Apparently Jim had sprained his ankle minutes before on
the way to the men's room. Jim had two distinctive features: eyebrows
and calves, the latter of which looked like they'd been inflated
by a bicycle pump. Thus, when I saw his purple ankle swollen larger
than his calf, I knew Jim had paid a price for his first night
of legal drinking. But it would not dissuade Jim. Nothing ever
did. Rosalita was playing, the beer was flowing, and he was surrounded
by buddies. Jim was happy.
Our friendship only progressed after graduation. Jim had a knack
for keeping in touch -- sending notes, gifts, and e-mails -- just
to make certain you knew he was thinking about you. Although he
lived in Manhattan and I in Washington, D.C., we made it a tradition
to get the men from Alumni and Dillon Halls together on New Year's
Eve. No one was left out. That was perhaps the most amazing thing
about Jim. As great a guy as he was, as much as the women swooned
over him, he always included those less popular, only focusing
on whether you were capable of having fun while in his company.
Jim always found a way to make sure you did.
Because of this trait, Jim was elected president of Alumni Hall
during his sophomore year, a post he held for exactly 12 hours
and 27 minutes. Jim won the Hall Presidency on the night of the
Irish Wake, Alumni Hall's most infamous, but now defunct, social
gathering. Jim partied hard that night. Unfortunately, so did
his date. When the clock struck 2 a.m. and it was time for his
date to leave, Jim had the unenviable task of dealing with a passed-out
coed. With the help of his trusty cabinet members, Jim opted to
sneak his date out after she awoke from her slumber -- well after
parietals. This plan worked about as well as Watergate, and Jim
was forced to resign his post later that morning.
Not one for scandal, Jim never talked much about the incident.
Nonetheless, it was a story I told often to the men of Alumni
Hall while I was their assistant rector during my stint at Notre
Dame Law School from 1998 to 2000. The message was not really
about using poor judgment, but more about friendship -- how much
the men of Alumni Hall cared about Jim, how willing they were
to take his side and come to his aid, and the importance of loyalty
in our relationships. Jim might have lost the hall presidency
that night, but it solidified his friendships for years to come.
It was this loyalty, this devotion to each other, that I wanted
to be instilled in each member of Alumni Hall.
In reflecting upon Jim's life, I am reminded of the two sentences
inscribed upon the Delphic oracle, which were used to guide the
Greeks, but are no less pertinent today: "Know Thyself" and "Nothing
Too Much." Jim accomplished the first but failed miserably with
the second.
As for the first, Jim was a great person and even better friend
because he was so comfortable with himself, no doubt a characteristic
honed from lessons on Green Farm. He made others around him feel
comfortable as well. He was not shy in giving compliments or bragging
about the successes of others. It was genuine. If ever there was
a messenger of the Golden Rule to treat others as you wish to
be treated, it was Jim Kuser.
Nonetheless, if Jim had a downfall, it was doing things to extreme.
He studied hard, exercised hard, worked hard, played hard and,
perhaps most of all, prayed hard. He attended Mass regularly,
often escaping early on Sunday while his friends were asleep to
perform his weekly ritual. He spoke openly about God and his devotion
to Catholicism, not to preach, but rather, to share with others
the friendship he had developed with his Savior.
Perhaps best exemplified by his relentless faith in God, there
was a determination in Jim that was difficult to curtail. But
whereas others saw excess, his friends and family saw passion.
During the Persian Gulf War, a traumatic event for a generation
sheltered from the ravages of war, Jim let others know about his
strong feelings about the events in Kuwait. At a Notre Dame basketball
game, Jim hoisted a large sheet on which he had inscribed the
message, "Support Our Troops." Jim and his friend circled the
basketball arena that day to the applause of those in attendance.
Although his efforts were soon foiled by a few yellow-clad JACC
ushers, they did make the Chicago Tribune the next day
in a story on patriotism.
This past summer, just before my family and I relocated to Denver,
Colorado, we met Jim and his girlfriend of a year, Mary Pat, for
dinner in New York City. My 2-year old daughter, Mimi, adored
Jim and could not stop giggling at his antics. Kids have a habit
of spotting honest people. She spent most of the evening on his
lap while Jim repeated cleaned-up versions of old drinking stories
and misadventures from Notre Dame, D.C., and New York. Because
this was my first encounter with Mary Pat, Jim once again put
me on stage to share one of Jim's favorites -- a tale about a
lacrosse ball becoming lodged in a toilet bowl filled with leftovers
from a night of revelry. It was a story I had told countless times
before, each time received by Jim with convulsions of laughter
-- another Jim Kuser trademark. After telling the tale once again,
I recall thinking that perhaps our friendship was stymied in the
past. However, I put my concerns aside upon looking over at my
daughter perched on Jim's lap, watching in admiration this man
with the big bushy eyebrows and receding hairline. While performing
tricks with Mimi's crayons and making plans about future trips
to Colorado, Jim was describing tales of his ascent up Mount Olympus
the previous summer as well as his and Mary Pat's upcoming trip
to Alaska. We had matured, but life was no less rewarding, and,
as always for Jim, no less fun.
Our night in New York would be the last time I saw Jim. On August
31, 2003, Jim died from a massive heart attack while running in
Central Park. Labor Day weekend had started in grand fashion with
Jim watching the start of another college football season in his
Manhattan apartment. On Saturday evening, Jim had attended yet
another Bruce Springsteen concert, a show Jim had described to
Mary Pat and his friends as perhaps the greatest of the 50 or
more he had seen. Sunday morning was to begin with a casual jog
in Central Park followed by a barbecue with some friends.
The funeral was less a means to say goodbye then it was an impromptu
tribute to Jim's life. With a death so shocking, recognition takes
long but acceptance even longer. Jim's brother and sister shared
stories of Jim's life, some of which elicited more tears and others,
some much-needed laughter. Poignantly, Katherine discussed having
Jim as her older brother, an experience that fostered one valuable
lesson: life was to be met with gusto at all times and all places.
Jim had taught those he had met during his lifetime that it is
not necessary to be the best at everything you do; it is, however,
important to give your best at everything you do. Jim was one
of the rare people who grasped the fact that life was a precious
gift each of us had been granted.
Following the service, those of us who had tried out for Jim's
A-Team, along with the numerous friends Jim had added to his life
since then, were reunited on Green Farm -- eight years and two
months after our initial gathering. We were a more veteran bunch
from the 1995 team and there was little, if any, spring in our
step that day. Talk of bars and antics of nights before was replaced
by conversations of jobs, wives, and kids. We had become more
mature, more hardened by the travails of daily life. Upon the
request of Jim's mother, those of us from Notre Dame clasped arms
to sing the Alma Mater in Jim's honor. The song always sounded
sad to me -- usually after an ND loss -- but it sounded even sadder
in light of the circumstances. We had grown older, but not yet
old enough to bury one of our own.
As if to foreshadow the years to come when he would guide us
from above, Jim's final message in that invitation exemplify the
faith he had in those of us gathered on Green Farm:
Congratulations on accepting my invitation to try out for the
A-Team. All of you were blue-chip recruits when you went to play
for the Irish in pre-season in 1989. Now it's pre-season 1995;
and it's tougher to make this team. The years have been hard on
you. You're slow. You're weak. You're out of shape. But if you
dig down deep, you'll discover that you've got what it takes to
make this team. Do Notre Dame proud. Play like a champion. Good
luck.
It was an honor to have Jim as the captain of our A-Team. He
touched so many people in so many ways. He exemplified what it
was to be a Notre Dame man, forever respecting the message inscribed
on the entrance to Sacred Heart Cathedral: God, Country, and Notre
Dame. The passion he possessed for every adventure, every minute
of everyday was contagious.
On my way out to Jim's funeral, a colleague of mine offered
some kind advice. "I am so sorry," he said. "It really makes you
stop and think of just how lucky you are and just how important
it is to live everyday as if it were the last."
I know, I thought to myself, I learned that from Jim Kuser.
* * *
(December 2003)
