I’m reminded why last night’s loss to Texas A&M affected me so deeply: because I was given The Gift of Notre Dame.
That gift wasn’t wrapped in blue and gold paper—it was carried in the voices of my family. Around my grandparents’ table—Ray and Barbara Doyle—it lived in laughter, spirited debate, and the steady rhythm of our Irish Catholic faith. My mom and dad, aunts, uncles, and cousins wove Notre Dame into the fabric of every holiday. Few among them had ever set foot on a college campus, and fewer still had dreamed of Notre Dame. Yet the Golden Dome rose in our imaginations like a cathedral on a hill—a shining symbol of hope and possibility.
I learned the Victory March from Grandma Barb before I even knew our country’s Pledge of Allegiance—a tradition I passed to our three kids and now three grandkids. Susan, my wife, has grown to love Notre Dame as deeply as any of us. Over the years, she has embraced its traditions, its faith, and its fierce loyalty. Now she carries the mantle too—guiding our children and grandchildren to cherish that “Irish wear green on gamedays.” Together, we’ve kept the gift that once passed proudly around my grandparents’ table alive and thriving in the next generation.
We spoke of Rockne, Leahy, Parseghian, Holtz, Digger, Muffet and now Freeman as if they were saints in a family litany. And we recited the legends like prayers: George Gipp, the Four Horsemen, Hanratty to Seymour, Theismann to Gatewood, Rocky Bleier, Austin Carr, Shumate, Montana, Browner and Fry, Rudy, Tim Brown, “The Bus” Bettis, Rice, Bryant Young and the Rocket. Lately, it’s been Justin Tuck, Golden Tate, Zbikowski, Rice, Brady Quinn, Jeff Samardzija, Skyler, Arike, Connaughton—and now, with hope in our hearts, Hannah and C.J. Carr. These aren’t just Notre Dame student-athletes; they are heroes stitched into the same fabric as faith and family.
The day our oldest son was accepted into Notre Dame, time seemed to stop. The letter in his hands felt like a bridge stretching back through generations. His years as a member of The Irish Guard filled us with indescribable pride. Watching him march across that sacred field, out front of The Band of the Fighting Irish, was to see generations converge—a promise fulfilled and a dream carried forward.
Later, the gift took another form. To be entrusted professionally as Notre Dame’s AVP for Storytelling & Engagement was a grace I could scarcely comprehend. I was given the freedom to create—programs, events, even a one-man play—that may live on long after my footsteps fade from campus. To tell Notre Dame’s story, to capture the flicker of candles at the Grotto or the hush of the Basilica, was a responsibility that felt almost sacramental.
Because Notre Dame is not merely a university. It is a beacon whose light spills far beyond its quads: the Victory March echoing through crisp autumn air, the Alma Mater closing a game day beneath a starlit sky, gold helmets glinting like small suns, and the Golden Dome gleaming even under winter clouds. It is all of us teaching our children and grandchildren the same fight song my grandma taught me. It is the hand on a shoulder during a prayer at the Grotto, the proud legions of alumni and subway alums rallying the Irish together, the spirit of generations refusing to let the flame go out.
And so, The Gift of Notre Dame endures—outlasting every scoreboard and every fleeting disappointment. Its spirit will rise again, bright and unyielding. And when it does, we will wake the echoes once more—with voices strong, hearts full, and an unbroken line of Irish pride stretching far beyond the horizon.
Just believe.
