Almost every day I hear from one of the millions of people who have been inspired by Rudy, the hit movie about how my unlikely dream of playing football for Notre Dame came true.
So many times I’d been told no. They said I wasn’t bright enough to go to an elite school and that I was way too small—at 5 feet 6 inches—to make the team, let alone play a single down. But I persisted. I made the team (the practice squad, anyway) and in my senior year, in the final seconds of the last game, the coach put me in. With everything I had in me, I blew past the lineman and sacked the quarterback. My teammates hoisted me onto their shoulders and carried me off the field. Like a scene out of a movie.
But it took 16 years, countless letters and prayers, and even a few trips to L.A. before I was able to get anyone in Hollywood to see it that way and even then, if it hadn’t been for another movie, Rudy might never have been made. That movie was Hoosiers. Maybe you’ve seen it.
I saw Hoosiers when it came out, in 1986. I still remember being enthralled by the true story of a tiny Indiana high school, barely able to field a basketball team, and the troubled first-year coach who was nearly fired during the season. Against all odds they came together to win the state championship. The audience cheered when the winning basket went in, and I couldn’t help thinking that my story had all the same ingredients. But I’d mailed dozens of pitches to Hollywood studios over the years and all I had to show for it was a thick folder of rejection letters. As the closing credits crawled by I noted that the screenplay had been written by Angelo Pizzo. If only I could tell my story to someone like that, I thought. He would understand.
By the late eighties Notre Dame football was on the rise again, with a new coach. I moved back to South Bend, where I was district manager for an insurance company. I told my story to everyone I met. I felt certain God had been with me on the field that day, that he wanted me to share my experience of how far a little guy can go with faith and determination.
Still, sometimes I felt I was destined to be only a bit of Notre Dame trivia. I couldn’t even get anyone at the university to listen to my idea for the film. “Well, we already have a movie,” Father Beauchamp, the executive vice president, said when I first met him. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but it’s pretty hard to top the Knute Rockne story.”
From time to time I would see him around campus, but there was never any swaying him. The Irish were again vying for national championships. No one, except for me, was thinking about a long-forgotten quarterback sack. Still, I couldn’t give up.
Then, in 1990, I finally got a break. Someone I met got me a lunch meeting with Angelo Pizzo in California. The answer to my most fervent prayers, right?
Not exactly. All he could tell me was how hard it was to get any movie made, how no one would be interested in my picture. Two years later I hadn’t heard another word from him.
Then, one Friday afternoon in 1992, the phone rang. I recognized the voice instantly. Angelo Pizzo.
“Hey, Rudy,” he said, like we were old friends. “Do you have a lawyer?”
“A lawyer?” I said. “Why would I need a lawyer?”
“I’ve talked to a producer and he really wants to make your movie,” he said. “We’d like to get the contract squared away ASAP. Can you arrange for David Anspaugh and me to meet with the folks at Notre Dame on Monday?”
My mind was racing. David Anspaugh! He’d directed Hoosiers. “That’s great,” I said. “But…uh…it’s been a while since I’ve talked to anyone at the university about this. I gotta make sure they’re on board.”
Dead silence. Then he said, “David and I are going to be there Monday morning. Things are moving fast. We can’t afford any complications, Rudy.”
I hung up the phone. This was the moment I’d dreamed of, but my stomach was churning. How on earth was I going to get Father’s blessing?
I raced over to the administration building, past his startled secretary and into Father Beauchamp’s office.
“Rudy!” Father said. “What can I do for you?”
“A writer from Hollywood, Angelo Pizzo, called,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “He wants to make my movie. He and his partner, David Anspaugh, want to meet with you Monday.”
His face grew serious. “Rudy, this is very short notice. And you know we’ve talked about this before.”
“All I’m asking, Father, is that you meet with them,” I pleaded.
He sighed. “All right,” he said, shaking his head. “As a favor to you, Rudy. But I’m not promising anything.” He carefully wrote down their names in his appointment calendar for 9:00 a.m.
I left his office and walked across campus toward the stadium, the place where I had found so much inspiration over the years. When I got back to the office I called Angelo and told him Father would meet with us. I didn’t tell him what else he had said.
That weekend was the longest of my life. I went to the gym, but I was so distracted I barely got through my workout. I had always believed that if I pushed hard enough and prayed hard enough I could achieve anything I set my heart on. That’s what I thought those few memorable seconds on the field had shown me. But I’d done everything I knew to get this movie made—for 16 long years. I’d prayed about it I don’t know how many times. Now it was up to God. “Lord,” I whispered, “if this is your will I need your help.” But as I prayed—even Sunday at Mass at the Basilica—I still couldn’t stop worrying about my meeting in a few hours.
Monday morning I met Angelo and David at the administration building, my stomach twisting tighter. Once we got into Father’s office I hoped they might somehow be able to convince him.
His secretary told us we would go in shortly. I gazed around the room filled with books and paintings, history and grandeur. I wanted to melt into the thick carpet.
When Father opened his door to welcome us in, I stayed back. I’d said everything I could. It was Angelo and David’s meeting. All I could do now was keep praying. Every once in a while I lifted my eyes to see if I could discern from the secretary what Father’s answer would be. Ten minutes passed…15…20. Then the door opened.
Father strode out carrying a book of Notre Dame history. He opened up to a spread showing the gleaming Golden Dome. “Angelo, do you think you could make the Dome shine like this on the silver screen?” he said. At that moment I knew. He’d said yes! We were going to make the movie! My movie! I hugged Angelo and David. Father told us to go meet with the head of public relations.
As we walked out I asked Angelo, “How did you do it? How did you make that happen?”
“Rudy, you’re not going to believe it. Father told us that last night a family invited him over for dinner and afterward they suggested watching a movie. He said it was one of the most inspiring movies he’d ever seen. Guess what it was? Hoosiers! And when he looked to see who made it, he thought, ‘That’s who I’m meeting tomorrow!’ He told us it was an honor to have us here. And probably no coincidence. He offered his assistance with anything we needed.”
Things moved fast after that. Father was true to his word. I even got a part in one of the crowd scenes. That’s me cheering at that last game, in back of the actor playing my father.
I learned a lot about what goes into making a movie. But the most important lesson I learned: When you trust God’s direction, dreams do come true. Even in Hollywood.
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