Reflection / John Shaughnessy

Thoughts of a mom, a legendary coach and the gift they shared

The morning of March 4 began by exchanging messages with my four siblings on the first anniversary of our mom’s death, all of us sharing the truth that our lives were blessed—and continue to be blessed—by her.

Later that afternoon, I received a round of texts from friends, letting me know that someone else I admired had just died—Lou Holtz, the legendary former head football coach of the University of Notre Dame. (See a story about Holtz on page 14 of this issue)

Beyond the mutual day of their death, there wouldn’t seem to be much to connect them.

My mom lived in the quiet spaces that many women of her generation did, never seeking the spotlight, preferring to shine it on her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In contrast, Holtz lived most of his adult life in the ever-increasing spotlight of major college football and television commentary.

Still, there are similarities, including a feisty spirit and a powerful perseverance to overcome the setbacks of life. My mom grew up without a mother, as her mother died when my mom was 2. Holtz had a lisp and the public humiliation of being let go as a coach.

Yet neither chose bitterness. Instead, they both could charm you with their smiles and make you laugh with their stories and their insights about life.

Holtz often offered this thought on how to be happy: “Happiness is nothing more than having a poor memory. If you can’t remember what happened yesterday, you feel pretty good today.”

In the same vein, my mom would often encourage in the tough times, “Tomorrow will be a better day,” adding her frequent sign-off, “God bless.”

Faith in God was at their core.

When I interviewed Holtz 15 years ago before he gave a talk at a Catholic Charities fundraising event in Indianapolis, one of the questions I asked was, “What are some of the main ways you have tried to make the connection between sports and faith in your coaching career?”

Holtz replied, “I never really preached it, but I hope the way you live your life reflects the faith you have in God.”

And so, I still remember all the years that my mom and dad—who introduced me to the magic and occasional misery of being a Notre Dame football fan—made daily Mass a part of their lives.

Holtz and my mom were also connected by what he considered “the four things that we must do and have to succeed in life:

“Something to live for. Someone to love and love us. Something to hope for. Something to believe in.”

My parents were married for nearly 67 years. They lived for their family.

They believed in God. And as people who grew up in the Great Depression and World War II, they worked and hoped for a better life for their children and the generations that have followed.

Holtz had the same love for his family. It showed in his 59 years of marriage to his late wife Beth. It showed in the ways their four children were with him in his final days.

As with all of us, my mom and Holtz had their flaws and weaknesses. Still, their lives can be measured by the questions that Holtz often asked his audiences to consider about their lives.

“If I didn’t show up, who would miss me and why? If you didn’t go home, would your family miss you? And if they did, why? If you didn’t show up for work on Monday, would anybody miss you?

“We should all aspire to make sure that we live our lives in such a way that if we didn’t show up, somebody would miss us. Not because we’re valuable. Not because we’re talented. But because we add value to other people’s lives.”

Sharing far more than a date of death, my mom and Holtz shared the gift of adding value to people’s lives.

They are both missed.

Who would miss us, and why?
 

(John Shaughnessy is the assistant editor of The Criterion. He can be reached at jshaughnessy@archindy.org.) †