CHAPTER 2
My Father Was a Bona Fide Hero
Donald James Corbett's big American dream wasn't going to come true in Brockport, New York, the town where he was born in 1903. He wanted to attend college. And not just any college-he had set his sights on Notre Dame University. He wanted to take his athletic ability to the grandest stage in the country-the Fighting Irish's football team-while earning a degree.
My father was raised on High Street in a home barely large enough to fit his parents and six children. I went to see the house when I was a kid and it reminded me of a Halloween witch house. It was falling apart and leaning to one side as though the slightest breeze could blow it over. It had peeling paint, cracked windows, splintered siding, and a lawn with nary a green spot in sight. Decrepit as it was, for my father the house was something special-indeed, magical. To him, it was the home that allowed his father, John E. Corbett, to build his own American dream, much the way my father's grandfather, James Corbett, had done.
My great-grandfather's American dream was a simple one: to make it to America alive so his children could grow up in the land of opportunity. He came to the United States from Ireland in the 1870s with his family, which included my five-year-old grandfather, E.J. Corbett. They took passage on a cargo vessel in less-than-comfortable accommodations. There were no bedrooms, only boarding quarters, which were giant rooms lined with hundreds of dusty and rusty bunks. The shipboard meals were equivalent to what's served in prisons today. The boat had no heating or air conditioning and was easily tossed about by the angry seas. The journey took weeks to complete.
Many of the passengers died en route. Some succumbed to the extreme heat or cold; some died of food poisoning or malnutrition caused by unsanitary cooking and food storage; others were felled by illnesses that worsened because of lack of proper medical attention; some were lost overboard during rough weather. Like other immigrants, my great-grandfather was willing to endure these tough conditions in order to get a shot at the American dream.
He was lucky; none of his family died on the long and perilous journey. They disembarked in New York and traveled to Brockport, a small village that thrived as a port on the Erie Canal. In the mid-to late 1800s, immigrants from Europe, primarily Irish, flocked to the village to take advantage of the many employment opportunities offered by the canal.
Brockport's population was only a few thousand. Roads were unpaved, horses were the main source of transportation, and kerosene lanterns illuminated the village's main street, which consisted of a handful of mom-and-pop establishments. Farming communities growing fruits and grains surrounded the village. These crops were shipped throughout the country from Brockport via the railroad and the Erie Canal.
The canal was central to the economy and to the growth of upstate New York, and, for that matter, to much of the northeastern United States. It provided the principal means by which commodities ranging from food to raw materials and finished goods were transported from farmers and producers to factories and customers. For those living and working near it, the canal was the lifeblood of their world.
I've not been able to find out what my great-grandfather, James, did for a living, but when my grandfather, John E. Corbett, was old enough to work, he became a cooper, someone who made barrels that were packed with supplies for the boats docking at the port or used to ship supplies from one canal work station to the next.
My grandfather had a pond in his backyard on which he built a sawmill that he used to make barrels. He also sold ice. When the pond froze, he would cut the ice, place it on a sled pulled by horses, and deliver it door to door throughout the village.
I love the stories of first-generation immigrants like my grandfather. They came to America asking themselves, "What can I do to make a living?" And, more important, "What can I do to make life better for my children?" What grew among these immigrants was a powerful loyalty to the United States, their new home. While they may have been Irish in heritage, they quickly identified as being American.
This was the world into which my father, Donald James Corbett, was born. And part of my grandfather's American dream-a big part-was to see a family member graduate from college. That dream was placed squarely on my father's broad shoulders.
As far back as my father could remember, he was a working man-selling ice and making barrels for my grandfather. That work ethic turned my father into a dynamic physical specimen. He had a wiry build, with blue-collar muscles, not the fitness club muscles many men build today, the kind that enable a man to lift a lot of weight when it's bolted neatly to a bar. Blue-collar muscles empower a man to tear a battery from a car with his bare hands. My father was all blue-collar muscle and he used his physical prowess to become one of the best athletes in Brockport and the surrounding area, starring on his high school's baseball, basketball, track, and football teams, with the latter being his strongest suit. Photographs reveal him as a dashing young man and his grades testified to his intelligence. People who knew him then said he was one of the most popular teens in Brockport, the big man on campus, recognized everywhere he went.
Dad's dream of attending Notre Dame was not that special. It was similar to those of thousands of other young boys, especially Irish-American boys. Young men throughout the United States dreamed of wearing those gold and blue colors and running out onto the football field surrounded by tens of thousands of screaming Fighting Irish fans. But only the most select athletes had the talent to realize that dream. My father did have the talent, but Notre Dame did not recruit him. The coaches did not come to him and ask him to play, so he decided to go to Indiana and introduce himself to them. My father's locally demonstrated talent was dwarfed only by his courage and self-confidence.
Having so little money, he could not afford the direct train fare to Indiana, but he packed all his clothes into a dingy duffle bag and hit the road for Notre Dame. He took a train as far as he could afford, and then walked and hitchhiked the rest of the way. Though he traveled through only five states, the trip took weeks. When he finally arrived at Notre Dame, he marched into the admissions office, showed them his high school transcripts, and told the admissions officers that he wanted to apply. He had the grades to be eligible, but he did not have the money for tuition. Many would have given up at that point. Not my father. He was determined to attend Notre Dame, play football, and earn a degree.
He found lodging at Corby Hall, a dwelling used primarily by priests who taught at Notre Dame. It was also used for students when campus housing became too crowded. Though my father was not yet a student, the nuns who ran the hall didn't have the heart to turn him away after hearing that he'd traveled so far for a chance to attend the university. They swept a bird's nest out of a corner of the hall's basement and allowed him to sleep there while he got on his feet financially. It was supposed to be only a short stay. It turned into a three-year residency while he earned money for tuition by working in the campus cafeteria.
Finally, in 1924, at the age of 21, he had his tuition money and fulfilled one third of his dream-he was attending Notre Dame. He quickly got to work on the rest-playing football for the school and earning a degree.
Notre Dame's football program encouraged walk-ons back then, so my father knew he had a chance to make the team. Before the first tryout, he approached head coach Knute Rockne, now regarded one of the greatest college football coaches of all time, and asked him what it would take to earn a spot on the team. Rockne, not one to mince words, looked over the wiry, blue-collar-muscle-bound, five-foot-nine-inch, 170-pound upstart and said, "If you can throw, catch, run, and tackle, you'll play football for Notre Dame. There's nothing else that matters. You can't fake talent. If you have it, you'll play for this team."
My father made the team, earning the backup quarterback spot. He kept that position for four years, playing for two of Notre Dame's most famous teams: the 1924 squad, renowned for its Four Horsemen, the name for the team's talented backfield, consisting of Harry Stuhldreher, Don Miller, Jim Crowley, and Elmer Layden, who led the team to an undefeated season; and the 1928 squad, best known in Notre Dame lore as the year Rockne delivered his "Win One for the Gipper" halftime speech. The "Gipper" was George Gipp, Notre Dame's first-ever All-American football player, who died of throat cancer on December 14, 1920, just days after leading the team to a victory over Northwestern.
Although my father never became a Notre Dame hero, he was able to use his Notre Dame education to become a legend back home in upstate New York. He graduated with degrees in history and English, the first in his family to...
