Blue & Gold Illustrated: America's Foremost Authority on Notre Dame Football
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BLUEGOLDONLINE.COM OCT. 7, 2023 7 UNDER THE DOME Both Joey Hickey and Tommy Walz have families now, and they stayed in South Bend after graduation, where they remain to this day. The former is a dentist, while the latter is an attorney. "It's just being able to get together with your kid and doing something that you all enjoy," Joe Hickey said. "[Joey is] the one that takes the truck out 90 per- cent of the time, and we meet up at the grave at 5:30. … It's just great to be able to hang out with your kids." The younger Hickey and Walz, as Joe Hickey implied, are the leaders these days. In another 30 years, they might pass the torch once more. Joey Hickey's kids are in middle school now, while Tommy Walz has already taken his son out to the grave, too. "He just woke up one morning, be- cause he wants to know what it's all about, for me to do it," Tommy Walz said. "So, it's special." A TRADITION REENERGIZED Tommy Walz continued his toast, reminiscing about the 1993 Florida State game. "I was pissed off, and as soon as I got home, I felt guilty about it," Walz said. "Then I started to think to myself, 'Well, we won that game.' The funny thing about history is that it has a way of repeating itself." The history of the Rockne grave tra- dition starts with a friend of the Hick- eys named Rufus (Joe Hickey was un- sure Rufus would want his last name printed). Rufus would go out to the grave from time to time and, as Joe Hickey put it, "shoot the [expletive] with Rock." The Hickeys have a connection to Rockne, so Joe was immediately in- terested. Rockne lived next door to his grandparents, and Rockne was his dad's godfather. "We started going out there on Sat- urday mornings with him," Hickey said. "Someone would give a toast. You would never ask for a Notre Dame win, but you would toast Rock and some of the things Notre Dame-wise." Those things would often be good luck, or the health of the players. But like Hickey said, the one rule is to never ask for a Notre Dame win. "I'm not sure why that is, but that's al- ways the way it's been," Joe Hickey said, laughing. "It's kind of an unwritten rule. But there's a 'Go Irish' at the end." In addition to drinking Irish whis- key themselves, the group makes sure to leave "a shot for Knute," they call it. It's exactly what it sounds like: they pour a glass of whiskey and leave it on the tombstone. They also leave a victory ci- gar with two matches, in case one blows out. "I do remember a couple years ago, [Walz] brought Midleton out for the first time and he left the shot for Rockne's grave, and one of the guys that was there for the first time said, 'Man, I can't leave Midleton for a dead guy,'" Hickey said. "He went back and drank the shot, and we lost. So, we always make sure that there's a shot there." The ritual started about 30 years ago, but around 15 years later, maybe less, Joe Hickey decided it might be time to try something new with his Saturday mornings. Shortly before that was set to happen, though, he took Tom Walz with him. Walz, Hickey said, thought it was the greatest thing he'd ever seen. Walz's involvement reenergized the tradition. "We decided to do this ritual at Rockne's grave as a way to celebrate Notre Dame home games, and also, we've attracted all of our kids together and friends together so that we can be together," Tom Walz said. MODERN PROBLEMS REQUIRE MODERN SOLUTIONS The game didn't end the way Tommy Walz or anyone at Rockne's grave that morning wanted it to. But the ending of Tommy Walz's minute-long toast was still special. "This is our time," Walz said, still locked in on the tombstone. "There's not a better chance for us to make a statement, put us back on the map and make this season kick into high gear right now. So keep the guys safe, keep them healthy, help them play together and let's kick the [expletive] out of this [expletive] team. Cheers. Go Irish." Everyone downed their shots, talked for a couple more minutes and dis- persed. The whole thing, from my ar- rival to getting back in my car, took about 10 minutes. Breakfast at Jeannie's House Diner on Mishawaka Avenue follows the shot of whiskey, and then it's back to the tail- gate truck for the opening of the Notre Dame Stadium parking lots. The Irish used to let fans park as early as they wanted, allowing the Walzes and Hickeys to reserve their usual spot, but recently, rules changed. Lots open at 8 a.m. now, so they had to adjust. The Hickeys will leave their house at 5 a.m. and drive straight to Eddy Street, where they're usually one of the first 10 cars there. One person stays with the truck while the rest head to the cem- etery. "It's gotten routine," Joey Hickey said. "It's a lot easier to get up for a tailgate than getting kids ready to go to work. I usually like to get out there and just stake out our spot as best we can." "There's a certain significance to having your tailgate at the same place every game, because people congregate there," Tom Walz said. The tailgate is where the more tra- ditional game-day fun begins. But it wouldn't feel right without the trip to the grave every morning. It's a rare game-day experience — not a somber one, but certainly not rowdy, being re- spectful of the cemetery. It's a spiritual experience, as Tommy Walz described it. And one that's uniquely Notre Dame. Even visiting fans, who have participated in the past, can see it. "I think a lot of people who have any sort of allegiance to college football in general understand, 'Hey, this is Knute Rockne,'" Tommy Walz said. "Who doesn't know who that is? If they don't, they certainly do afterwards." ✦ "Someone would give a toast. You would never ask for a Notre Dame win, but you would toast Rock and some of the things Notre Dame-wise." IRISH FAN JOE HICKEY