Believe Nothing You Hear, and Only Half of What You See — A memoir of Service, Shame and the Search for Truth

My First Week of College at Notre Dame

By the time the first official week of college began, our long summer of anticipation was finally over. The buzz of orientation events and the flurry of new friendships had barely settled when a singular rite of passage landed in our hands and marked our true arrival into Notre Dame life.

The Infamous Dog Book

It came wrapped in glossy pages. The little blue-and-yellow hardback — formally titled The Notre Dame & Saint Mary’s Freshman Register, Class of 1977— was better known across campus by its infamous, irreverent nickname: The Dog Book.

The Girls of Saint Mary’s

Now, let me clarify from the start: the girls of Saint Mary’s were anything but “dogs.” The name was a holdover from Notre Dame’s all-male history and had lingered through decades of tradition and crude humor. But if you were a freshman guy in 1977, you knew exactly what the Dog Book meant. It was your first unofficial introduction to the incoming class — your own classmates and, far more tantalizingly, the women across the road at Saint Mary’s College.

The book was laid out like a catalog: headshots of every incoming freshman at both schools, organized alphabetically. Each photo came with a name, nickname (if they had one), hometown, high school, and intended major. No bios. No blurbs. Just faces, facts, and enough fuel for hours of hallway commentary.

The moment the Dog Books were delivered to Fisher Hall, tradition took over. Guys poured out of their dorm rooms with books in hand and formed an impromptu gathering in the hallway. We sat cross-legged against the cinderblock walls, flipping pages together as if we were drafting fantasy football teams — or, more accurately, evaluating potential dates, girlfriends, and future wives.

The jokes flew fast. So did the judgments. Someone would point at a photo and say, “She looks like trouble.” Another guy would shout, “Bottom of Page 56 — dibs!” Every once in a while someone would spot a classmate or recognize a name and make a big show of it, good or bad. It was crude, superficial, often cruel — but also a strange kind of bonding ritual.

I Avoided Being in the Dog Book

And I remember one very specific feeling: relief. I wasn’t in the Dog Book. Not a picture. Not a nickname. Nothing. Because I hadn’t applied to Notre Dame the traditional way, my name had been left out of the publication entirely. I watched the teasing pile up on a few poor souls — guys and girls alike — and silently thanked the registration gods for my invisibility. That day, anonymity was a blessing.

For all its dated humor and objectifying overtones, the Dog Book was a tradition. And like so many Notre Dame traditions, it was one we absorbed without question — half-laughing, half-cringing, entirely immersed in the absurdity of it all.

Saint Mary’s College (SMC): The College Across the Street

To really understand the role the Dog Book played in campus life, you had to understand something about the girls across the street. Saint Mary’s College (SMC), a Catholic women’s college sponsored by the Sisters of the Holy Cross, stood just across U.S. Route 933, a short walk from the main gates of Notre Dame. But culturally, it often felt a world apart.

In 1977, Saint Mary’s enrolled 876 students, with 101 new applicants joining that fall. Student life at SMC was still steeped in tradition and governed by parietal rules that had barely budged despite the cultural revolutions of the late ’60s and early ’70s. These rules restricted when and how male visitors could enter the women’s dorms — usually limited to certain weekend hours, and always under strict supervision. The Sisters of the Holy Cross (CSC) still played an active role on campus, both academically and spiritually, guiding their students with a sense of purpose, decorum, and discipline.

The Sisters of the Holy Cross (CSC)

My First Venture to Saint Mary’s

LeMans Hall

Like most Notre Dame freshmen, I was more than a little fascinated by the girls of Saint Mary’s. They seemed like a blend of grace, charm, mystery — and yes, temptation. I forget exactly how I met my first SMC coed, but I was invited over to her dormitory, Le Mans Hall, for a Saturday evening visit early in the semester.

Rules of Saint Mary’s College

I was already nervous walking across the road by myself, unsure of the etiquette or expectations. But when I arrived, things got a whole lot more intimidating. There was an elderly nun stationed at the reception desk in the front hall. She asked me, in a tone that made it clear she was not one to be trifled with, what my intentions were. I stammered something about being invited, and obediently handed over my Notre Dame ID card when she requested it.

Getting Past the Front Desk

Then came the interrogation. She called upstairs to verify that the young lady had indeed invited me, and when the coed confirmed, the nun told her to come down to escort me personally. No unsupervised wandering was allowed. Once upstairs, I was so on edge that I can barely remember the girl, her room, or what we even talked about. All I remember is the phone ringing about forty-five minutes into our visit. It was the same nun, calling the room to speak to me directly.

“Anthony,” she said in a clear, commanding voice, “you have fifteen minutes to leave the dormitory before parietal hours begin.” Parietals. That was the Notre Dame–SMC term for the formal rules regulating male visitation in female residence halls — rules that had the force of institutional and moral authority behind them. Once parietals began, all male guests had to be out, no exceptions. And this particular nun wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

I thanked her, hung up the phone, and left immediately — heart racing, palms sweating, a little dazed by the whole ordeal. I honestly don’t remember if I ever went back to that room, or even spoke to the young lady again.

It wasn’t just the strictness that kept me away. I was busy — pre-med classes, ROTC, and intramural soccer didn’t leave much space for cross-campus courtships. But I’d be lying if I said the nun hadn’t made a lasting impression. Avoiding Sisters of the Holy Cross became something of a subconscious strategy that semester.

The Saint Mary’s Panty Raids

I didn’t set foot in a Saint Mary’s dorm again until the panty raid in the spring — a decades-old tradition that had long blurred the line between innocent fun and cultural cringe. The stories from the women of Saint Mary’s say it all.

“Our room being on the second floor… provided the best view for Panty Raid. Seeing all the guys run up The Avenue near midnight, yelling, and girls screaming back, was quite a sight… Some girls actually threw panties down!” — Alice M. Tsui, Class of 1970

“I remember calling my mother and telling her I needed all new underwear because I had thrown almost all my things to the boys.” — Judy Johnson Crates, Class of 1970

“The ND guys got into the dorm and were trolling the halls… We pushed a desk up against our door and watched through the transom while the campus guards tried to chase them down!” — Karen Preston McCarty, Class of 1970

It was outrageous. It was immature. And in hindsight, it’s the kind of thing that could never — and probably should never — happen today. At the time, we actively embraced many bizarre traditions as part of life under the Golden Dome.

Even by the time I was a freshman in 1977, the tradition was beginning to fade, or at least lose its luster. But the lore lingered. And for many of us, that was more than enough to keep the mystique of Saint Mary’s alive — whether we were brave enough to cross the Avenue or not.

Cadet Life Begins

While dorm pranks and hallway rituals offered a strange kind of social education, my real initiation into Notre Dame life came through two far more demanding callings — both of which began to take shape that very first week. I arrived on campus with a clear and heavy burden: two missions, equally urgent.

The first was academic. I was a pre-professional science major on the pre-med track, and I knew that earning a shot at medical school would take everything I had. There were no shortcuts. No excuses. I had to perform — and outperform — starting on day one.

The second mission was military. As an Army ROTC scholarship cadet, I actively committed—both contractually and personally—to developing into a leader capable of earning a first-class lieutenant commission by graduation.

That meant discipline, training, and excellence in every formation, drill, and leadership lab for the next four years. Two tracks. One man. No room to stumble.

So while most of my classmates were still finding their rhythm in dorm life, I was already switching gears — fast. I traded in the laughter of Dog Book hallway sessions and the chaos of panty raids for the early-morning demands of a cadet’s life. Gone were the Sperry’s and free time. In their place: combat boots, pressed uniforms, tight schedules, and 0600 alarms.

ROTC and Reality

The day of ROTC orientation began with the usual morning routine in Fisher Hall: a shower down the hall, a quick breakfast at South Dining Hall, and then a walk across campus. The morning sun lit the yellow brick buildings beautifully as I passed the Knute Rockne Memorial Gym — “The Rock” — on my way to the ROTC building.

Professor of Military Science (PMS), Lieutenant Colonel Henry J. Gordon greeting us. A team of senior cadets who had clearly been through it all before also helped us.

Received my Army ROTC Basic Issue

The orientation included a historical overview of Notre Dame’s long-standing military tradition, stretching back to the Civil War, officially formalized in 1951. There were about 50 of us new Army cadets. We were issued our fatigues, boots, T-shirts, caps, helmut, a few other GI items — our first taste of uniformed life.

For most, it was a novelty; yet, for me, it was second nature. I had grown up watching my father in his starched olive drab fatigues, crisp white T-shirts, and brightly colored unit patches. By 1977, ROTC cadets like me were still wearing the OG-107 uniform — green fatigues with subdued patches. The details had changed, but the discipline hadn’t. I knew how a uniform should look. And as you know, I was already a master boot-shiner. The rituals felt more familiar than foreign.

My Father & Me in the Old & New Army Fatigues

Truthfully, the orientation itself felt underwhelming. Compared to what I imagined at West Point, it felt like a watered-down version. I left wondering — again — if I had made the right choice turning down my West Point appointment.

Pre-Med at Fisher Hall

Back at Fisher Hall, I connected with Bob Terifay, the other pre-med student in our section. He was brilliant, confident, and pathologically competitive — a natural leader of the freshmen, even though no one had elected him. He already seemed to have every textbook memorized. I had no problem striving for A’s, but I didn’t get any joy from beating my classmates. I would have been happy if we all aced the exams. That wasn’t Bob’s style.

In Bob Terifay’s defense, Bob was a great guy. A genuinely nice guy, smart as a tac, faithful Catholic boy. Bob was the unofficial leader of our Fisher Hall section. He would step out of his dorm room when it was dinnertime, clap his hands, and announce dinnertime to all by yelling “Pret!” (French for “Ready!“) Bob’s only problem was that he was a pre-med student at Notre Dame.

ROTC Scholarship Pays for Books & Supplies

I stuck close to him for a while because he had insider knowledge. He told me what to expect, what to prep for, and which professors to avoid. We walked together to the Hammes Bookstore, where a I learned a wonderful surprise — my ROTC scholarship covered all my books and supplies. That was a massive relief.

My First Year Academic Load

Many of our classes overlapped, except for Military Science and German. My first year schedule of courses included two semesters of: General Chemistry I&II with lab, Calculus I&II, English Composition & Literature, Intro to Philosophy, Intro to Sociology, Intermediate German, and Military Science.

The schedule was punishing. Science labs were four-hour marathons that earned just one credit hour. ROTC drills and PT demanded more time. Tuesdays were especially brutal — leadership labs in the afternoon, military class in the evening.

My Prep School Classmates-CLEP’d

What made it worse was this: many of the other pre-meds had come from elite Catholic prep schools and private academies. Most had CLEP’d out of chemistry, biology, or calculus thanks to AP credits. They were already a semester — sometimes a year — ahead of me. I had no such advantage. I came from a strong public high school, but I was starting from zero. And I knew I had to work twice as hard to keep up.

Army ROTC Drill

Drill periods were a throwback. We trained with M1903 Springfield rifles — heavy, nine-pound bolt-action relics from World War II. We practiced saluting, standing at attention, and performing the full 15-Count Manual of Arms. I can still snap it off to this day. If you could master the Springfield, the M16 was a walk in the park.

My First Day of Class

My first day of classes at Notre Dame must have been so chaotic and overwhelming that I only remember one class: General Chemistry I. The legendary Professor Emil T. Hofman, who also served as the Dean of the Freshman Year of Studies was our teacher.

The Legendary Dean Emil T. Hofman

He was strict. In fact, he was so strict that he once gave future Nobel Prize in Medicine winner Eric Wieschaus — Notre Dame Class of 1969 — a B in both semesters of chemistry. Over four decades, Emil T. taught more than 60 percent of each freshman class. That totaled over 32,000 students, with more than 8,000 of them going on to become doctors. He was a Notre Dame institution unto himself.

Basic Chemistry House Rules

First Rule: Begin with the Lord’s Prayer

The class began with a brief introduction. Then, with no warmup or small talk, Professor Hofman commanded, “Settle down!” before leading us in the Lord’s Prayer. Every class began that way. That was the First Rule of Chemistry Class. At the end of the prayer, he would say, “Queen of Peace,” and we would reply in unison, “Pray for us.” Without fail.

Second Rule: Quiz Every Friday

Next, he went straight into the second rule. There would be a mandatory seven-question multiple-choice question quiz every Friday covering the material presented during the week. These quizzes were known for being tough, motivating many students to spend their Thursday nights studying to prepare for them. The phrase “Deliver us from Emil” was a common student sentiment.

Third Rule: Assigned Seats and “These are the rows!”

Assigned Seats: A key aspect of his first day routine, and indeed the entire semester, was the assignment of seats. Students were given specific seats they had to occupy for every class, a practice that ensured attendance could be easily monitored and probably discouraged late arrivals or skipping class.

“These Are the Rows!”: Related to the assigned seating, Hofman had a particular way of emphasizing the importance of staying in one’s assigned place. He would emphatically declare, “These are the rows!” This phrase reinforced the strictness of the seating arrangement and left no doubt that deviations would not be tolerated. This was likely a combination of setting expectations for discipline and ensuring a consistent classroom environment.

When’s Your Birthday?

That’s when the girl sitting to my right turned towards me and abruptly asked, “When’s your birthday?” I told her, “Me? December 3rd. Why?” She replied, “Oh, just curious,” and she went back to listening to Professor Hofman. She didn’t say another word to me — not that day, not the next, not for months.

My 18th Birthday

2 Girls and 2 Birthday Cakes

Then came Saturday, December 3rd, 1977 — I was 18 years old. Out of nowhere, that same beautiful girl and her equally beautiful roommate knocked on my door in Fisher Hall, holding a homemade birthday cake. “We came to celebrate your eighteenth birthday,” they said. They lit eighteen candles, sang “Happy Birthday to You,” and handed me a slice.

My First R-Rated Movie Followed by my First Beer in a Bar

Then things got interesting. They took me to my first R-rated movie, Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Sitting between two beautiful girls I barely knew during that particular film was, to say the least, uncomfortable. Afterward, they drove me across the border into Niles, Michigan to Kubiak’s Tavern so I could legally order my first alcoholic drink. I think we danced a little at the bar, laughed a lot, and eventually headed back.

The Goodnight Kisses

All three of us squeezed into the front bench seat of the car, me squarely in the middle. When we pulled up to Fisher Hall, I turned to thank them for the best birthday of my life and started to open the door.

“Not so quick, Tony,” they both said. I turned back toward my classmate. “What?” She leaned in and gave me a five-minute French kiss. I was blown away. As I turned the other direction to open the door, her roommate gently pulled me back. “Slow down,” she said. Then she gave me a five-minute French kiss of her own. It was, hands down, the best birthday of my life.

Football Season and My Neighbor Joe Montana

Without a doubt, the most exciting part of my freshman year at Notre Dame was football season — a highlight in any Domer’s college experience. But for me and every student in 1977, it was unforgettable because we won the National Championship.

Notre Dame Fighting Irish Football Wins NCAA National Championship

That year, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, coached by Dan Devine and led by quarterback Joe Montana, finished the season with an 11–1 record and capped it off by demolishing the previously undefeated and top-ranked Texas Longhorns 38–10 in the Cotton Bowl. That victory sealed our tenth national title.

Quarterback Joe Montana and Coach Dan Devine

Entering the 1977 season, Joe Montana was a junior quarterback, but he found himself in a precarious position on the depth chart—listed as third string after battling injuries and inconsistent play. His relationship with Coach Dan Devine wasn’t particularly warm or enthusiastic.

However, the turning point came in the third game of the season against Purdue. Notre Dame was losing 24-14, and starting quarterback Rusty Lisch was struggling. When backup Gary Forystek was injured, Devine was forced to turn to Montana, despite the previous tension. However, the turning point came in the third game of the season against Purdue. Notre Dame was losing 24-14, and starting quarterback Rusty Lisch was struggling. When backup Gary Forystek was injured, Devine was forced to turn to Montana, despite the previous tension.

Montana, a former seventh-string quarterback, was inserted into the game late in the third quarter. What followed was a classic comeback performance: Montana threw for 154 yards and a touchdown in the final 11 minutes, leading the Irish to a dramatic 31-24 victory. This comeback, in particular, helped launch Montana’s legend and reignited Notre Dame’s national championship hopes.

After this game, Devine recognized Montana’s capabilities and named him the starting quarterback. The team went on to win every game from that point forward, culminating in a dominating 38-10 victory over number one ranked Texas in the Cotton Bowl and securing the national championship. While their relationship might have been complicated, the Purdue game became a pivotal moment for both Montana and Devine, proving that despite any previous doubts or disagreements, they were a powerful combination that propelled Notre Dame to a memorable championship season.

Joe Montana and Four All-American Football Stars

The 1977 squad was stacked with All-Americans: Ken MacAfee, Ross Browner, Luther Bradley, and Bob Golic. But surprisingly, Joe Montana — our quarterback and undeniable team leader — was not named to any All-American team. That still bothers me to this day. Joe’s later NFL career proved what a star he truly was. He led the 49ers to four Super Bowl victories and earned MVP honors in three of them. His 92-yard winning drive in Super Bowl XXIII became legendary. And his eight Pro Bowl appearances set the standard for greatness.

Joe Montana My Next Door Neighbor

I knew Joe Montana–he was my next-door neighbor in Fisher Hall. The kind, funny, somewhat shy, and good-looking guy you see today in commercials and commentary — that was the exact same Joe I knew back then. He was humble and approachable. Let me give you two stories that show who Joe Montana really was.

Notre Dame Football Stadium

First, during home games at Notre Dame Stadium — “The House that Rockne Built” — student seating was assigned by class year and then by residence hall. Seniors got prime seats near the 50-yard line. Freshmen like us were tucked in the end zone. Our whole Fisher Hall section sat together.

Joe Montana and His Fisher Freshmen

In nearly every game, whenever Notre Dame’s offense got into the red zone near our end zone seats, Joe Montana would pause behind the center, scan the crowd, find us — the Fisher Hall freshmen — point directly at us, and then throw a touchdown pass. That was Joe. In his biggest moments, in a deafening stadium, on national television, he remembered his freshman friends. That, to me, is what leadership looks like.

Joe Visits My Room Nightly for Snacks

And Joe’s kindness extended off the field. Many nights, he’d quietly slip into my dorm room late, because I had a TV and he didn’t. He’d lay down on my bed, turn on the television, and say with a grin, “What do you have?” — hand outstretched. My four sisters constantly sent me care packages, especially homemade Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies. Joe knew it. So I’d break out the latest box and share it with him. He was always gracious and genuinely appreciative.

No Athletic Dorms, Cafeterias, or Tables

Notre Dame was different. Unlike big football schools, we had no athletic fraternities, no athlete-only dorms, no athlete dining halls. Our NCAA stars lived with us. Ate with us. Walked across campus like any other student. In our Fisher Hall section alone, we had Joe Montana, Jerome Heavens, and Mike Calhoun — which meant that we got to meet the other players when they visited.

Definitely, no hostesses!

I later visited schools like Alabama and Florida and saw how athletes were treated like royalty. I met women who called themselves “hostesses” and bragged about entertaining football recruits. Some even said they were on scholarship for it. When I told them that Notre Dame didn’t have hostesses, they didn’t believe me. I said, “Believe me. Notre Dame is so small, we know what goes on. And we do not have hostesses.”

1977 Music

The music of 1977 was definitely not one of my favorites; I am much more of a 1960s, maybe early-1970s music fan. Debby Boone’s “You Light Up My Life” debued in October 1977 and stayed #1 until the end of the year. So “You Light Up My Life” reminds me of my first round of college final examinations, and I am happy that the song was so overplayed that it’s never been on the air since.

Crosby, Stills & Nash at Notre Dame

On November 5, 1977, I saw Crosby, Stills & Nash perform at the Athletics and Convocation Center. The stage setup looked exactly like their famous album cover — just the three of them sitting together on a leather couch, guitars in hand, playing pure acoustic sets. No flashy lights or backup bands, just their harmonies filling the arena. It felt intimate despite the size of the crowd, like we were all sitting in their living room. I was happy because they played all of their greatest hits.

A Wild & Crazy Night at Notre Dame

Four days later, on November 9, 1978, I had the rare treat of seeing Steve Martin perform live on campus. He was debuting his now-famous “Wild & Crazy Guy” routine from Saturday Night Live. Dressed in his classic white suit with an arrow going through his head, he alternated between cracking absurd one-liners and picking out lightning-fast banjo tunes. I had always known he was funny, but that night I also realized he was quite a musician. This was the act that catapulted him into superstardom, and I was lucky enough to see it up close and personal right there at Notre Dame.

Thanksgiving, Homesickness, and a Visit from Jeff Bell

First Thanksgiving Away From Home

Thanksgiving came, and I wasn’t able to make it home. The cost of traveling after an already expensive first semester was just too much. It was the first major holiday I had ever spent away from my family, and the homesickness hit hard. Most of the students left campus to go home, and suddenly, the bustling grounds of Notre Dame became eerily quiet.

The only people left were a handful of domestic students like me and the international students who also had nowhere to go. The University did its best to create some holiday spirit. The Dining Hall put on a Thanksgiving feast, complete with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. The food was good, and the gesture was appreciated, but it didn’t come close to the warmth and chaos of a Carbone family holiday back in Winchester. I smiled politely through dinner, then went back to the dorm, feeling the weight of distance more than ever.

Jeff Bell Visits Notre Dame

Shortly after Thanksgiving and before finals in December, I got a much-needed boost. My buddy Jeff Bell drove up from his college in Texas to visit me. His arrival felt like a taste of home, and I was excited to show him around the campus that I was beginning to call my own.

Jeff was immediately impressed. The sight of Fisher Hall, the Gothic buildings, the golden dome — he soaked it all in. But nothing impressed him more than running into Joe Montana in our dorm hallway. He was even more awestruck when we went to the South Dining Hall for dinner and spotted both Joe Montana and Ross Browner eating together like regular students. That moment stayed with him for decades. To Jeff, it was unthinkable that future NFL legends would sit among the student body without any entourage, just two guys with trays and a meal card.

But Jeff quickly realized that Notre Dame wasn’t exactly a party school. That Saturday night, he turned to me and asked, “Where is everybody?” I smiled and said, “You want to see where everyone is on a Saturday night?”

The Library

I led him to the Notre Dame Memorial Library — the 13-story tower with the massive mural of Jesus stretching his arms skyward, affectionately known as “Touchdown Jesus.” When we entered, the place was packed. The first floor buzzed with activity, the snack bar and bathrooms offering quick breaks for students deep in study.

Jeff was baffled. “This is where everyone goes on a Saturday night?”

The “Pre-Med” Floor

I nodded, but told him I couldn’t study there — too many distractions. So we took the elevator to the 13th floor: the “Pre-Med Floor.” As soon as the doors opened, the atmosphere shifted. You could hear every cough, every footstep, every rustle of paper. When I turned a page in my textbook, I could feel heads involuntarily lift from their cubicles just at the sound.

This was serious business. The Pre-Med students at Notre Dame didn’t mess around. Competition was fierce. Focus was absolute. It was a place of quiet desperation and razor-sharp ambition.

Jeff took it all in, visibly stunned. He never said much about it, but he never came back to visit again during undergrad. He waited until I made it to medical school at Georgetown. I think that night explained it all.

Final Exams: A Humbling First Encounter

All that remained of my first semester was final examinations. And let me say this clearly: they were a humbling experience.

I studied nearly 24/7 in the days leading up to exams. Every waking moment was spent buried in textbooks, notes, and problem sets. My mind was constantly racing between subjects — chemistry equations, biology lab reports, calculus proofs, and theology essays. Sleep came in short bursts. Meals were rushed. My stress was constant.

Final Exam Care Packages From Mom

I was deeply grateful that my mother had purchased a Notre Dame-sponsored Exam Care Package, which came loaded with snacks and encouragement. Even better, my four sisters came through as always — sending their signature Toll House chocolate chip cookies and bags of gummi bears to get me through the marathon week. Those care packages felt like lifelines.

Pre-Med Exams Until the Last Day

What surprised and frustrated me most was learning that students in other majors were already finished. My friend Matt Bedics, a philosophy major, was packed up and home for the holidays while I was still knee-deep in test prep. Pre-Med and Engineering students weren’t so lucky — our final exams stretched all the way to the last possible day of the semester, often just a few days before Christmas.

Exam Time

When the time came to Fisher Hall for our examination, Andy Cordes started a tradition that lasted all four years. Right when it was time for everyone to get ready to leave to take final examinations, Andy would start playing Bachman Turner Overdrive’s (BTO) “Taking Care of Business”. And one by one, each of us would open our dorm room doors and step into the hallway singing.

The exams themselves were brutal. Chemistry in particular shook my confidence. The content was dense, the questions were sharp, and I knew I hadn’t nailed it. After everything was over, I didn’t even want to check my grades. I was too afraid. I needed a break from the pressure, the competition, and the relentless self-judgment. What should I expect from a professor who gave a pre-med Nobel Laureate a “B” in Chemistry?

Grades are Posted

But my pre-med buddy Bob Terifay had no such hesitation. He stormed back into Fisher Hall with his usual energy, grinning as he delivered the news: “You got a C in Chemistry!” I was stunned. “How the hell do you know my grade?” He just smiled. Somehow, he had remembered my Notre Dame student ID number: 7711117284. I have no idea how or why. But he did. And he looked up my grades like it was nothing.

Bob clearly was better at rote memorization than me. And I know he had a better academic preparation than I did. All I knew was that I had survived. And that, for my first semester at Notre Dame, would have to be enough.

When I finally made it home to Fort Leavenworth for the holidays, I was so mentally and physically drained that I didn’t feel like myself again until after Christmas Day. That’s how deeply finals had consumed me.

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