SOUTH BEND – Barely three months and no games won or lost after Notre Dame football captured its 11th national championship after going 12-0 in 1988, former Irish assistant coach Pete Cordelli feared for his job.
Feared that he had lost it.
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It was April 1989, and the Irish were maybe five workouts deep into spring practice, or what counted as a spring practice. Coming off that ‘88 season, and with a returning core of contributors, Notre Dame didn’t face nearly as many position questions/concerns as it did in previous springs.
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Irish football, with Tony Rice at quarterback and Chris Zorich at nose tackle, was in capable hands. Confident hands. Winning hands. Still, head coach Lou Holtz would find a way to keep everyone on staff on the edge. Or the ledge.
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One spring day, it happened.
Holtz burst into an offensive staff meeting in the football offices on the first floor of the Joyce Center and laid down a demand right there in the middle of a film review session. For the next practice, the following Monday, he wanted Rice to run a particular play.
One problem. That play wasn’t in the playbook. The Irish had never run that play. They had never practiced that play. What were the checks for the quarterback? What was the blocking scheme? What were the options in case the defense showed a look that might demolish it?
Holtz offered no answer. The only one was … just run it.
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The offense ran it three straight times in practice. It was blown up three straight times. The next day, again during an offensive staff film review, Holtz called out his assistant coaches.
“He comes in and says, ‘What the (heck) are you teaching?’” Cordelli said last week from his home outside Memphis, Tennessee. “He’s yelling, ‘I have no idea why I hired you! I have the stupidest staff in America! I can’t believe I’ve given you this responsibility!’
Then …
“You’re all fired.”
Holtz fastballed the remote control at the television and stormed out. Across the hall, the defensive coaches heard the Holtz tornado and wondered if they were next. Holtz retreated to his office, which, if history was any sign, he’d stew for 10 minutes before returning.
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Only this time, he didn’t return. He phoned Notre Dame golf coach George Thomas, the golf professional at Elcona Country Club in Bristol, Indiana, and headed toward Elkhart County.
Cordelli said Holtz went “flying into the parking lot” at the course. He threw his car in park, opened the trunk, tossed his golf bag on the back of a waiting cart and zoomed off. The trunk was still open. The car was still running.
“And he’s driving to the first tee,” Cordelli said. “He tells George, ‘I’ve hired the stupidest guys in the world.’ George tells him that he just won a national championship. Lou’s like, ‘I don’t care. None of that matters.’”
On the first par 3, Holtz sank a hole-in-one. Local media learned about it and set out for an interview. Cordelli turned on the television that night, and there was his boss smiling for the cameras and explaining why, in the middle of spring practice – there may have been snow still on the ground; it may have been 30 degrees, tops – he decided to play 18.
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“Lou’s on TV saying we had a great staff meeting that morning and he was so inspired,” Cordelli said. “Joe Moore goes, ‘Inspired my (butt). I was packing up my office.’
“That was life with Lou.”
This article originally appeared on South Bend Tribune: Lou Holtz often found ways to keep his Notre Dame assistants on the edge
