Remembering Gerry Faust

Former Tribune liked the Notre Dame coach, but he also had a job to do

BY BILL MOOR // POSTED NOVEMBER 14, 2024

When Notre Dame football coach Gerry Faust drove the cart away from the Knollwood Golf Course clubhouse, both of our bags tumbled off the back. We both thought the other had secured them.

A dozen or so onlookers laughed and so did we — sort of. It was just another awkward moment in our awkward head coach-sports editor relationship.

We both stunk at golf, but Faust, who died Nov. 11 at the age of 89, thought we could bury the hatchet while spending much of our four hours together in the course's rough and sand traps.

It was fun. We shook hands. We left feeling we had a better understanding of each other.

Then things pretty much deteriorated again.

Our golf outing came in 1985 just before his fifth — and final — season as the Irish head coach. It ended with his second 5-6 record, a fourth straight loss to Air Force and a 58-7 massacre at the hands of a bloodthirsty Miami team.

During that awful season, he had called me a derogatory name that I didn't even know was in his vocabulary. I probably deserved it since I wasn't describing his coaching in any flattering terms.

I had been named the South Bend Tribune sports editor not long before Faust's first year at Notre Dame, which followed his almost unbelievable 178-23-2 coaching run at Cincinnati Moeller High School.

I pretty much gave him a free pass that 1981 season when he and his team fumbled to a 5-6 record — Note Dame's first losing slate since 1963. Although there were a couple of high points during his tenure — a 31-16 victory over No. 1 Pitt in 1982 the most significant one — things never rose to Irish standards.

I liked Faust as a man — he was a devout Christian, enthusiastic as a fly on peanut butter and enjoyed being around people and the center of attention. But I was critical of his coaching and he thought I was being unfair.

It was a new time in sports journalism — when the worst thing a sports writer could be called was a “homer.” I made sure I wasn't going to be called that. Yet half the phone calls I got back then said I was too easy on Faust; the other half, of course, said I was too hard.

I couldn't win. Meanwhile, Faust couldn't win enough.

He fell on his sword and announced his resignation before the last game of the 1985 season — that debacle in Miami. He left with dignity and without waiting to be fired because of his steadfast love for Notre Dame.

He may have failed but he wasn't a failure. He could hold his head high even if his head had developed a slight tremor during his last couple of seasons, apparently due to the pressure.

Yes, it was going to be a fairytale come true. One the greatest high school coaches of all-time was going to take over the most famed college football program in the country with absolutely no experience at that level — and he was going to lead them to national championships. Most everybody bought into this fresh-faced story and I was one of them, especially after a 27-9 victory over LSU in Faust's first game.

But in those fairytale terms, Prince Charming turned into a frog. The Irish went 30-26-1 under his watch. Even Charlie Weis did better.

There are plenty of reasons why Faust's Notre Dame quest didn't work but that's for another time. He represented Notre Dame well. He didn't cheat. His players graduated. He continued to be a fan of the university.

They say winning isn't everything but it sort of is at Notre Dame — and just about everywhere else. With his gravelly voice, Faust brought an outgoing personality and an unwavering optimism to the game that were refreshing. But without seasons like 9-2 and 10-1, those elements grew stale on people.

I wish it could have been different for him. I wish my stories could have chronicled more victories. I wish that hatchet could have stayed buried.

I only saw him once after he left Notre Dame. He was up in the Notre Dame press box for a game near the end of the illustrious career of Lou Holtz, Faust's successor. Faust had just finished his run at Akron and had retired from coaching.

I almost bumped into him while grabbing a hot dog and Coke. “Hey, Bill Moor,” he said. I was momentarily flustered and didn't respond right away. So he stuck out his hand and said, “Gerry Faust.”

As if I didn't know. We exchanged a few pleasantries and quickly moved on. The game was about to begin.

And as I took my seat I thought of all the nice things I could have said to him.