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It was the day of Lou Holtz's funeral. As a student who had spent years absorbing Notre Dame’s sports history, I found myself paralyzed by a question: skip class or say goodbye to a legend? In the end, the choice made itself. My professors could teach me about the world and whatnot, but only Lou Holtz could teach me what it meant to be a champion.

The air that morning was crisp, carrying that specific South Bend chill that seems to linger just to remind you where you are. Walking away from DeBart while my peers hurried to class felt like a quiet rebellion, and yet, it was the most Notre Dame thing I had ever done.

I knew I could make up a class. I knew there would be more classes, but there would never be another moment like this one … never another chance to stand alongside thousands of others and say thank you to the man who shaped what it means to wear the gold and blue. Some things only happen once. This was one of them.

The service was a solemn, reverent gathering that reflected the deep intertwining of the University’s spiritual life and athletic legacy. President Rev. Robert Dowd C.S.C. presided over the liturgy, joined by approximately 30 members of the Congregation of Holy Cross, including Bishops Arthur Colgan and Daniel Jenky. The Holtz family stood at the center of the ceremony: Beth and Katherine Holtz proclaimed the readings from Wisdom and Romans, while Liz Messaglia ‘22 offered the Prayers of the Faithful.

In his homily, Father John Jenkins captured the complexity of Lou Holtz’s character. He spoke of Holtz’s “relentless demanding side,” noting that his well-known tough love was rooted in a belief that others could achieve more than they believed possible for themselves.

After communion, Skip Holtz stood and called his father a complicated man, which was meant as a compliment. A builder. Someone who believed that your choices, not your circumstances, write the story of your life. The three words Skip kept returning to were Trust, Commitment and Love.

When the service ended, I followed the procession out toward Cedar Grove Cemetery. Ahead, a bagpiper played, the sound rising and thinning in the cold air. I thought about the decision to miss class for the service.

The lecture I would have attended might have given me something neatly contained in notes or slides that I could revisit later. But what I experienced in that pew was harder to quantify and easier to carry: It was a reminder that the greatest thing a person can do is care more about the people around them than they do about themselves.

Some absences are the most present you’ll ever be.