Chapter 20: Junior Year at Notre Dame

BELIEVE NOTHING YOU HEAR, AND ONLY HALF OF WHAT YOU SEE — A Memoir of Service, Shame, and the Search for Truth

Return to Notre Dame

I flew back to Notre Dame on Saturday, August 25, 1979, ready to start my junior year at Notre Dame. I used to love flying into Saint Joseph County Airport [SBN] and catching a glimpse of the beautiful Notre Dame campus from the air before we landed. It was a gorgeous and peaceful home away from home.

Aerial View of the University of Notre Dame du Lac.

From the airport, I caught the shuttle to campus, the late-summer air still heavy with that Midwestern humidity. As soon as the shuttle rolled towards the familiar Golden Dome, it felt like the summer had been a quick intermission in the long play of my college life.

Back to Fisher Hall

Fisher Hall, University of Notre Dame

My stop was Fisher Hall. I hauled my bags upstairs, checked into my room, and — one by one — ran into the guys from my section. Same crew: Bob Terifay, Matt Bedics, Andy Cordes, Al Emory, Chris Kane, Scott Olds, Joe Delaney, and the other cast of characters who made Fisher feel like a second home.  Voices bounced down the hallway as everyone settled in. Doors stayed open — part welcome committee, part surveillance. Because you never knew who might wander by with a story from summer break.

Fisher Hall Gang with Joe Delaney, Bob Terifay, Al Emory, Andy Entwistle, and Tony Carbone.

New Fisher Section

I was curious about our new freshman section-mates. I knew that I didn’t need to go scouting.  Bob was my go-to intel officer for dorm gossip. He already had the roster memorized. Mike Calhoun had graduated last May, so I was especially interested in meeting my next-door neighbor this year.

Before I unpacked, I made sure to find Mariann. I’d been guilty in the past of waiting too long to check in. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. I’d wrestled for months with the idea of committing to only one girl through college, afraid it would somehow box me in. But somewhere over the summer, that resistance crumbled. I’d stopped trying to outthink it. The truth was simple: I was pretty sure I had already met — and was dating — my future wife. Knowing that was both comforting and, in a way, daunting. I could feel the weight of it even then, though in a good way.

At at diner in South Bend with Mariann

I retrieved my belongings from storage and set up my room. There was something satisfying about putting my life back together in those four walls. Unpacking books and binders, stacking my ROTC gear in the corner, taping a few photos to the desk hutch. I was mentally gearing up for registration on Monday, August 27th, but I already knew my schedule.

First Semester 3rd Year Course Load

The first semester of junior year was shaping up to be another bruiser of a pre-med load. I had   seven classes in all. Three sciences: Physics (with yet another lab), Physiology, and Cell Biology. Military Science, this time under the daunting title “Advanced Leadership,” promised an extra layer of challenge. ROTC would be no joke this year. Next summer, I’d be heading to ROTC Advance Camp, the cadet equivalent of boot camp.

The pressure was real. ROTC upperclassmen who had already survived Advance Camp loved to offer “helpful” tips. These were   usually in the form of horror stories about barracks life, 0430 wake-ups, daily physical training (PT), inspections, live-fire exercises, and tactical evaluations where a single mistake could tank your evaluation. I took it all in, knowing they were only half-exaggerating.

For balance, I had signed up for Medical Ethics. A philosophy course that sounded at least slightly more reflective, and Criminal Justice, which promised to be both practical and intriguing. Still, with that course list, “balance” might have been wishful thinking.

Fisher Hall had a way of keeping things light, though. In between the lectures, labs, and ROTC drills, there were late-night debates in the hallway, heading down to Food Sales. And the restaurant runs into town. The girlfriends were back on campus and back at Fisher Hall. The camaraderie in our section was its own kind of fuel. We knew everyone was carrying their own load, but no one carried it alone.

Registration Day — Monday, August 27th

The South Dining Hall parking lot was already jammed when I got there. Inside, the long registration tables stretched down both sides of the hall like some kind of academic assembly line. Freshmen clutched schedules with deer-in-the-headlights expressions, upperclassmen darted from table to table, trying to swap a dreaded 0800 class for something more humane. But I was stuck with the standard Premedicine course load. Army ROTC cadets like me had an extra layer of complexity — our schedules had to match drill times, leadership labs, and the occasional “voluntary” weekend field exercise that wasn’t voluntary at all.

I inched my way down the line, collecting my packet, verifying labs, and making sure my classes didn’t overlap with ROTC. It was chaotic, loud, and full of small reunions as friends spotted each other across the crowd. By the time I handed in my final card, I felt like the year had officially begun. The clock had started ticking, and the only way forward was head-on.

The year ahead felt big. Between the academics, ROTC, and my growing certainty about Mariann, I had the sense that the choices I made this year would echo far beyond South Bend.

Life with Mariann

Mari Moves Into Lyons Hall

Mariann and I saw each other every single day. She had moved into a new dorm, Lyons Hall, just across South Quad from Fisher, so we were practically neighbors. Most meals we ate together, drifting easily between the dining hall and the occasional off-campus bite. In the evenings, she’d come over to my room in Fisher to study, unless we decided on a change of scenery and headed to the library.

Lyons Hall on South Quad of the University of Notre Dame.

The guys in Fisher loved Mariann. She fit right in — kind, mellow, affable. She had a way of making everyone feel at ease, no games, no pretenses. Just honest and straightforward, with a sharp sense of humor that could disarm even the most sarcastic guy in the hall. My family already loved her, and I knew why. Being with her felt natural, effortless, like we’d been part of each other’s lives much longer than we actually had.

Fisher Food Sales & Oak Room

At night, we’d pool whatever cash we had and head down to Food Sales in the basement for something sweet or salty. That year, South Dining Hall opened a little late-night diner, called the Oak Room, a simple counter-service place that sold hamburgers, pizza slices, and grilled cheese until closing. It became one of our go-to spots when studying had fried our brains and we needed a break.

The Oak Room in South Dining Hall at Notre Dame

Jouneys Off Campus

Weekends were for group outings. Our whole section would head off campus together, walking to one of the usual affordable restaurants that could handle a small mob of college students. One of our favorite stopping places was Bob Evans — it was a 3-mile walk from campus to the restaurant in Mishawaka, Indiana. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be — those nights were more about the company than the menu.

Our Catholic Life

Mariann and I attended mass together nearly daily, since Fisher Hall had its own chapel and our rector was a priest. But we made the walk over to the grotto most nights to light a candle and pray. I was always begging God to help me with a test, a final grade, and eventually to get into medical school.

The Grotto at Night, University of Notre Dame

Fighting Irish Football Season

Then football season arrived. Game days transformed campus into a sea of blue and gold, with tailgates, marching band parades, and the buzz of 59,000 people heading toward Notre Dame Stadium. One of our favorite routines was watching the Notre Dame Marching Band outside the stadium entertaining fans before the game.

Notre Dame Marching Band Heading into the Stadium

Notre Dame Stadium from the Freshmen Section View

My Fisher Hall Room

Life with Mariann gave me an anchor that fall, but I also needed a space of my own — a place where I could study, recharge, and make campus life feel more like home. By junior year, I had figured out how to do just that in Fisher Hall.

By the time I moved into Fisher as a junior, I felt like a seasoned pro at turning a bare dorm room into something that actually felt like home. I had a little extra money from working at the Boston law firm over the summer, so I invested in a few touches that made a big difference.

The first thing you noticed when you stepped inside was the wall-to-wall dark brown carpeting, which gave the whole room warmth. Dark wood shelves floated above my desk, stacked with books, binders, candles, photographs, and a few German beer steins I had kept from my time overseas. On the walls, I hung prints that carried me back to Germany — a sweeping scene of Rötenburg, a smaller one of the Bridge Houses in Bad Kreuznach — along with our old USA license plate from when we lived there.

In my Army ROTC uniform in my Fisher Hall room.

A few live plants and some dried eucalyptus gave off a scent that instantly reminded me of home. At the foot of my bed sat the television — the very same one Joe Montana once used to watch Johnny Carson and Saturday Night Live, usually with a plate of Toll House cookies my sisters had sent. It wasn’t just a dorm room; it was my retreat, and I spent long hours there studying late into the night.

At my study desk with my bed television at the foot of the bed.

Fisher Hall’s Interesting Residents

That little corner of Fisher became more than just a place to crash — it was where I read, studied, and let the stress of Notre Dame life fade away. It also became a private space for Mariann and me. She couldn’t spend the night there because of Notre Dame’s parietals, but we spent countless hours side by side studying, sometimes taking a break to watch television or heading down to Fisher Hall’s Food Sales in the basement for something to eat. Those moments made the room feel less like a dorm and more like the center of my life that year.

Our Amateur Announcer

Our section of Fisher Hall was full of colorful characters. There was a freshman who would hide in his room and narrate his life like a Notre Dame football game, and whenever the Irish scored, he’d turn on his sink faucet so the spray sounded like a cheering crowd.

Pickna

Then there was our resident druggie, Pickna. Pickna always wore a goatee and slim rectangular sunglasses indoors, probably to hide his perpetually bloodshot eyes. The stench of marijuana smoke always seeps out of his room. I have no clue what Pickna was studying at Notre Dame, but if I had to guess, he would be a philosophy major. If not, probably Abnormal Psych. It was difficult to ask him anything because his paranoia was out of control. 

Spiderman

I suppose others might have considered me “interesting” too, because I liked to climb up the brick façade of Fisher Hall like Spiderman. Looking back, it was incredibly dangerous, but at the time, I was young, reckless, and felt invincible. One night, I decided to take things up a notch. I climbed the back of Fisher Hall all the way to our second-floor level — which, to be clear, was three stories above the hard ground below. Then I edged sideways along the outside of the building from my window over to Pickna’s.

Inside, Pickna was smoking something in a glass pipe, an electric fan blowing out the window to mask the smell. I leaned toward the fan and spoke, letting my voice reverberate eerily: “Pickna, this is the Lord. Stop doing drugs!”

What happened next was instantaneous chaos. Pickna screamed, tossed his pipe into the closet, and bolted to the fan, trying to see what was happening. I climbed down the building as fast as I could and slipped back to our section just in time to watch Pickna running frantically up and down the hallway, still completely freaked out.

It was a reckless stunt, yes, but it was also a reminder that life at Notre Dame during those years could be equal parts absurd and unforgettable.

Third Year Pre-Medicine

As entertaining as life in Fisher Hall could be, it was time to turn our attention to the real work of junior year. Pre-med courses waited for no one, and our schedule was packed with Physiology, Cell Biology, and Physics, each with its own demanding laboratory. The labs were intense — long hours analyzing data, and running experiments that sometimes felt more like puzzles than science — but they were also thrilling, a glimpse into the kind of work that would shape our future careers.

Criminal Justice — or So I Thought

One of the electives I took that semester was listed as Sociology 234: Criminal Justice. I thought it would be a straightforward look at law enforcement, courts, and corrections — something I could connect to both medicine and ROTC. Instead, the course quickly turned into something else entirely.

From day one, it was clear Dr. J. Scott had an agenda. The required text, The Black Revolts, was his own work. The class wasn’t so much about the criminal justice system as it was a platform for his passionate lectures on race, restitution, and the Black liberation movement.

He’d stride into the lecture hall and, without even a greeting, launch into fiery declarations about “the Black Revolt” and the moral obligation of America to make restitution to African Americans. I didn’t disagree with the need to address injustice, but I expected a sociology course — not a political rally.

One day, I decided to speak up. I raised my hand and asked, “Dr. Scott, when are we going to start learning about Criminal Justice?” That was all it took. He erupted: “You want to learn about Criminal Justice? I’ll tell you about Justice!!” What followed was an intense, almost shouted, explanation of systemic oppression, the legacy of slavery, and the absolute necessity of restitution.

What About our Native Americans?

I pushed back — not to be disrespectful, but because I believed in honesty and fairness. In front of nearly a hundred classmates, I said, “If the United States government really paid restitution to all African Americans, the U.S. Treasury would go bankrupt. And if you feel so strongly about restitution, shouldn’t we start with Native Americans? That alone would break the Treasury.”

The room went silent. What followed was an uncomfortable standoff of ideas — his voice loud, mine steady. I suppose I was lucky to walk away with a “C” for the semester.

Army ROTC

After a full day in lecture halls and labs, it was straight to Army ROTC — Advanced Leadership. The work there was equally demanding, a mix of classroom instruction, leadership exercises, and tactical problem-solving designed to prepare us for Advanced Camp that summer. The thought of that cadet “boot camp” hung over us like a shadow; we trained and planned constantly, testing ourselves physically and mentally, knowing the summer would be both exhausting and transformative.

Fighting Irish Football

Even with academics and ROTC dominating my days, Notre Dame’s heartbeat — the Fighting Irish football season — remained impossible to ignore. The campus would erupt every Saturday, and it seemed no matter how intense our schedules became, we always found a way to follow the games. Whether listening in dorm rooms, sprinting to the radio, or braving the crowds at the stadium, football tied us together. It offered a rhythm to the chaos, a chance to cheer, to celebrate, and occasionally to commiserate — all part of the full Notre Dame experience.

Game days in were a ritual of tradition. Mariann and I always started with the pre-game festivities — meeting up with the Fisher Hall gang to watch the Fighting Irish Marching Band thunder across campus, brass gleaming in the afternoon sun, drums rattling through the crowd. The energy was contagious as the whole campus seemed to sway toward Notre Dame Stadium. We were always on the lookout for our Fisher Hall underclassman who made the Irish Guard squad.

From there, Mariann and I would walk hand in hand through the sea of blue and gold until we reached the gates, where we had to split for our assigned student sections. I sat with the junior section from Fisher Hall — Bob Terifay, Matt Bedics, Andy Cordes, and Al Emory right by my side — while Mariann headed into the Lyons Hall seats.

After Game Meeting

Hooking back up after the games wasn’t simple in those days before mobile phones and texting. We had to plan our rendezvous ahead of time — picking a specific spot and hoping the crowds didn’t swallow us up. Sometimes it took longer than expected, but we always found each other eventually, usually with a mixture of relief and laughter.

On the field, the Irish finished 7–4 under Coach Dan Devine. Highlights included the 12–10 upset at Michigan, sealed when Bob Crable leaped high to block a last-second field-goal attempt, and home wins over Michigan State (27–3), Georgia Tech (21–13), South Carolina (18–17), and Navy (14–0). But tough losses to Purdue, USC, Tennessee, and Clemson kept Notre Dame out of the bowls that year. The season ended on a brighter note with a trip to Tokyo for the Mirage Bowl, where the Irish defeated Miami, 40–15, closing out the season on a high note.

Fall Final Examinations and Christmas Break

Once again, fall final examinations came before I was ready. Finals stretched from December 15th through the 20th, and, as seemed to happen every semester, I drew one on the very last day. When I finally walked out of the exam hall, drained and foggy, I caught a flight straight to Boston to meet my family for Christmas at Nana and Papa’s house in Medford.

Like the previous two years, I can’t remember much about Christmas Day itself — I was still in that post-final haze, too worn out to soak in the holiday. What I do remember vividly is that Papa Pietrantoni had been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. Each day, I made the trip to see him, sitting by his bedside in the sterile, antiseptic ward that seemed so out of place for someone so full of life.

On January 2nd, our family packed into the car and drove from Boston down to Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, where my father was attending the U.S. Army War College.

A week later, on January 9th, 1980, Papa Pietrantoni passed away. We returned immediately to Medford for his funeral, the weight of grief mixing with the cold New England winter. Before long, it was time to make the return trip to Carlisle Barracks, just in time for me to gather myself and head back out to Notre Dame.

Travel from Carlisle to Notre Dame — January 1980

I think it was January 13, 1980, when it came time to return to Notre Dame for the spring semester. My parents and sisters drove me to the Amtrak station. Just before I boarded, I hugged them goodbye, and my mother pressed a five-dollar bill into my hand “for the trip.” Even in 1980, five bucks didn’t stretch far on a cross-country journey, but I took it gratefully.

Amtrak to Chicago

Though I had taken plenty of train rides in Europe, this was my first trip on an American Amtrak. It felt different — bigger, looser, more unpredictable. I found my assigned seat, a wide recliner by the window, and settled in. A few minutes later, an attractive woman — early 30s, with light red hair, blue eyes, and a lilting Irish accent — sat down beside me. She introduced herself as “Miss Brianna,” a schoolteacher on her way to Chicago. When I mentioned I was a student at Notre Dame, she seemed to know more about the place than I did.

I asked how long the ride would take. She laughed. “Oh, American trains aren’t as reliable as they are in Europe. Expect anywhere from 19 to 24 hours, especially with snow in the forecast.” I groaned. “I don’t think I can sit here for 24 hours straight.” Her laugh was musical. “Silly boy! These are only our assigned seats. We won’t be spending much time here.”

The Observation Car

After the conductor punched our tickets, she led me to the Observation Car, where we sat among the floor-to-ceiling windows and watched the winter landscape glide by in snowy silence. Soon, she asked if I was hungry. I admitted I was, but sheepishly confessed my mom had only given me five dollars. That made her laugh even harder. “Well, that won’t get you far on the rails. Dinner’s on me.”

The Diner Car

The Dining Car was charming — white tablecloths, real silverware, waiters in uniform. We sat at a booth, soon joined by a man and then a striking young blonde woman. Conversation began politely enough, until the man suddenly asked her, “Are you married?”

She smiled. “Yes, but we have an open relationship.” Without hesitation, he asked, “Do you have a sleeper car?” She nodded. “I do.” “Would you like to show it to me?” She giggled. The two of them stood up and walked out without another word. I sat there, stunned. Miss Brianna elbowed me. “You, Spanner! You missed your chance to sleep with her! You’re too slow!” I was completely floored. Still a virgin and utterly naive about “swinger” culture, I could barely process what had just happened.

The Lounge Car

But I wasn’t disappointed. Dinner with Miss Brianna was more than enough for me— she was witty, warm, and full of charm. Afterward, she led me to the Lounge Car, where we joined a group of older men playing cards. She asked if I knew Pinochle. I didn’t. “No worries,” she said. “Just sit, Lad, and watch me.” She played brilliantly, bantering easily with the men, while I sat there wishing she were younger — or I were older.

$5 to Travel

At one point, the snow stopped the train cold. We were stranded. Miss Brianna stood and, with mock drama, introduced me to everyone in the Lounge Car: “This is Anthony. He’s on his way back to Notre Dame to study. His poor mother only gave him five dollars for the whole trip! Can you believe that?!” The men roared with laughter — and then began buying me beers, sodas, and hot dogs. I ended up with a small feast and the warm cheer of newfound friends.

Arrival at Union Station

Hours later, Miss Brianna announced, “Mr. Anthony, it’s time we return to our seats for a little rest.” We curled up under a shared blanket, sleeping in our chairs until the train finally pulled into Chicago Union Station. When it came time to part ways, she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then pointed me toward my connection to South Bend.

South Bend Railroad

I transferred to the Chicago, South Shore and South Bend Railroad (CSS&SB) back to South Bend. And then rode a taxi back to the Notre Dame campus. The Amtrak trip from Harrisburg to Chicago remains the most memorable train ride of my life.

Return to Fisher Hall

When I returned to Fisher Hall for the spring semester, the first thing I did was look for Mariann. In the meantime, I ran into the Fisher Hall gang and we caught up on Christmas break. Everyone had stories about their favorite Christmas gift, while I shared the sad news of my grandfather’s passing and the unusual Amtrak ride I had taken back to Chicago.

Spring Semester Registration

Registration day came on January 15, 1980, and with it, the realization that this semester was going to be another uphill climb. The load was slightly lighter than in the fall — only two heavy science courses — but Biochemistry and Physics II with lab were no joke. They dominated my study time.

My Electives

To balance them out, I had two electives: Philosophy 213B — Introduction to Logic, and General Psychology. I took Logic with Mariann, and she was a natural at what was then called “Symbolic Logic.” She could take a word problem and effortlessly break it down into letters and symbols to solve it mathematically. I had to work harder at it, but I managed an A in the course too.

Army ROTC

Of course, Military Science 312 — Advanced Leadership II — was always in the background. ROTC drill was as demanding as ever, with our instructors preparing us relentlessly for ROTC Advanced Camp that summer. It was clear that the semester would be split between my growing relationship with Mariann, the Fisher Hall camaraderie, long hours in the library, and the serious business of becoming Army officers.

Winter Military Formal

I attended the Winter Miltary Ball with Mariann. Here I am in my Army ROTC uniform as a Cadet Staff Sergeant .

Fighting Irish Basketball — Spring 1980

The other major highlight of that spring semester was Notre Dame basketball. The Fighting Irish, under Digger Phelps, were a national powerhouse again. That year, the team finished with a stellar 22–6 record and ranked 9th in the final AP Poll.

Game nights at the ACC (Joyce Center) were electric. I squeezed into my assigned junior section with Bob Terifay, Matt Bedics, Andy Cordes, and Al Emory. We arrived early, the student section alive with cheers and fight-song chants, the band jumping into full swing as the team warmed up. Watching Kelly Tripucka, Orlando Woolridge, Bill Hanzlik, and Tracy Jackson dominate the court was a living reminder that spring had its own brand of Notre Dame pageantry.

The season had standout moments that still raise my pulse in memory. Early on, we upset UCLA at home, riding the momentum to a 6–0 start. A tough loss to second-ranked Kentucky in Louisville stung, but it didn’t derail us. Maybe the highlight was that unforgettable 2-point, double-overtime win over #1 DePaul (76–74) — Kelly Tripucka scored 28, and Orlando Woolridge iced it with two free throws.

Then came the NCAA Tournament. Notre Dame earned a #4 seed in the Midwest Region — but lost in the second round to #5 Missouri, 87–84 in OT. Disappointing, yes — but that season had already delivered more than its share of thrills.

Junior Parents Weekend

Junior Parents Weekend took place February 22–24, 1980, and I was genuinely surprised that both of my parents made the long trip from Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, to South Bend. At the time, my father was in the thick of his studies at the U.S. Army War College and simultaneously working toward his Master of Public Administration at Penn State. Yet, they carved out the time, staying at the Morris Inn for the weekend. True to form, my father spent much of the trip editing his thesis, with my mother faithfully retyping draft after draft. 

Still, they joined me for meals in the South Dining Hall and for dinner out at a local restaurant, and most importantly, they finally met Mariann and the gang from Fisher Hall. I could sense immediately how much they approved of Mariann, which meant a great deal to me. 

The tradition of Junior Parents Weekend — first launched in 1953 as Parents-Son Day — was created to help parents better understand the lives their sons (and, since 1972, daughters) led on campus. By the time my parents arrived, it had become a full weekend of connection and celebration. For me, it was also a rare moment where the worlds of Notre Dame and my family came together in a way that felt both special and lasting.

Spring Break, MCAT, and Med School Applications

Spring Break ran from March 28 through April 7, 1980. I spent the entire break studying for the Medical College Admissions Test (MCAT) and filling out my American Medical College Application Service (AMCAS) application. I sat for the MCAT right after Spring Break. It was one of the most stressful weekends of my life. Months of preparation all came down to a single day, a single test that could make or break my medical school ambitions. I also had to fill out my AMCAS and supplemental medical school application packets before reporting to Army ROTC Advanced Camp. It was extremely stressful, but it was a relief to have it behind me. Unfortunately, I knew the hard part was still ahead: waiting for responses from the medical schools.

Final Examinations

Final examinations were held May 7–12th. When the dust settled, I finished with three A’s and two B’s — not horrible at all, considering the difficulty of my schedule. My junior year was over, and now it was time to go home and prepare for Advance Camp. I packed up my suitcase and cleared out my room for the summer, but saying goodbye to Mariann was the hardest part. This goodbye hurt more than any before, because I knew that once I was at Fort Riley, Kansas, for ROTC Advance Camp, it would be nearly impossible to communicate with her. I was going to miss her terribly.

Flight Home to Carlisle Barracks

I flew home to Carlisle Barracks just in time to help with yet another family move.

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