Sept. 21, 1999

by John Heisler

I remember Moose Krause.

I remember reading his biography in the Notre Dame football media guide and wondering what else a guy could ever have done for his alma mater.

I remember meeting him for the first time and thinking I ought to be calling him Mr. Krause, even though everyone else was calling him Moose.

I remember seeing him operate in all kinds of athletic circles and wondering if there’s anyone who’s anyone in sports who doesn’t know Moose Krause.

I remember every trip I made to a Notre Dame event, having at least one person tell me to say hello to Moose for him.

I remember thinking there’s no way anyone could be more of an ambassador for Notre Dame athletics than Moose was.

I remember realizing this guy played when Knute Rockne was coaching and understanding that was something rather special.

I remember the relationship Moose had with fellow Chicagoan Ray Meyer over all those years and figuring that’s the way sports are supposed to be.

I remember realizing this guy knew Leahy and Connor and Bertelli and Lujack and Lattner and Hornung and all the rest – and with friends like that, he ought to have a lot of good stories.

I remember thinking Moose could get up in front of a microphone at a dinner in his sleep he’d done it so many times – and he’d still be as funny and self-effacing and engaging as ever.

I remember deciding there’s no way Notre Dame would ever again have a person who could bridge the athletic gap from Rockne to Lou Holtz the way Moose did.

I remember the patience he displayed with his wife Elise after her automobile accident and thinking he deserved a gold medal.

I remember all the time Moose spent with his sidekick and associate, Colonel Jack Stephens – and thinking these guys are made for each other.

I remember hearing how they created the three-second lane violation in basketball because of how dominant Moose was around the rim – and thinking that was a rather impressive compliment to his game.

I remember seeing the baby faces of the young freshman athletes every season – and thinking how these guys have no idea what Moose Krause has seen in his time.

I remember a photographer named Gary Mills taking a picture of Moose in front of the Joyce Center with a cigar in his hand – and thinking, this is an image that’s just about perfect.

I remember the pungent odor in Moose’s office in the Joyce Center, back when smoking a cigar around the building was still okay.

I remember the white cowboy hat Moose wore off the plane after the Irish won the ’77 football national championship in Dallas, because it signified a Notre Dame moment, as Digger Phelps would have called it.

I remember how enthralled Skip Myslenski of the Chicago Tribune was with Moose – because he came away from his interview with enough Moose material for three stories.

I remember how much fun Moose used to have on home football Fridays after he retired, because the old guard would stop by en masse to pay their respects – and Moose loved every minute of it.

I remember the picture they took of Moose and Colonel together, sitting on a bench in the old Stadium – and thinking that was another image that was just about perfect.

I remember seeing Moose Krause at the athletic department Christmas party that weeknight in December in 1992.

I remember walking into the building the next morning and hearing that Moose had died the night before – and not wanting to believe it.

I remember trying to explain to media and others on the phone what Moose Krause had meant to Notre Dame – and thinking none of us were even close to doing justice to those questions.

I remember thinking after Moose’s death how he had been a link to so many things in Notre Dame’s athletic past – and how his death was something of an end of an era in sports at the University.

I remember when I first heard about the plans for a Moose Krause sculpture in front of the Joyce Center. It seemed fitting because it had been hard to imagine a Notre Dame without him.

I remember Moose Krause. I remember him still.