Born into a Croatian family, George Melinkovich wasn’t exactly one of the “Fighting Irish,” but he was a star football player for Notre Dame. He was voted All-American in 1932, and Notre Dame hailed him as proudly as if he were Irish. George was my uncle, and I had heard the stories of his prowess on the football field, of what great football legs he had, but had never met him.  He, my aunt and my four cousins lived in Los Angeles while we lived in New Jersey

In the summer after my high school graduation, I headed west to meet this branch of my extended family.  Over the course of the summer, I would learn to adore my aunt and uncle and become so close to my cousins that I would never stop thinking of them as brothers and sisters. 

I immediately noticed something different about Uncle George, though I didn't connect my observation to football.  My uncle didn't walk like ordinary people. His stride was long and powerful, and his feet landed firmly on the ground.  But, each stride seemed to push up from its landing place as if he were buoyed upward by the soil.  His gait had a grace that other people's didn’t have. I noticed his walk, but didn’t think about it. I wasn't interested in football, especially when my cousins were there to command my attention.

Uncle George was the main cook in the house. When I watched him cook, I made the first connection to football.  His very large hands had a lightness to them that my own small hands didn't have.  Fascinated, I watched and wondered to myself if he was used to releasing a football and had learned not to clutch. 

Uncle George loved to talk about food, and his favorite topic was his Croatian family's foods.  No matter what he was cooking, he would turn to me and say, "You never tasted ham like my family used to make.  They cured the ham themselves and you can't imagine how good it was.  Let me tell you how they did it...."

The first time he told me this story, I listened.  The second time, I pretended to listen.  The third time, I shot a frantic look to my cousins.  They understood.  Having grown up with the story of curing ham, they understood my dilemma and devised ways to spring me away from my uncle, mid-cure.  Uncle George noticed and stopped talking about ham.

When the Fourth of July arrived, the Melinkovich family did a barbecue after the parade.  It was an All-American affair of hot dogs and burgers, sides of cole slaw and potato salad.  People milled around the grill, eating, drinking lemonade and beer, preparing to look out over the sky at fireworks.  No one thought about football or football games or star football players on that day.

I was an honored guest, and Uncle George seated me next to his chair.  I was a shy person and waited until everyone else had been served before thinking of food.  Uncle George noticed and fixed a plate for me.  He sat next to me, offering me slaws and salads and a hot dog in a bun. 

"Mustard?" he asked.  I nodded.

"Sauerkraut?"  I nodded again.

Then the dread moment happened. Uncle George looked at me and said, "You never tasted food like my family made."   Trapped in the chair next to him, I knew I would have to hear about yet another ham being cured.  I braced myself, but Uncle George fooled me.  "No, nothing like the sauerkraut my family made."

Sauerkraut?  This was new, and I almost didn't mind listening.  He began, "You can't imagine what a chore that was. Heads and heads and heads of cabbage.  They would chop and slice all day long.  No food processors then, they would chop and slice, chop and slice.  All day."

"All day?" I said, "But where would you put it all?"

I had asked; he was ready to answer.  "They would layer the cabbage in large barrels, mixing salt between the layers.  It would pile up , almost to spilling out.  When it sank down a bit, they added more and that had to sink down.  They would keep adding until it was as packed as possible."

"Oh.  When are the fireworks?" 

"Later," he said, taking a deep breath.  This story was not over.  "You know how they got it to sink?  Someone stomped on it.  Kind of like grapes turning into wine." 

"Oh."  I bit into my hot dog thinking that sauerkraut was better eaten than talked about.

"You know who did that?  Me.  I was the stomper since I was tall and strong.  Now, some families, they just jumped in with bare feet.  My father had made a disk small enough to get through the top and just large enough for two feet."

I looked down at my uncle's large feet and wondered.

"You had to be very precise when you stepped on that disk, but you also had to step down really hard.   And after a while a salty brine would ooze over the top and burn your feet."  He laughed.  "That really got you moving.  I swear I got my football legs from those barrels." 

Then I saw him.  I saw him on top of a barrel, stomping with that firm step of his, saw him spring up, up, up to escape the sting of salty cabbage.  I saw him changed into shoes with cleats, a football tucked under his arm, springing away from mere earth, just as he had sprung away from cabbage.  Cleats?  They were only to stay the course.

I returned to my hot dog, but stared at the sauerkraut before I took another bite. 

Sauerkraut would never be the same again. Whether it's a hot dog on the Fourth of July, or a hot dog from a cart in the streets of New York, sauerkraut evokes a memory of my extended family - my beautiful, brilliant aunt, my four cousins, each memorable in their own way. And while most people associate hot dogs with baseball games, I see my Uncle George on the football field.

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The Notre Dame Victory March

Rally sons of Notre Dame,
Sing her glory, and sound her fame
Raise her Gold and Blue,
And cheer with voices true,
Rah! Rah! For Notre Dame.

We will fight in every game
Strong of heart and true to her name.
We will ne'er forget her
And we'll cheer her ever,
Loyal to Notre Dame.

Chorus:
Cheer, cheer for Old Notre Dame
Wake up the echoes cheering her name,
Send the volley cheer on high,
Shake down the thunder from the sky,
What though the odds be great or small
Old Notre Dame will win over all,
While her loyal sons are marching
Onward to Victory.

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