Forged in Faith and Fire: The True Origins of the Fighting Irish

The story of how the University of Notre Dame came to be known as the “Fighting Irish” is not a slogan invented for marketing, nor a nickname chosen lightly in a locker room. It is a story forged in blood, forged in faith, forged in defiance. It is the convergence of three powerful legacies, one rooted in the thunder of Civil War cannons and the voice of a priest offering absolution beneath the shadow of death, another born of stubborn pride and transformation in the face of slur and suspicion, and a third grounded in solidarity with a people’s long and bitter fight for freedom across the sea. These threads, though distinct, entwine with a rare grace, forming a living identity that has come to define not just a football team or a school but a tradition that pulses with memory and meaning.

It begins not in South Bend, not on a football field, but at the ragged heart of the Battle of Gettysburg on July 2, 1863. The sun had not yet set, but the day had already grown dark with smoke, shrieking shells, and the cries of the wounded. Amid this carnage stood Father William Corby, a Holy Cross priest and former professor from Notre Dame, now serving as chaplain to the Irish Brigade, an all-volunteer Union unit known as much for its battlefield valor as for its deep Catholic faith and Irish roots. With the Brigade poised to charge into almost certain death, Corby climbed atop a large boulder and looked down upon the assembled men. He raised his hand, not in command but in blessing. He offered them general absolution, not only for their sins but for the weight of what they were about to do. His voice, steady despite the cannon blasts, rose above the chaos. Soldiers of all faiths removed their caps, fell to their knees, and listened in silence. He invoked mercy and courage, knowing full well that many of them would not live to see another hour.

That moment, an intersection of spiritual fortitude and martial resolve, seared itself into the memory of those who saw it. Witnesses described it as one of the most profound religious ceremonies they had ever experienced. Corby later described how bullets whizzed past him as he moved through the ranks, offering blessings and hearing confessions even as the ground shook beneath them. When the charge came, many fell to the ground. Over a third of the men were killed, wounded, or vanished. But they had been charged with unity and absolution and the unshakable resolve of belief. In that charge, many saw not merely Irishmen but fighters who carried their faith like a banner.

That moment did not fade. It was cast in bronze twice, once on the Gettysburg battlefield and once on the campus of the University of Notre Dame. It was painted in oils by Paul Wood, who gave it the title “Absolution Under Fire.” Moreover, it permeated the University's bloodstream, becoming an integral part of its identity. To later generations of students and alumni, it became not just a tale of historical pride but the earliest heartbeat of the phrase “Fighting Irish.”

Years passed. The war ended. Notre Dame grew. By the early 20th century, it stood as a prominent Catholic institution in a nation where Catholics were still viewed with suspicion by much of the Protestant establishment. Irish immigrants, especially, were often mocked as ignorant, unwashed, and insubordinate. These prejudices did not vanish on the football field. They followed the players into every stadium.

Opponents and hostile crowds hurled insults: “micks,” “papists,” “dirty Irish.” At one early game, possibly the 1909 clash against Michigan, the taunting reached a crescendo. One sneering remark reportedly turned the tide. “You’re all Irish, and you’re not even fighting worth a lick.” The words, meant as an insult, lit a fire. The team stormed back and won. In the wake of the victory, something happened. The insult lingered, but it no longer stung. It began to transform. It was no longer an insult but a badge of honor, a symbol of resilience and courage. This transformation of the 'Fighting Irish' nickname from an insult to a badge of honor was a pivotal moment in shaping the University's identity, reflecting its refusal to be defined by others' prejudices and its commitment to resilience and courage.

Students, writers, and alums began to embrace the phrase. In a time when Irish identity in America often meant second-class status, Notre Dame students began using “Fighting Irish” as a proud retort. By 1912, it was appearing regularly in student publications. By 1917, it found its way into the Notre Dame Football Review. Sportswriter Francis Wallace helped amplify the nickname in broader circles, his columns describing the fierce resolve and indomitable grit of the Notre Dame players. The team, he wrote, fought like the “Fighting Irish.” The phrase stuck. It burned away shame. It recasts old slurs as emblems of honor. Though some worried that not all Notre Dame students were Irish, the majority embraced it not as an ethnic label but as a testament to a deeper shared spirit. In 1927, the university president, Father Matthew Walsh, officially adopted the moniker. He said it captured the essence of what the University strove to be, not just on the field, but in the world: resilient, courageous, undeterred. The phrase' Fighting Irish' became a symbol of the University's resilience, courage, and undeterred spirit, reflecting its commitment to excellence and its refusal to be defined by others' prejudices.

Then came October 1919, when a new thread was added to the tapestry. Éamon de Valera, president of the Irish Republic and a fugitive revolutionary, arrived in South Bend on his American fundraising tour. He had escaped prison in Britain, evaded British authorities, and was now crisscrossing the United States to raise money and awareness for Irish independence. When he visited Notre Dame, the reception was electric. Students lined the paths. The campus flew both Irish and American flags. De Valera laid a wreath at the statue of Father Corby and planted what he called a “Tree of Liberty.” He gave a passionate address, invoking the shared struggle between the Irish people and their diaspora abroad. His visit and the warm reception he received further solidified the 'Fighting Irish' nickname as a symbol of resilience, courage, and solidarity with the Irish people's fight for freedom.

That visit stirred something deep within the University. De Valera’s presence confirmed what many already felt, that Notre Dame’s Irish identity was not a vestige of ancestry but an active part of the global Irish struggle. In the student newspaper’s next issue, the phrase “Fighting Irish” appeared with renewed purpose. The name was now more than a reappropriated mockery. It had become a flag of solidarity, an identity forged by shared resistance. The same students who had taken the field with Corby’s absolution echoing through time now saw themselves in step with the freedom fighters across the Atlantic. It wasn’t just about football anymore. It never had been. And so, the story of the “Fighting Irish” became a three-stranded cord. Faith forged under fire. Pride, reclaimed in the face of scorn. Solidarity, given breath by the visit of a revolutionary. These were not isolated moments but echoes building upon one another until they became inseparable from the University’s very soul.

Today, when Notre Dame athletes take the field, they do so wearing not just a logo or a name but a legacy. It is the legacy of a priest who stood unarmed among soldiers and offered them courage. It is the legacy of students who turned a sneer into a shout of triumph. It is the legacy of a campus that stood with a nation seeking liberty and saw in its cause the reflection of its own. “Fighting Irish” is not just a nickname. It is a declaration. That our past is not forgotten. That our name is earned, not given. That we fight not just for points but for something far older, far holier.

To wear that name is to carry generations on your back, to hear in the roar of the crowd the ghostly strains of cannon fire, of chanting students, of a freedom fighter planting a tree in defiance. It is to know that to fight is not only to resist but to rise. And rise they always have.