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By John Lukacs
Special for USA TODAY

SKOKIE, Ill. — On the afternoon of Nov. 27, 1937, in South Bend, Ind., Notre Dame needs a miracle, the kind found in Hollywood screenplays, not football playbooks.

It is late in the fourth quarter, and the Fighting Irish are tied 6-6 with Southern California. Suddenly, Notre Dame fullback Mario ''Motts'' Tonelli takes a hand-off deep in Irish territory, and the bleachers erupt as No. 58 races down the field. After 70 yards, the 5-11, 195-pound Tonelli is tackled, but he scores the game-winning touchdown seconds later.

Afterward in the Notre Dame locker room, Tonelli confesses, ''I don't remember that run. I don't know just what I was thinking about, except just to run.''

Fast forward five years, to April 9, 1942, on the Bataan Peninsula, Philippine Islands. Columns of gaunt, stubble-bearded American prisoners of war, flanked by Japanese troops brandishing bayonets, weave along a jungle road under a blistering sun. Through the dusty haze, Sgt. Mario Tonelli sees a macabre trophy, a mutilated human head bobbing on a spear, as Japanese cavalrymen gallop past.

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Tonelli was reflecting on his relative mortality when approached by a guard plundering the possessions of the weary, sunburned prisoners. He demanded Tonelli's Notre Dame ring, and Tonelli refused. The guard reached for his sword.

''Give it to him,'' yelled a nearby prisoner. ''It's not worth dying for.''

Reluctantly, Tonelli surrendered the ring. A few minutes later, a Japanese officer appeared.

''Did one of my men take something from you?'' he asked in perfect English.

''Yes,'' Tonelli replied. ''My school ring.''

''Here,'' said the officer, pressing the ring into Tonelli's callused, grimy hand. ''Hide it somewhere. You may not get it back next time.''

The act left Tonelli speechless. ''I was educated in America,'' the officer explained. ''At the University of Southern California. I know a little about the famous Notre Dame football team. In fact, I watched you beat USC in 1937. I know how much this ring means to you, so I wanted to get it back to you.''

The surreal encounter ended, and the gridiron and battlefield rivals headed their separate ways.

''I always thought that someday he'd try to look me up,'' Tonelli says. ''I guess he probably didn't make it through the war.''

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One of the estimated 1,000 remaining Bataan Death March survivors, he speaks about his wartime experiences at local schools.

''Well, that's the end of the story,'' Tonelli says to the visitor sitting in his kitchen. ''Any other questions?''

''The ring. Do you still have it?'' asks the visitor. ''You want to see it? C'mon.''

He places a small, golden object in the visitor's left hand. Although worn by the effects of time, both the university seal and the inscription on the inner band remain legible.

''It's kind of worn down, isn't it?''

Tonelli flashes his trademark smile.

''It's over 60 years old,'' he explains. ''Imagine what it's been through, where it's been. The history it's seen. It's been through a hell of a lot, kid, but it's still here.''

Just like its owner.

Tuesday, August 20, 2002